By way of Counsel to Adults who are hesitating as to the Propriety4 of Studying the Greek Language with a view to the Literature; and by way of consolation6 to those whom circumstances have obliged to lay aside that plan.
No. 1.
No question has been coming up at intervals9 for reconsideration more frequently than that which respects the comparative pretensions of Pagan (viz. Greek and Roman) Literature on the one side, and Modern (that is, the Literature of Christendom) on the other. Being brought uniformly before unjust tribunals—that is, tribunals corrupted12 and bribed13 by their own vanity—it is not wonderful that this great question should have been stifled14 and overlaid with peremptory15 decrees, dogmatically cutting the knot rather than skilfully16 untying17 it, as often as it has been moved afresh, and put upon the roll for a re-hearing. It is no mystery to those who are in the secret, and who can lay A and B together, why it should have happened that the most interesting of all literary questions, and the most comprehensive (for it includes most others, and some special to itself), has, in the first place, never been pleaded in a style of dignity, of philosophic18 precision, of feeling, or of research, proportioned to its own merits, and to the numerous ‘issues’ (forensically speaking) depending upon it; nor, in the second place, has ever received such an adjudication as was satisfactory even at the moment. For, be it remembered, after all, that any provisional adjudication—one growing out of the fashion or taste of a single era—could not, at any rate, be binding22 for a different era. A judgment23 which met the approbation24 of Spenser could hardly have satisfied Dryden; nor another which satisfied Pope, have been recognised as authentic25 by us of the year 1838. It is the normal or exemplary condition of the human mind, its ideal condition, not its abnormal condition, as seen in the transitory modes and fashions of its taste or its opinions, which only
‘Can lay great bases for eternity,’
or give even a colourable permanence to any decision in a matter so large, so perplexed27, so profound, as this great pending21 suit between antiquity28 and ourselves—between the junior men of this earth and ourselves, the seniors, as Lord Bacon reasonably calls us. Appeals will be brought ad infinitum—we ourselves shall bring appeals, to set aside any judgment that may be given, until something more is consulted than individual taste; better evidence brought forward than the result of individual reading; something higher laid down as the grounds of judgment, as the very principles of the jurisprudence which controls the court, than those vague responsa prudentum, countersigned30 by the great name, perhaps, of Aristotle, but still too often mere31 products of local convenience, of inexperience, of experience too limited and exclusively Grecian, or of absolute caprice—rules, in short, which are themselves not less truly sub judice and liable to appeal than that very appeal cause to which they are applied32 as decisive.
We have remarked, that it is no mystery why the decision should have gone pretty uniformly in favour of the ancients; for here is the dilemma33:—A man, attempting this problem, is or is not a classical scholar. If he is, then he has already received a bias35 in his judgment; he is a bribed man, bribed by his vanity; and is liable to be challenged as one of the judges. If he is not, then he is but imperfectly qualified—imperfectly as respects his knowledge and powers; whilst, even as respects his will and affections, it may be alleged37 that he also is under a bias and a corrupt11 influence; his interest being no less obvious to undervalue a literature, which, as to him, is tabooed and under lock and key, than his opponent’s is to put a preposterous38 value upon that knowledge which very probably is the one sole advantageous39 distinction between him and his neighbours.
We might cite an illustration from the French literary history on this very point. Every nation in turn has had its rows in this great quarrel, which is, in fact, co-extensive with the controversies41 upon human nature itself. The French, of course, have had theirs—solemn tournaments, single duels42, casual ‘turn-ups,’ and regular ‘stand-up’ fights. The most celebrated43 of these was in the beginning of the last century, when, amongst others who acted as bottle-holders, umpires, &c., two champions in particular ‘peeled’ and fought a considerable number of rounds, mutually administering severe punishment, and both coming out of the ring disfigured: these were M. la Motte and Madame Dacier. But Motte was the favourite at first, and once he got Dacier ‘into chancery,’ and ‘fibbed’ her twice round the ropes, so that she became a truly pitiable and delightful44 spectacle to the connoisseurs45 in fibbing and bloodshed. But here lay the difference: Motte was a hard hitter; he was a clever man, and (which all clever men are not) a man of sense; but, like Shakspeare, he had no Greek. On the other hand, Dacier had nothing but Greek. A certain abbé, at that time, amused all Paris with his caricatures of this Madame Dacier, ‘who,’ said he, ‘ought to be cooking her husband’s dinner, and darning his stockings, instead of skirmishing and tilting46 with Grecian spears; for, be it known that, after all her not cooking and her not darning, she is as poor a scholar as her injured husband is a good one.’ And there the abbé was right; witness the husband’s Horace, in 9 vols., against the wife’s Homer. However, this was not generally understood. The lady, it was believed, waded47 petticoat-deep in Greek clover; and in any Grecian field of dispute, naturally she must be in the right, as against one who barely knew his own language and a little Latin. Motte was, therefore, thought by most people to have come off second best. For, as soon as ever he opened thus—‘Madame, it seems to me that, agreeably to all common sense or common decorum, the Greek poet should here’——instantly, without listening to his argument, the intrepid48 Amazon replied (ὑποδρα ιδουσα), ‘You foolish man! you remarkably49 silly man!—that is because you know no better; and the reason you know no better, is because you do not understand ton d’apameibomenos as I do.’ Ton d’apameibomenos fell like a hand-grenade amongst Motte’s papers, and blew him up effectually in the opinion of the multitude. No matter what he might say in reply—no matter how reasonable, how unanswerable—that one spell of ‘No Greek! no Greek!’ availed as a talisman50 to the lady both for offence and defence; and refuted all syllogisms and all eloquence51 as effectually as the cry of À la lanterne! in the same country some fourscore years after.
So it will always be. Those who (like Madame Dacier) possess no accomplishment52 but Greek, will, of necessity, set a superhuman value upon that literature in all its parts, to which their own narrow skill becomes an available key. Besides that, over and above this coarse and conscious motive53 for overrating that which reacts with an equal and answerable overrating upon their own little philological55 attainments59, there is another agency at work, and quite unconsciously to the subjects of that agency, in disturbing the sanity60 of any estimate they may make of a foreign literature. It is the habit (well known to psychologists) of transferring to anything created by our own skill, or which reflects our own skill, as if it lay causatively and objectively1 in the reflecting thing itself, that pleasurable power which in very truth belongs subjectively61 to the mind of him who surveys it, from conscious success in the exercise of his own energies. Hence it is that we see daily without surprise, young ladies hanging enamoured over the pages of an Italian author, and calling attention to trivial commonplaces, such as, clothed in plain mother English, would have been more repulsive62 to them than the distinctions of a theologian, or the counsels of a great-grandmother. They mistake for a pleasure yielded by the author, what is in fact the pleasure attending their own success in mastering what was lately an insuperable difficulty.
It is indeed a pitiable spectacle to any man of sense and feeling, who happens to be really familiar with the golden treasures of his own ancestral literature, and a spectacle which moves alternately scorn and sorrow, to see young people squandering63 their time and painful study upon writers not fit to unloose the shoes’ latchets of many amongst their own compatriots; making painful and remote voyages after the drossy67 refuse, when the pure gold lies neglected at their feet. Too often he is reminded of a case, which is still sometimes to be witnessed in London. Now and then it will happen that a lover of art, modern or antique alike, according to its excellence68, will find himself honoured by an invitation from some millionnaire, or some towering grandee69, to ‘assist,’ as the phrase is, at the opening of a case newly landed from the Tiber or the Arno, and fraught70 (as he is assured) with the very gems72 of Italian art, inter8-mingled besides with many genuine antiques. He goes: the cases are solemnly disgorged; adulatory73 hangers74 on, calling themselves artists, and, at all events, so much so as to appreciate the solemn farce75 enacted76, stand by uttering hollow applauses of my Lord’s taste, and endeavouring to play upon the tinkling77 cymbals78 of spurious enthusiasm: whilst every man of real discernment perceives at a glance the mere refuse and sweeping79 of a third-rate studio, such as many a native artist would disdain80 to turn out of his hands; and antiques such as could be produced, with a month’s notice, by cart-loads, in many an obscure corner of London. Yet for this rubbish has the great man taken a painful tour; compassed land and sea; paid away in exchange a king’s ransom81; and claims now on their behalf, the very humblest homage83 of artists who are taxed with the basest envy if they refuse it, and who, meantime, cannot in sincerity84 look upon the trumpery85 with other feelings than such as the potter’s wheel, if (like Ezekiel’s wheels) it were instinct with spirit, would entertain for the vilest86 of its own creations;—culinary or ‘post-culinary’ mugs and jugs87. We, the writers of this paper, are not artists, are not connected with artists. And yet, upon the general principle of sympathy with native merit, and of disgust towards all affectation, we cannot but recall such anecdotes88 with scorn; and often we recollect89 the stories recorded by poor Benvenuto Cellini, that dissolute but brilliant vagabond, who (like our own British artists) was sometimes upbraided90 with the degeneracy of modern art, and, upon his humbly91 requesting some evidence, received, by way of practical answer, a sculptured gem71 or vase, perhaps with a scornful demand of—when would he be able to produce anything like that—‘eh, Master Ben? Fancy we must wait a few centuries or so, before you’ll be ready with the fellow of this.’ And, lo! on looking into some hidden angle of the beautiful production, poor Cellini discovered his own private mark, the supposed antique having been a pure forgery92 of his own. Such cases remind one too forcibly of the pretty Horatian tale, where, in a contest between two men who undertake to mimic93 a pig’s grunting94, he who happens to be the favourite of the audience is applauded to the echo for his felicitous95 execution, and repeatedly encored, whilst the other man is hissed96 off the stage, and well kicked by a band of amateurs and cognoscenti, as a poor miserable97 copyist and impostor; but, unfortunately for the credit of his exploders, he has just time, before they have quite kicked him off, for exposing to view the real pig concealed98 under his cloak, which pig it was, and not himself, that had been the artist—forced by pinches into ‘mimicry’ of his own porcine music. Of all baffled connoisseurs, surely, these Roman pig-fanciers must have looked the most confounded. Yet there is no knowing: and we ourselves have a clever friend, but rather too given to subtilising, who contends, upon some argument not perfectly36 intelligible99 to us, that Horace was not so conclusive100 in his logic56 as he fancied; that the real pig might not have an ‘ideal’ or normal squeak101, but a peculiar102 and non-representative squeak; and that, after all, the man might deserve the ‘threshing’ he got. Well, it may be so; but, however, the Roman audience, wrong or not, for once fancied themselves in the wrong; and we cannot but regret that our own ungenerous disparagers of native merit, and exclusive eulogisers of the dead or the alien—of those only ‘quos Libitina sacravit,’ or whom oceans divide from us—are not now and then open to the same palpable refutation, as they are certainly guilty of the same mean error, in prejudging the whole question, and refusing to listen even to the plain evidence of their own feelings, or, in some cases, to the voice of their own senses.
From this preface it is already abundantly clear what side we take in this dispute about modern literature and the antique.2 And we now propose to justify103 our leaning by a general review of the Pagan authors, in their elder section—that is, the Grecians. These will be enough in all conscience, for one essay; and even for them we meditate104 a very cursory105 inquest; not such as would suffice in a grand ceremonial day of battle—a justum prœlium, as a Roman would call it—but in a mere perfunctory skirmish, or (if the reader objects to that word as pedantic106, though, really, it is a highly-favoured word amongst ancient divines, and with many a
‘philosopher,
Who has read Alexander Ross over,’)
why, in that case, let us indulge his fastidious taste by calling it an autoschediastic combat, to which, surely, there can be no such objection. And as the manner of the combat is autoschediastic or extemporaneous107, and to meet a hurried occasion, so is the reader to understand that the object of our disputation is not the learned, but the unlearned student; and our purpose, not so much to discontent the one with his painful acquisitions, as to console the other under what, upon the old principle of omne ignotum pro3 magnifico, he is too apt to imagine his irreparable disadvantages. We set before us, as our especial auditor108, the reasonable man of plain sense but strong feeling, who wishes to know how much he has lost, and what injury the gods did him, when, though making him, perhaps, poetical110, they cut short his allowance of Latin, and, as to Greek, gave him not a jot111 more than a cow has in her side pocket.
Let us begin at the beginning—and that, as everybody knows, is Homer. He is, indeed, so much at the beginning that, for that very reason (if even there were no other), he is, and will be ever more, supremely112 interesting. Is the unlearned reader aware of his age? Upon that point there are more hypotheses than one or even two. Some there are among the chronologers who make him eleven hundred years anterior114 to Christ. But those who allow him least, place him more than nine—that is, about two centuries before the establishment of the Grecian Olympiads, and (which is pretty nearly the same thing as regards time) before Romulus and Remus. Such an antiquity as this, even on its own account, is a reasonable object of interest. A poet to whom the great-grandfather of old Ancus Martius (his grandfather, did we say—that is, avus?—nay115, his abavus, his atavus, his tritavus) looked back as to one in a line with his remote ancestor—a poet who, if he travelled about as extensively as some have supposed him to do, or even as his own countryman Herodotus most certainly did five or six hundred years afterwards, might have conversed116 with the very workmen who laid the foundations of the first temple at Jerusalem—might have bent117 the knee before Solomon in all his glory:—Such a poet, were he no better than the worst of our own old metrical romancers, would—merely for his antiquity, merely for the sublime118 fact of having been coeval119 with the eldest120 of those whom the eldest of histories presents to our knowledge; coeval with the earliest kings of Judah, older than the greatest of the Judean prophets, older than the separation of the two Jewish crowns and the revolt of Israel, and, even with regard to Moses and to Joshua, not in any larger sense junior than as we ourselves are junior to Chaucer—purely121 and exclusively with regard to these pretensions, backed and supported by an antique form of an antique language—the most comprehensive and the most melodious122 in the world, would—could—should—ought to merit a filial attention; and, perhaps with those who had waggon-loads of time to spare, might plead the benefit, beyond most of those in whose favour it was enacted, of that Horatian rule—
‘vos exemplaria Græca,
Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurna.’
In fact, when we recollect that, in round numbers, we ourselves may be considered as two thousand years in advance of Christ, and that (by assuming less even than a mean between the different dates assigned to Homer) he stands a thousand years before Christ, we find between Homer and ourselves a gulf123 of three thousand years, or about one clear half of the total extent which we grant to the present duration of our planet. This in itself is so sublime a circumstance in the relations of Homer to our era, and the sense of power is so delightfully124 titillated125 to that man’s feeling, who, by means of Greek, and a very moderate skill in this fine language, is able to grasp the awful span, the vast arch of which one foot rest upon 1838, and the other almost upon the war of Troy—the mighty126 rainbow which, like the archangel in the Revelation, plants its western limb amongst the carnage and the magnificence of Waterloo, and the other amidst the vanishing gleams and the dusty clouds of Agamemnon’s rearguard—that we may pardon a little exultation127 to the man who can actually mutter to himself, as he rides home of a summer evening, the very words and vocal128 music of the old blind man at whose command
’—————the Iliad and the Odyssey129
Rose to the murmurs130 of the voiceful sea.’
But pleasures in this world fortunately are without end. And every man, after all, has many pleasures peculiar to himself—pleasures which no man shares with him, even as he is shut out from many of other men. To renounce131 one in particular, is no subject for sorrow, so long as many remain in that very class equal or superior. Elwood the Quaker had a luxury which none of us will ever have, in hearing the very voice and utterance132 of a poet quite as blind as Homer, and by many a thousand times more sublime. And yet Elwood was not perhaps much happier for that. For now, to proceed, reader—abstract from his sublime antiquity, and his being the very earliest of authors, allowance made for one or two Hebrew writers (who, being inspired, are scarcely to be viewed as human competitors), how much is there in Homer, intrinsically in Homer, stripped of his fine draperies of time and circumstance, in the naked Homer, disapparelled of the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious antiquity, to remunerate a man for his labour in acquiring Greek? Men think very differently about what will remunerate any given labour. A fool (professional fool) in Shakspeare ascertains133, by a natural process of logic, that a ‘remuneration’ means a testern, which is just sixpence; and two remunerations, therefore, a testoon, or one shilling. But many men will consider the same service ill paid by a thousand pounds. So, of the reimbursement134 for learning a language. Lord Camden is said to have learned Spanish, merely to enjoy Don Quixote more racily. Cato, the elder Cato, after abusing Greek throughout his life, sat down in extreme old age to study it: and wherefore? Mr. Coleridge mentions an author, in whom, upon opening his pages with other expectations, he stumbled upon the following fragrant135 passage—‘But from this frivolous136 digression upon philosophy and the fine arts, let us return to a subject too little understood or appreciated in these sceptical days—the subject of dung.’ Now, that was precisely137 the course of thought with this old censorious Cato: So long as Greek offered, or seemed to offer, nothing but philosophy or poetry, he was clamorous138 against Greek; but he began to thaw139 and melt a little upon the charms of Greek—he ‘owned the soft impeachment141,’ when he heard of some Grecian treatises142 upon beans and turnips143; and, finally, he sank under its voluptuous144 seductions, when he heard of others upon DUNG. There are, therefore, as different notions about a ‘remuneration’ in this case, as the poor fool had met with it in his case. We, however, unappalled by the bad names of ‘Goth,’ ‘Vandal,’ and so forth145, shall honestly lay before the reader our notions.
When Dryden wrote his famous, indeed matchless, epigram upon the three great masters (or reputed masters) of the Epopee, he found himself at no loss to characterize the last of the triad—no matter what qualities he imputed147 to the first and the second, he knew himself safe in imputing148 them all to the third. The mighty modern had everything that his predecessors149 were ever thought to have, as well as something beside.3 So he expressed the surpassing grandeur150 of Milton, by saying that in him nature had embodied151, by concentration as in one focus, whatever excellencies she had scattered152 separately amongst her earlier favourites. But, in strict regard to the facts, this is far from being a faithful statement of the relations between Milton and his elder brothers of the Epos: in sublimity153, if that is what Dryden meant by ‘loftiness of thought,’ it is not so fair to class Milton with the greatest of poets, as to class him apart, retired154 from all others, sequestered156, ‘sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.’ In other poets, in Dante for example, there may be rays, gleams, sudden coruscations, casual scintillations, of the sublime; but for any continuous and sustained blaze of the sublime, it is in vain to look for it, except in Milton, making allowances (as before) for the inspired sublimities of Isaiah, Ezekiel, and of the great Evangelist’s Revelations. As to Homer, no critic who writes from personal and direct knowledge on the one hand, or who understands the value of words on the other, ever contended in any critical sense for sublimity, as a quality to which he had the slightest pretensions. What! not Longinus? If he did, it would have been of little consequence; for he had no field of comparison, as we, knowing no literature but one—whereas we have a range of seven or eight. But he did not: Τὸ ὑψηλον,4 or the elevated, in the Longinian sense, expressed all, no matter of what origin, of what tendency, which gives a character of life and animation158 to composition—whatever raises it above the dead level of flat prosaic159 style. Emphasis, or what in an artist’s sense gives relief to a passage, causing it to stand forward, and in advance of what surrounds it—that is the predominating idea in the ‘sublime’ of Longinus. And this explains what otherwise has perplexed his modern interpreters—viz. that amongst the elements of his sublime, he ranks even the pathetic, i. e. (say they) what by connecting itself with the depressing passion of grief is the very counter-agent to the elevating affection of the sublime. True, most sapient160 sirs, my very worthy161 and approved good masters: but that very consideration should have taught you to look back, and reconsider your translation of the capital word ὑψος. It was rather too late in the day, when you had waded half-seas over in your translation, to find out either that you yourselves were ignoramuses, or that your principal was an ass34. ‘Returning were as tedious as go o’er.’ And any man might guess how you would settle such a dilemma. It is, according to you, a little oversight162 of your principal: ‘humanum aliquid passus est.‘ We, on the other hand, affirm that, if an error at all on the part of Longinus, it is too monstrous163 for any man to have ‘overlooked.’ As long as he could see a pike-staff, he must have seen that. And, therefore, we revert164 to our view of the case—viz. that it is yourselves who have committed the blunder, in translating by the Latin word sublimis5 at all, but still more after it had received new determinations under modern usage.
Now, therefore, after this explanation, recurring165 to the Longinian critiques upon Homer, it will avail any idolator of Homer but little, it will affect us not much, to mention that Longinus makes frequent reference to the Iliad, as the great source of the sublime—
‘A quo, ceu fonte perenni,
Vatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis’;
for, as respected Grecian poets, and as respected his sense of the word, it cannot be denied that Homer was such. He was the great well-head of inspiration to the Pagan poets of after times, who, however (as a body), moved in the narrowest circle that has ever yet confined the natural freedom of the poetic109 mind. But, in conceding this, let it not be forgotten how much we concede—we concede as much as Longinus demanded; that is, that Homer furnished an ideal or model of fluent narration166, picturesque167 description, and the first outlines of what could be called characteristic delineations of persons. Accordingly, uninventive Greece—for we maintain loudly that Greece, in her poets, was uninventive and sterile169 beyond the example of other nations—received, as a traditional inheritance, the characters of the Paladins of the Troad.6 Achilles is always the all-accomplished170 and supreme113 amongst these Paladins, the Orlando of ancient romance; Agamemnon, for ever the Charlemagne; Ajax, for ever the sullen171, imperturbable172, columnar champion, the Mandricardo, the Bergen-op-Zoom of his faction173, and corresponding to our modern ‘Chicken’ in the pugilistic ring, who was so called (as the books of the Fancy say) because he was a ‘glutton’; and a ‘glutton’ in this sense—that he would take any amount of cramming174 (i. e. any possible quantum of ‘milling,’ or ‘punishment’). Ulysses, again, is uniformly, no matter whether in the solemnities of the tragic175 scene, or the festivities of the Ovidian romance, the same shy cock, but also sly cock, with the least thought of a white feather in his plumage; Diomed is the same unmeaning double of every other hero, just as Rinaldo is with respect to his greater cousin, Orlando; and so of Teucer, Meriones, Idomeneus, and the other less-marked characters. The Greek drama took up these traditional characters, and sometimes deepened, saddened, exalted177 the features—as Sophocles, for instance, does with his ‘Ajax Flagellifer’—Ajax the knouter of sheep—where, by the way, the remorse178 and penitential grief of Ajax for his own self-degradation, and the depth of his affliction for the triumph which he had afforded to his enemies—taken in connection with the tender fears of his wife, Tecmessa, for the fate to which his gloomy despair was too manifestly driving him; her own conscious desolation, and the orphan179 weakness of her son, in the event which she too fearfully anticipates—the final suicide of Ajax; the brotherly affection of Teucer to the widow and the young son of the hero, together with the unlooked-for sympathy of Ulysses, who, instead of exulting180 in the ruin of his antagonist181, mourns over it with generous tears—compose a situation, and a succession of situations, not equalled in the Greek tragedy; and, in that instance, we see an effort, rare in Grecian poetry, of conquest achieved by idealisation over a mean incident—viz. the hallucination of brain in Ajax, by which he mistakes the sheep for his Grecian enemies, ties them up for flagellation, and scourges182 them as periodically as if he were a critical reviewer. But really, in one extremity183 of this madness, where he fixes upon an old ram146 for Agamemnon, as the leader of the flock, the αναξ ανδρων Αγαμεμνων, there is an extravagance of the ludicrous against which, though not exhibited scenically184, but simply narrated185, no solemnity of pathos186 could avail; even in narration, the violation187 of tragical188 dignity is insufferable, and is as much worse than the hyper-tragic horrors of Titus Andronicus (a play which is usually printed, without reason, amongst those of Shakspeare) as absolute farce or contradiction of all pathos must inevitably189 be a worse indecorum than physical horrors which simply outrage190 it by excess. Let us not, therefore, hear of the judgment displayed upon the Grecian stage, when even Sophocles, the chief master of dramatic economy and scenical propriety, could thus err54 by an aberration191 so far transcending192 the most memorable193 violation of stage decorum which has ever been charged upon the English drama.
From Homer, therefore, were left, as a bequest194 to all future poets, the romantic adventures which grow, as so many collateral195 dependencies,
‘From the tale of Troy divine’;
and from Homer was derived196 also the discrimination of the leading characters, which, after all, were but coarsely and rudely discriminated197; at least, for the majority. In one instance only we acknowledge an exception. We have heard a great modern poet dwelling198 with real and not counterfeit199 enthusiasm upon the character (or rather upon the general picture, as made up both of character and position), which the course of the Iliad assigns gradually to Achilles. The view which he took of this impersonation of human grandeur, combining all gifts of intellect and of body, matchless speed, strength, inevitable200 eye, courage, and the immortal201 beauty of a god, being also, by his birth-right, half-divine, and consecrated202 to the imagination by his fatal interweaving with the destinies of Troy, and to the heart by the early death which to his own knowledge7 impended203 over his magnificent career, and so abruptly204 shut up its vista—the view, we say, which our friend took of the presiding character throughout the Iliad, who is introduced to us in the very first line, and who is only eclipsed for seventeen books, to emerge upon us with more awful lustre;—the view which he took was—that Achilles, and Achilles only, in the Grecian poetry, was a great idea—an idealised creation; and we remember that in this respect he compared the Homeric Achilles with the Angelica of Ariosto. Her only he regarded as an idealisation in the Orlando Furioso. And certainly in the luxury and excess of her all-conquering beauty, which drew after her from ‘ultimate Cathay’ to the camps of the baptised in France, and back again, from the palace of Charlemagne, drew half the Paladins, and ‘half Spain militant,’ to the portals of the rising sun; that sovereign beauty which (to say nothing of kings and princes withered205 by her frowns) ruined for a time the most princely of all the Paladins, the supreme Orlando, crazed him with scorn,
‘And robbed him of his noble wits outright’—
in all this, we must acknowledge a glorification206 of power not unlike that of Achilles:—
‘Irresistible207 Pelides, whom, unarm’d,
No strength of man or wild beast could withstand;
Who tore the lion as the lion tears the kid;
Ran on embattl’d armies clad in iron;
And, weaponless himself,
Made arms ridiculous, useless the forgery
Of brazen208 shield and spear, the hammer’d cuirass,
Chalybean temper’d steel, and frock of mail,
Adamantéan proof;
But safest he who stood aloof209,
When insupportably his foot advanced
Spurned210 them to death by troops. The bold Priamides
Fled from his lion ramp211; old warriors212 turn’d
Their plated backs under his heel,
Or, groveling, soil’d their crested213 helmets in the dust.’
These are the words of Milton in describing that ‘heroic Nazarete,’ ‘God’s champion’—
‘Promis’d by heavenly message twice descending’;
heralded215, like Pelides,
‘By an angel of his birth,
Who from his father’s field
Rode up in flames after his message told’;
these are the celestial216 words which describe the celestial prowess of the Hebrew monomachist, the irresistible Sampson; and are hardly less applicable to the ‘champion paramount’ of Greece confederate.
This, therefore, this unique conception, with what power they might, later Greek poets adopted; and the other Homeric characters they transplanted somewhat monotonously217, but at times, we are willing to admit, and have already admitted, improving and solemnizing the original epic218 portraits when brought upon the stage. But all this extent of obligation amongst later poets of Greece to Homer serves less to argue his opulence219 than their penury220. And if, quitting the one great blazing jewel, the Urim and Thummim of the Iliad, you descend214 to individual passages of poetic effect; and if amongst these a fancy should seize you of asking for a specimen221 of the Sublime in particular, what is it that you are offered by the critics? Nothing that we remember beyond one single passage, in which the god Neptune222 is described in a steeple chase, and ‘making play’ at a terrific pace. And certainly enough is exhibited of the old boy’s hoofs223, and their spanking224 qualities, to warrant our backing him against a railroad for a rump and dozen; but, after all, there is nothing to grow frisky225 about, as Longinus does, who gets up the steam of a blue-stocking enthusiasm, and boils us a regular gallop226 of ranting227, in which, like the conceited228 snipe8 upon the Liverpool railroad, he thinks himself to run a match with Sampson; and, whilst affecting to admire Homer, is manifestly squinting229 at the reader to see how far he admires his own flourish of admiration230; and, in the very agony of his frosty raptures232, is quite at leisure to look out for a little private traffic of rapture231 on his own account. But it won’t do; this old critical posture-master (whom, if Aurelian hanged, surely he knew what he was about) may as well put up his rapture pipes, and (as Lear says) ‘not squiny’ at us; for let us ask Master Longinus, in what earthly respect do these great strides of Neptune exceed Jack233 with his seven-league boots? Let him answer that, if he can. We hold that Jack has the advantage. Or, again look at the Koran: does any man but a foolish Oriental think that passage sublime where Mahomet describes the divine pen? It is, says he, made of mother-of-pearl; so much for the ‘raw material,’ as the economists234 say. But now for the size: it can hardly be called a ‘portable’ pen at all events, for we are told that it is so tall of its age, that an Arabian ‘thoroughbred horse would require 500 years for galloping235 down the slit236 to the nib237. Now this Arabic sublime is in this instance quite a kin20 brother to the Homeric.
However, it is likely that we shall here be reminded of our own challenge to the Longinian word ὑψηλον as not at all corresponding, or even alluding238 to the modern word sublime. But in this instance, the distinction will not much avail that critic—for no matter by what particular word he may convey his sense of its quality, clear it is, by his way of illustrating239 its peculiar merit, that, in his opinion, these huge strides of Neptune’s have something supernaturally grand about them. But, waiving240 this solitary241 instance in Homer of the sublime, according to his idolatrous critics—of the pseudo sublime according to ourselves—in all other cases where Longinus, or any other Greek writer has cited Homer as the great exemplary model of ὑψος in composition, we are to understand him according to the Grecian sense of that word. He must then be supposed to praise Homer, not so much for any ideal grandeur either of thought, image, or situation, as in a general sense for his animated242 style of narration, for the variety and spirited effect with which he relieves the direct formal narration in his own person by dialogue between the subjects of his narration, thus ventriloquising and throwing his own voice as often as he can into the surrounding objects—or again for the similes244 and allusive245 pictures by which he points emphasis to a situation or interest to a person.
Now then we have it: when you describe Homer, or when you hear him described as a lively picturesque old boy [by the way, why does everybody speak of Homer as old?], full of life, and animation, and movement, then you say (or you hear say) what is true, and not much more than what is true. Only about that word picturesque we demur246 a little: as a chirurgeon, he certainly is picturesque; for Howship upon gunshot wounds is a joke to him when he lectures upon traumacy, if we may presume to coin that word, or upon traumatic philosophy (as Mr. M’Culloch says so grandly, Economic Science). But, apart from this, we cannot allow that simply to say Ζακυνθος νεμοεσσα, woody Zacynthus, is any better argument of picturesqueness247 than Stony248 Stratford, or Harrow on the Hill. Be assured, reader, that the Homeric age was not ripe for the picturesque. Price on the Picturesque, or, Gilpin on Forest Scenery, would both have been sent post-haste to Bedlam249 in those days; or perhaps Homer himself would have tied a millstone about their necks, and have sunk them as public nuisances by woody Zante. Besides, it puts almost an extinguisher on any little twinkling of the picturesque that might have flared250 up at times from this or that suggestion, when each individual had his own regular epithet251 stereotyped252 to his name like a brass253 plate upon a door: Hector, the tamer of horses; Achilles, the swift of foot; the ox-eyed, respectable Juno. Some of the ‘big uns,’ it is true, had a dress and an undress suit of epithets254: as for instance, Hector was also κορυθαιολος, Hector with the tossing or the variegated255 plumes256. Achilles again was διος or divine. But still the range was small, and the monotony was dire157.
And now, if you come in good earnest to picturesqueness, let us mention a poet in sober truth worth five hundred of Homer, and that is Chaucer. Show us a piece of Homer’s handywork that comes within a hundred leagues of that divine prologue257 to the Canterbury Tales, or of ‘The Knight’s Tale,’ of the ‘Man of Law’s Tale,’ or of the ‘Tale of the Patient Griseldis,’ or, for intense life of narration and festive258 wit, to the ‘Wife of Bath’s Tale.’ Or, passing out of the Canterbury Tales for the picturesque in human manner and gesture, and play of countenance259, never equalled as yet by Pagan or Christian260, go to the Troilus and Cresseid, and, for instance, to the conversation between Troilus and Pandarus, or, again, between Pandarus and Cresseid. Rightly did a critic of the 17th century pronounce Chaucer a miracle of natural genius, as having ‘taken into the compass of his Canterbury Tales, the various manners and humours of the whole English nation in his age; not a single character has escaped him.’ And this critic then proceeds thus—‘The matter and manner of these tales, and of their telling, are so suited to their different educations, humours, and calling, that each of them would be improper261 in any other mouth. Even the grave and serious characters are distinguished262 by their several sorts of gravity. Even the ribaldry of the low characters is different. But there is such a variety of game springing up before me, that I am distracted in my choice, and know not which to follow. It is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God’s plenty.’ And soon after he goes on to assert (though Heaven knows in terms far below the whole truth), the superiority of Chaucer to Boccaccio. And, in the meantime, who was this eulogist of Chaucer? Why, the man who himself was never equalled upon this earth, unless by Chaucer, in the art of fine narration: it is John Dryden whom we have been quoting.
Between Chaucer and Homer—as to the main art of narration, as to the picturesque life of the manners, and as to the exquisite263 delineation168 of character—the interval7 is as wide as between Shakespeare, in dramatic power, and Nic. Rowe.
And we might wind up this main chapter, of the comparison between Grecian and English literature—viz. the chapter on Homer, by this tight dilemma. You do or you do not use the Longinian word ὑψος in the modern sense of the sublime. If you do not, then of course you translate it in the Grecian sense, as explained above; and in that sense, we engage to produce many scores of passages from Chaucer, not exceeding 50 to 80 lines, which contain more of picturesque simplicity264, more tenderness, more fidelity265 to nature, more felicity of sentiment, more animation of narrative266, and more truth of character, than can be matched in all the Iliad or the Odyssey. On the other hand, if by ὑψος you choose absurdly to mean sublimity in the modern sense, then it will suffice for us that we challenge you to the production of one instance which truly and incontestably embodies267 that quality.9 The burthen of proof rests upon you who affirm, not upon us who deny. Meantime, as a kind of choke-pear, we leave with the Homeric adorer this one brace268 of portraits, or hints for such a brace, which we commend to his comparison, as Hamlet did the portraits of the two brothers to his besotted mother. We are talking of the sublime: that is our thesis. Now observe: there is a catalogue in the Iliad—there is a catalogue in the Paradise Lost. And, like a river of Macedon and of Monmouth, the two catalogues agree in that one fact—viz. that they are such. But as to the rest, we are willing to abide269 by the issue of that one comparison, left to the very dullest sensibility, for the decision of the total question at issue. And what is that? Not, Heaven preserve us! as to the comparative claims of Milton and Homer in this point of sublimity—for surely it would be absurd to compare him who has most with him whom we affirm to have none at all—but whether Homer has the very smallest pretensions in that point. The result, as we state it, is this:—The catalogue of the ruined angels in Milton, is, in itself taken separately, a perfect poem, with the beauty, and the felicity, and the glory of a dream. The Homeric catalogue of ships is exactly on a level with the muster-roll of a regiment270, the register of a tax-gatherer, the catalogue of an auctioneer. Nay, some catalogues are far more interesting, and more alive with meaning. ‘But him followed fifty black ships!’—‘But him follow seventy black ships!’ Faugh! We could make a more readable poem out of an Insolvent’s Balance Sheet.
One other little suggestion we could wish to offer. Those who would contend against the vast superiority of Chaucer (and him we mention chiefly because he really has in excess those very qualities of life, motion, and picturesque simplicity, to which the Homeric characteristics chiefly tend), ought to bear in mind one startling fact evidently at war with the degree of what is claimed for Homer. It is this: Chaucer is carried naturally by the very course of his tales into the heart of domestic life, and of the scenery most favourable271 to the movements of human sensibility. Homer, on the other hand, is kept out of that sphere, and is imprisoned272 in the monotonies of a camp or a battle-field, equally by the necessities of his story, and by the proprieties273 of Grecian life (which in fact are pretty nearly those of Turkish life at this day). Men and women meet only under rare, hurried, and exclusive circumstances. Hence it is, that throughout the entire Iliad, we have but one scene in which the finest affections of the human heart can find an opening for display; of course, everybody knows at once that we are speaking of the scene between Hector, Andromache, and the young Astyanax. No need for question here; it is Hobson’s choice in Greek literature, when you are seeking for the poetry of human sensibilities. One such scene there is, and no more; which, of itself, is some reason for suspecting its authenticity274. And, by the way, at this point, it is worth while remarking, that a late excellent critic always pronounced the words applied to Andromache δακρυοεν γελασασα (tearfully smiling, or, smiling through her tears), a mere Alexandrian interpolation. And why? Now mark the reason. Was it because the circumstance is in itself vicious, or out of nature? Not at all: nothing more probable or more interesting under the general situation of peril275 combined with the little incident of the infant’s alarm at the plumed276 helmet. But any just taste feels it to be out of the Homeric key; the barbarism of the age, not mitigated277 (as in Chaucer’s far less barbarous age) by the tenderness of Christian sentiment, turned a deaf ear and a repulsive aspect to such beautiful traits of domestic feeling; to Homer himself the whole circumstance would have been one of pure effeminacy. Now, we recommend it to the reader’s reflection—and let him weigh well the condition under which that poetry moves that cannot indulge a tender sentiment without being justly suspected of adulterous commerce with some after age. This remark, however, is by the by; having grown out of the δακρυοεν γελασασα, itself a digression. But, returning from that to our previous theme, we desire every candid278 reader to ask himself what must be the character, what the circumscription279, of that poetry which is limited, by its very subject,10 to a scene of such intense uniformity as a battle or a camp; and by the prevailing280 spirit of manners to the exclusive society of men. To make bricks without straw, was the excess even of Egyptian bondage281; Homer could not fight up against the necessities of his age, and the defects of its manners. And the very apologies which will be urged for him, drawn282 as they must be from the spirit of manners prevalent in his era, are reciprocally but so many reasons for not seeking in him the kind of poetry which has been ascribed to him by ignorance, or by defective283 sensibility, or by the mere self-interest of pedantry284.
From Homer, the route stretches thus:—The Grecian drama lies about six hundred years nearer to the Christian era, and Pindar lies in the interval. These—i. e. the Dramatic and Lyric286—are the important chapters of the Greek poetry; for as to Pastoral poetry, having only Theocritus surviving, and a very little of Bion and Moschus, and of these one only being of the least separate importance—we cannot hold that department entitled to any notice in so cursory a review of the literature, else we have much to say on this also. Besides that, Theocritus was not a natural poet, indigenous287 to Sicily, but an artificial blue-stocking; as was Callimachus in a different class.
The drama we may place loosely in the generation next before that of Alexander the Great. And his era may be best remembered by noting it as 333 years B. C. Add thirty years to this era—that will be the era of the Drama. Add a little more than a century, and that will be the era of Pindar. Him, therefore, we will notice first.
Now, the chief thing to say as to Pindar is—to show cause, good and reasonable, why no man of sense should trouble his head about him. There was in the seventeenth century a notion prevalent about Pindar, the very contradiction to the truth. It was imagined that he ‘had a demon’; that he was under a burthen of prophetic inspiration; that he was possessed288, like a Hebrew prophet or a Delphic priestess, with divine fury. Why was this thought?—simply because no mortal read him. Laughable it is to mention, that Pope, when a very young man, and writing his Temple of Fame (partly on the model of Chaucer’s), when he came to the great columns and their bas-reliefs in that temple, each of which is sacred to one honoured name, having but room in all for six, chose Pindar for one11 of the six. And the first bas-relief on Pindar’s column is so pretty, that we shall quote it; especially as it suggested Gray’s car for Dryden’s ‘less presumptuous289 flight!’
‘Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,
With heads advanc’d, and pinions26 stretch’d for flight:
Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,
And seem’d to labour with th’ inspiring god.’
Then follow eight lines describing other bas-reliefs, containing ‘the figured games of Greece’ (Olympic, Nemean, &c.). But what we spoke290 of as laughable in the whole affair is, that Master Pope neither had then read one line of Pindar, nor ever read one line of Pindar: and reason good; for at that time he could not read the simple Homeric Greek; while the Greek of Pindar exceeds all other Greek in difficulty, excepting, perhaps, a few amongst the tragic choruses, which are difficult for the very same reason—lyric abruptness291, lyric involution, and lyric obscurity of transition. Not having read Homer, no wonder that Pope should place, amongst the bas-reliefs illustrating the Iliad, an incident which does not exist in the Iliad.12 Not having read Pindar, no wonder that Pope should ascribe to Pindar qualities which are not only imaginary, but in absolute contradiction to his true ones. A more sober old gentleman does not exist: his demoniac possession is a mere fable292. But there are two sufficient arguments for not reading him, so long as innumerable books of greater interest remain unread. First, he writes upon subjects that, to us, are mean and extinct—race-horses that have been defunct293 for twenty-five centuries, chariots that were crazy in his own day, and contests with which it is impossible for us to sympathise. Then his digressions about old genealogies294 are no whit176 better than his main theme, nor more amusing than a Welshman’s pedigree. The best translator of any age, Mr. Carey, who translated Dante, has done what human skill could effect to make the old Theban readable; but, after all, the man is yet to come who has read Pindar, will read Pindar, or can read Pindar, except, indeed, a translator in the way of duty. And the son of Philip himself, though he bade ‘spare the house of Pindarus,’ we vehemently296 suspect, never read the works of Pindarus; that labour he left to some future Hercules. So much for his subjects: but a second objection is—his metre: The hexameter, or heroic metre of the ancient Greeks, is delightful to our modern ears; so is the Iambic metre fortunately of the stage: but the Lyric metres generally, and those of Pindar without one exception, are as utterly297 without meaning to us, as merely chaotic298 labyrinths300 of sound, as Chinese music or Dutch concertos301. Need we say more?
Next comes the drama. But this is too weighty a theme to be discussed slightly; and the more so because here only we willingly concede a strong motive for learning Greek; here, only, we hold the want of a ready introduction to be a serious misfortune. Our general argument, therefore, which had for its drift to depreciate302 Greek, dispenses303, in this case, with our saying anything; since every word we could say would be hostile to our own purpose. However, we shall, even upon this field of the Greek literature, deliver one oracular sentence, tending neither to praise nor dispraise it, but simply to state its relations to the modern, or, at least, the English drama. In the ancient drama, to represent it justly, the unlearned reader must imagine grand situations, impressive groups; in the modern tumultuous movement, a grand stream of action. In the Greek drama, he must conceive the presiding power to be Death; in the English, Life. What Death?—What Life? That sort of death or of life locked up and frozen into everlasting306 slumber307, which we see in sculpture; that sort of life, of tumult305, of agitation308, of tendency to something beyond, which we see in painting. The picturesque, in short, domineers over English tragedy; the sculpturesque, or the statuesque, over the Grecian.
The moralists, such as Theogins, the miscellaneous or didactic poets, such as Hesiod, are all alike below any notice in a sketch309 like this. The Epigrammatists, or writers of monumental inscriptions310, &c., remain; and they, next after the dramatic poets, present the most interesting field by far in the Greek literature; but these are too various to be treated otherwise than viritim and in detail.
There remains311 the prose literature; and, with the exception of those critical writers who have written on rhetoric312 (such as Hermogenes, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Demetrius Phalerius, &c. &c., some of whom are the best writers extant, on the mere art of constructing sentences, but could not interest the general reader), the prose writers may be thus distributed: 1st, the orators314; 2nd, the historians; 3rd, the philosophers; 4th, the literateurs (such as Plutarch, Lucian, &c.).
As to the philosophers, of course there are only two who can present any general interest—Plato and Aristotle; for Xenophon is no more a philosophic writer than our own Addison. Now, in this department, it is evident that the matter altogether transcends315 the manner. No man will wish to study a profound philosopher, but for some previous interest in his doctrines316; and, if by any means a man has obtained this, he may pursue this study sufficiently317 through translations. It is true that neither Sydenham nor Taylor has done justice to Plato, for example, as respects the colloquial318 graces of his style; but, when the object is purely to pursue a certain course of principles and inferences, the student cannot complain much that he has lost the dramatic beauties of the dialogue, or the luxuriance of the style. These he was not then seeking, by the supposition—what he did seek, is still left; whereas in poetry, if the golden apparel is lost, if the music has melted away from the thoughts, all, in fact, is lost. Old Hobbes, or Ogilbie, is no more Homer than the score of Mozart’s Don Giovanni is Mozart’s Don Giovanni.
If, however, Grecian philosophy presents no absolute temptations to the attainment58 of Greek, far less does Grecian history. If you except later historians—such as Diodorus, Plutarch, and those (like Appian, Dionysius, Dion Cassius) who wrote of Roman things and Roman persons in Greek, and Polybius, who comes under the same class, at a much earlier period—and none of whom have any interest of style, excepting only Plutarch: these dismissed, there are but three who can rank as classical Greek historians; three who can lose by translation. Of these the eldest, Herodotus, is perhaps of real value. Some call him the father of history; some call him the father of lies. Time and Major Rennel have done him ample justice. Yet here, again, see how little need of Greek for the amplest use of a Greek author. Twenty-two centuries and more have passed since the fine old man read his history at the Grecian games of Olympia. One man only has done him right, and put his enemies under his footstool; and yet this man had no Greek. Major Rennel read Herodotus only in the translation of Beloe. He has told us so himself. Here, then, is a little fact, my Grecian boys, that you won’t easily get over. The father of history, the eldest of prose writers, has been first explained, illustrated320, justified321, liberated322 from scandal and disgrace, first had his geography set to rights, first translated from the region of fabulous323 romance, and installed in his cathedral chair, as Dean (or eldest) of historians, by a military man, who had no more Greek than Shakspeare, or than we (perhaps you, reader) of the Kalmuck.
Next comes Thucydides. He is the second in order of time amongst the Grecian historians who survive, and the first of those (a class which Mr. Southey, the laureate, always speaks of as the corruptors of genuine history) who affect to treat it philosophically324. If the philosophic historians are not always so faithless as Mr. Southey alleges326, they are, however, always guilty of dulness. Commend us to one picturesque, garrulous327 old fellow, like Froissart, or Philip de Comines, or Bishop328 Burnet, before all the philosophic prosers that ever prosed. These picturesque men will lie a little now and then, for the sake of effect—but so will the philosophers. Even Bishop Burnet, who, by the way, was hardly so much a picturesque as an anecdotal historian, was famous for his gift of lying; so diligently330 had he cultivated it. And the Duchess of Portsmouth told a noble lord, when inquiring into the truth of a particular fact stated by the very reverend historian, that he was notorious in Charles the Second’s court, and that no man believed a word he said. But now Thucydides, though writing about his own time, and doubtless embellishing332 by fictions not less than his more amusing brethren, is as dull as if he prided himself on veracity333. Nay, he tells us no secret anecdotes of the times—surely there must have been many; and this proves to us, that he was a low fellow without political connections, and that he never had been behind the curtain. Now, what business had such a man to set himself up for a writer of history and a speculator on politics? Besides, his history is imperfect; and, suppose it were not, what is its subject? Why simply one single war; a war which lasted twenty-seven years; but which, after all, through its whole course was enlivened by only two events worthy to enter into general history—viz. the plague of Athens, and the miserable licking which the Athenian invaders334 received in Sicily. This dire overthrow335 dished Athens out and out; for one generation to come, there was an end of Athenian domination; and that arrogant336 state, under the yoke337 of their still baser enemies of Sparta, learned experimentally what were the evils of a foreign conquest. There was therefore, in the domination of the Thirty Tyrants338, something to ‘point a moral’ in the Peloponnesian war: it was the judicial339 reaction of martial340 tyranny and foreign oppression, such as we of this generation have beheld341 in the double conquest of Paris by insulted and outraged342 Christendom. But nothing of all this will be found in Thucydides—he is as cool as a cucumber upon every act of atrocity343; whether it be the bloody344 abuse of power, or the bloody retribution from the worm that, being trampled345 on too long, turns at last to sting and to exterminate—all alike he enters in his daybook and his ledger346, posts them up to the account of brutal347 Spartan348 or polished Athenian, with no more expression of his feelings (if he had any) than a merchant making out an invoice349 of puncheons that are to steal away men’s wits, or of frankincense and myrrh that are to ascend350 in devotion to the saints. Herodotus is a fine, old, genial351 boy, that, like Froissart or some of the crusading historians, kept himself in health and jovial352 spirits by travelling about; nor did he confine himself to Greece or the Grecian islands; but he went to Egypt, got bousy in the Pyramid of Cheops, ate a beef-steak in the hanging-gardens of Babylon, and listened to no sailors’ yarns353 at the Piræus, which doubtless, before his time, had been the sole authority for Grecian legends concerning foreign lands. But, as to Thucydides, our own belief is, that he lived like a monk354 shut up in his museum or study; and that, at the very utmost, he may have gone in the steamboat13 to Corfu (i. e. Corcyra), because that was the island which occasioned the row of the Peloponnesian war.
Xenophon now is quite another sort of man; he could use his pen; but also he could use his sword; and (when need was) his heels, in running away. His Grecian history of course is a mere fraction of the general history; and, moreover, our own belief, founded upon the differences of the style, is, that the work now received for his must be spurious. But in this place the question is not worth discussing. Two works remain, professedly historical, which, beyond a doubt, are his; and one of them the most interesting prose work by much which Athens has bequeathed us; though, by the way, Xenophon was living in a sort of elegant exile at a chateau356 in Thessaly, and not under Athenian protection, when he wrote it. Both of his great works relate to a Persian Cyrus, but to a Cyrus of different centuries. The Cyropædia is a romance, pretty much on the plan of Fenelon’s Telemaque, only (Heaven be praised!) not so furiously apoplectic357. It pursues the great Cyrus, the founder358 of the Persian empire, the Cyrus of the Jewish prophets, from his infancy359 to his death-bed; and describes evidently not any real prince, according to any authentic record of his life, but, upon some basis of hints and vague traditions, improves the actual Cyrus into an ideal fiction of a sovereign and a military conqueror360, as he ought to be. One thing only we shall say of this work, though no admirers ourselves of the twaddle which Xenophon elsewhere gives us as philosophic memorabilia, that the episode of Abradates and Panthea (especially the behaviour of Panthea after the death of her beloved hero, and the incident of the dead man’s hand coming away on Cyrus grasping it) exceeds for pathos everything in Grecian literature, always excepting the Greek drama, and comes nearest of anything, throughout Pagan literature, to the impassioned simplicity of Scripture361, in its tale of Joseph and his brethren. The other historical work of Xenophon is the Anabasis. The meaning of the title is the going-up or ascent—viz. of Cyrus the younger. This prince was the younger brother of the reigning362 king Artaxerxes, nearly two centuries from Cyrus the Great; and, from opportunity rather than a better title, and because his mother and his vast provincial363 government furnished him with royal treasures able to hire an army, most of all, because he was richly endowed by nature with personal gifts—took it into his head that he would dethrone his brother; and the more so, because he was only his half-brother. His chance was a good one: he had a Grecian army, and one from the very élite of Greece; whilst the Persian king had but a small corps364 of Grecian auxiliaries365, long enfeebled by Persian effeminacy and Persian intermarriages. Xenophon was personally present in this expedition. And the catastrophe366 was most singular, such as does not occur once in a thousand years. The cavalry367 of the great King retreated before the Greeks continually, no doubt from policy and secret orders; so that, when a pitched battle became inevitable, the foreign invaders found themselves in the very heart of the land, and close upon the Euphrates. The battle was fought: the foreigners were victorious368: they were actually singing Te Deum or Io Pæan for their victory, when it was discovered that their leader, the native prince in whose behalf they had conquered, was missing; and soon after, that he was dead. What was to be done? The man who should have improved their victory, and placed them at his own right hand when on the throne of Persia, was no more; key they had none to unlock the great fortresses369 of the empire, none to unloose the enthusiasm of the native population. Yet such was the desperation of their circumstances, that a coup370-de-main on the capital seemed their best chance. The whole army was and felt itself a forlorn hope. To go forward was desperate, but to go back much more so; for they had a thousand rivers without bridges in their rear; and, if they set their faces in that direction, they would have 300,000 light cavalry upon their flanks, besides nations innumerable—
‘Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreath’d’;
fierce fellows who understood no Greek, and, what was worse, no joking, but well understood the use of the scymitar. Bad as things were, they soon became worse; for the chiefs of the Grecian army, being foolish enough to accept a dinner invitation from the Persian commander-in-chief, were assassinated371; and the words of Milton became intelligible—that in the lowest deep a lower deep had opened to destroy them. In this dilemma, Xenophon, the historian of the expedition, was raised to a principal command; and by admirable skill he led back the army by a different route to the Black Sea, on the coast of which he knew that there were Grecian colonies: and from one of these he obtained shipping372, in which he coasted along (when he did not march by land) to the mouth of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. This was the famous retreat of the ten thousand; and it shows how much defect of literary skill there was in those days amongst Grecian authors, that the title of the book, The Going Up, does not apply to the latter and more interesting seven-eighths of the account. The Going Up is but the preparation or preface to the Going Down, the Anabasis to the Katabasis, in which latter part it is that Xenophon plays any conspicuous373 part. A great political interest, however, over and above the personal interest, attaches to this expedition: for there can be no doubt, that to this proof of weakness in the Persian empire, and perhaps to this, as recorded by Xenophon, was due the expedition of Alexander in the next generation, which changed the face of the world.
The literateurs, as we have styled Plutarch and Lucian, though far removed from the true classical era, being both posterior to Christianity, are truly interesting. And, for Lucian in particular, though he is known by reputation only as a humorous and sneering374 writer, we can say, upon our personal knowledge, that there are passages of more terrific effect, more German, and approaching to the sublime, than anywhere else in Greek literature, out of the tragic poets. Of Plutarch we need hardly speak; one part of his voluminous works—viz. his biographies of Greek and Roman leaders in arts14 and arms—being so familiar to all nations; and having been selected by Rousseau as the book for him who should be limited (or, like Collins the poet, should limit himself) to one book only—a foolish choice undoubtedly375, but still arguing great range of resources in Plutarch, that he should be thought of after so many myriads376 of modern books had widened the range of selection. Meantime, the reader is not to forget that, whatever may be his powers of amusement, a more inaccurate377 or faithless author as to dates, and, indeed, in all matters of research, does not exist than Plutarch. We make it a rule, whenever we see Plut. at the bottom of a dictionary article, as the authority on which it rests, to put the better half down as a bouncer. And, in fact, Joe Miller378 is quite as good authority for English history as Plutarch for Roman.
Now remain the orators; and of these we have a right to speak, for we have read them; and, believe us, reader, not above one or two men in a generation have. If the Editor would allow us room, we would gladly contrast them with modern orators; and we could easily show how prodigious379 are the advantages of modern orators in every point which can enter into a comparison. But to what purpose? Even modern orators, with all the benefit of modern interest, and of allusions380 everywhere intelligible, are not read in any generation after their own, pulpit orators only being excepted. So that, if the gods had made our reader a Grecian, surely he would never so far misspend his precious time, and squander64 his precious intellect upon old dusty quarrels, never of more value to a philosopher than a tempest in a wash-hand bason, but now stuffed with obscurities which no man can explain, and with lies to which no man can bring the counter-statement. But this would furnish matter for a separate paper.
1 Objectively and subjectively are terms somewhat too metaphysical; but they are so indispensable to accurate thinking that we are inclined to show them some indulgence; and, the more so, in cases where the mere position and connection of the words are half sufficient to explain their application.
2 In general usage, 'The antique' is a phrase limited to the expression of art; but improperly381 so. It is quite as legitimately382 used to denote the literature of ancient times, in contradistinction to the modern. As to the term classical, though generally employed as equivalent to Greek and Roman, the reader must not forget this is quite a false limitation, contradicting the very reason for applying the word in any sense to literature. For the application arose thus: The social body of Rome being divided into six classes, of which the lowest was the sixth, it followed that the highest was the first. Thence, by a natural process common to most languages, those who belonged to this highest had no number at all assigned to them. The very absence of a number, the calling them classici, implied that they belonged to the class emphatically, or par10 excellence. The classics meant, therefore, the grandees383 in social consideration; and thence by analogy in literature. But if this analogy be transferred from Rome to Greece, where it had no corresponding root in civic384 arrangement—then, by parity385 of reason, to all nations.
3 The beauty of this famous epigram lies in the form of the conception. The first had A; the second had B; and when nature, to furnish out a third, should have given him C, she found that A and B had already exhausted386 her cycle; and that she could distinguish her third great favourite only by giving him both A and B in combination. But the filling up of this outline is imperfect: for the A (loftiness) and the B (majesty) are one and the same quality, under different names.
4 Because the Latin word sublimis is applied to objects soaring upwards387, or floating aloft, or at an aerial altitude, and because the word does sometimes correspond to our idea of the sublime (in which the notion of height is united with the notion of moral grandeur), and because, in the excessive vagueness and lawless latitudinarianism of our common Greek Lexicons388, the word ὑψος is translated, inter alia, by το sublime, sublimitas, &c. Hence it has happened that the title of the little essay ascribed to Longinus, Περι ὑψους, is usually rendered into English, Concerning the sublime. But the idea of the Sublime, as defined, circumscribed389, and circumstantiated, in English literature—an idea altogether of English growth—the sublime byway of polar antithesis390 to the Beautiful, had no existence amongst ancient critics; consequently it could have no expression. It is a great thought, a true thought, a demonstrable thought, that the Sublime, as thus ascertained392, and in contraposition to the Beautiful, grew up on the basis of sexual distinctions, the Sublime corresponding to the male, the Beautiful, its anti-pole, corresponding to the female. Behold393! we show you a mystery.
5 No word has ever given so much trouble to modern critics as this very word (now under discussion) of the sublime. To those who have little Greek and no Latin, it is necessary in the first place that we should state what are the most obvious elements of the word. According to the noble army of etymologists, they are these two Latin words—sub, under, and limus, mud. Oh! gemini! who would have thought of groping for the sublime in such a situation as that?—unless, indeed, it were that writer cited by Mr. Coleridge, and just now referred to by ourselves, who complains of frivolous modern readers, as not being able to raise and sequester155 their thoughts to the abstract consideration of dung. Hence it has followed, that most people have quarrelled with the etymology394. "Whereupon the late Dr. Parr, of pedantic memory, wrote a huge letter to Mr. Dugald Stewart, but the marrow395 of which lies in a nutshell, especially being rather hollow within. The learned doctor, in the first folio, grapples with the word sub, which, says he, comes from the Greek—so much is clear—but from what Greek, Bezonian? The thoughtless world, says he, trace it to ὑπο (hypo), sub, i. e. under; but I, Ego396, Samuel Parr, the Birmingham doctor, trace it to ὑπερ (hyper), super, i. e. above; between which the difference is not less than between a chestnut397 horse and a horse-chestnut. To this learned Parrian dissertation398 on mud, there cannot be much reasonably to object, except its length in the first place; and, secondly399, that we ourselves exceedingly doubt the common interpretation400 of limus. Most unquestionably, if the sublime is to be brought into any relation at all to mud, we shall all be of one mind—that it must be found above. But to us it appears—that when the true modern idea of mud was in view, limus was not the word used. Cicero, for instance, when he wishes to call Piso 'filth401, mud,' &c. calls him Cænum: and, in general, limus seems to have involved the notion of something adhesive402, and rather to express plaister, or artificially prepared cement, &c., than that of filth or impure403 depositions404. Accordingly, our own definition differs from the Parrian, or Birmingham definition; and may, nevertheless, be a Birmingham definition also. Not having room to defend it, for the present we forbear to state it.
6 There is a difficulty in assigning any term as comprehensive enough to describe the Grecian heroes and their antagonists405, who fought at Troy. The seven chieftains against Thebes are described sufficiently as Theban captains; but, to say Trojan chieftains, would express only the heroes of one side; Grecian, again, would be liable to that fault equally, and to another far greater, of being under no limitation as to time. This difficulty must explain and (if it can) justify our collective phrase of the Paladins of the Troad.
7 'To his own knowledge'—see, for proof of this, the gloomy serenity406 of his answer to his dying victim, when, predicting his approaching end:—
'Enough; I know my fate: to die—to see no more
My much-lov'd parents, and my native shore,' &c. &c.
8 On the memorable inaugural407 day of the Liverpool railroad, when Mr. Huskisson met with so sad a fate, a snipe or a plover408 tried a race with Sampson, one of the engines. The race continued neck and neck for about six miles, after which, the snipe finding itself likely to come off second best, found it convenient to wheel off, at a turn of the road, into the solitudes409 of Chat Moss410.
9 The description of Apollo in wrath411 as νυκτι εοικω, like night, is a doubtful case. With respect to the shield of Achilles, it cannot be denied that the general conception has, in common with all abstractions (as e. g. the abstractions of dreams, of prophetic visions, such as that in the 6th Æneid, that to Macbeth, that shown by the angel Michael to Adam), something fine and, in its own nature, let the execution be what it may, sublime. But this part of the Iliad, we firmly believe to be an interpolation of times long posterior to that of Homer.
10 But the Odyssey, at least, it will be said, is not thus limited: no, not by its subject; because it carries us amongst cities and princes in a state of peace; but it is equally limited by the spirit of manners; we are never admitted amongst women, except by accident (Nausicaa)—by necessity (Penelope)—or by romance (Circe).
11 The other five were Homer, Virgil, Horace, Aristotle, Cicero.
12 Viz. the supposed dragging of Hector three times round Troy by Achilles—a mere post-Homeric fable. But it is ludicrous to add, that, in after years—nay, when nearly at the end of his translation of the Iliad, in 1718—Pope took part in a discussion upon Homer's reasons for ascribing such conduct to his hero, seriously arguing the pro and con5 upon a pure fiction.
13 'In the steamboat!' Yes, reader, the steamboat. It is clear that there was one in Homer's time. See the art. Phæacian in the Odyssey: if it paid then, à fortiori six hundred years after. The only point unknown about it, is the captain's name and the state-cabin fares.
14 'In arts,' we say, because great orators are amongst his heroes; but, after all, it is very questionable412 whether, simply as orators, Plutarch would have noticed them. They were also statesmen; and Mitford always treats Demosthenes as first lord of the treasury413 and premier414. Plutarch records no poet, no artist, however brilliant.
No. 2.—The Greek Orators.
Now, let us come to the orators. Isocrates, the eldest of those who have survived, is a mere scholastic415 rhetorician: for he was a timid man, and did not dare to confront the terrors of a stormy political audience; and hence, though he lived about an entire century, he never once addressed the Athenian citizens. It is true, that, although no bonâ fide orator313—for he never spoke in any usual acceptation of that word, and, as a consequence, never had an opportunity of replying, which only can bring forward a man’s talents as a debater—still he employed his pen upon real and upon existing questions of public policy; and did not, as so many generations of chamber416 rhetoricians continued to do in Greece, confine his powers to imaginary cases of political difficulty, or (what were tantamount to imaginary) cases fetched up from the long-past era of King Priam, or the still earlier era of the Seven Chiefs warring against the Seven-gated Thebes of Bœotia, or the half-fabulous era of the Argonauts. Isocrates was a man of sense—a patriot65 in a temperate417 way—and with something of a feeling for Greece generally, not merely a champion of Athens. His heart was given to politics: and, in an age when heavy clouds were gathering418 over the independence and the civil grandeur of his country, he had a disinterested419 anxiety for drawing off the lightning of the approaching storms by pacific counsels. Compared, therefore, with the common mercenary orators of the Athenian forum420—who made a regular trade of promoting mischief421, by inflaming422 the pride, jealousy423, vengeance424, or the martial instincts of a ‘fierce democracy,’ and, generally speaking, with no views, high or low, sound or unsound, that looked beyond the momentary425 profit to themselves from thus pandering426 to the thoughtless nationality of a most sensitive people—Isocrates is entitled to our respect. His writings have also a separate value, as memorials of political transactions from which the historian has gathered many useful hints; and, perhaps, to a diligent329 search, they might yield more. But, considered as an orator—if that title can be, with any propriety, allowed to one who declaimed only in his closet—one who, in relation to public affairs, was what, in England, when speaking of practical jurisprudence, we call a Chamber Counsel—Isocrates is languid, and with little of anything characteristic in his manner to justify a separate consideration. It is remarkable427 that he, beyond all other rhetoricians of that era, cultivated the rhythmus of his periods. And to this object he sacrificed not only an enormity of time, but, I have no doubt, in many cases, the freedom and natural movement of the thoughts. My reason, however, for noticing this peculiarity428 in Isocrates, is by way of fixing the attention upon the superiority, even artificial ornaments429, of downright practical business and the realities of political strife431, over the torpid432 atmosphere of a study or a school. Cicero, long after, had the same passion for numerositas, and the full, pompous433 rotundity of cadence434. But in Cicero, all habits and all faculties435 were nursed by the daily practice of life and its impassioned realities, in the forum or in the senate. What is the consequence? Why this—that, whereas in the most laboured performance of Isocrates (which cost him, I think, one whole decennium, or period of ten years), few modern ears are sensible of any striking art, or any great result of harmony; in Cicero, on the other hand, the fine, sonorous436 modulations of his periodic style, are delightful to the dullest ear of any European. Such are the advantages from real campaigns, from the unsimulated strife of actual stormy life, over the torpid dreams of what the Romans called an umbratic15 experience.
Isocrates I have noticed as the oldest of the surviving Greek orators: Demosthenes, of course, claims a notice more emphatically, as, by universal consent of Athens, and afterwards of Rhodes, of Rome, and other impartial437 judges, the greatest, or, at least, the most comprehensively great. For, by the way, it must not be forgotten—though modern critics do forget this rather important fact in weighing the reputation of Demosthenes—he was not esteemed438, in his own day, as the greatest in that particular quality of energy and demoniac power (δεινοτης) which is generally assumed to have been his leading characteristic and his forte439; not only by comparison with his own compatriots, but even with Cicero and the greatest men of the Roman bar. It was not of Demosthenes that the Athenians were accustomed to say, ‘he thunders and lightens,’ but of Pericles, an elder orator; and even amongst the written oratory440 of Greece, which still survives (for as to the speeches ascribed to Pericles by Thucydides, I take it for granted that, as usual, these were mere forgeries441 of the historian), there is a portion which perhaps exceeds Demosthenes in the naked quality of vehemence442. But this, I admit, will not impeach140 his supremacy443; for it is probable, that wherever an orator is characterised exclusively by turbulent power, or at least remembered chiefly for that quality, all the other numerous graces of eloquence were wanting to that man, or existed only in a degree which made no equipoise to his insulated gift of Jovian terror. The Gracchi, amongst the Roman orators, were probably more properly ‘sons of thunder’ than Crassus or Cicero, or even than Cæsar himself, whose oratory, by the way, was, in this respect, like his own character and infinite accomplishments444; so that even by Cicero it is rarely cited without the epithet of splendid, magnificent, &c. We must suppose, therefore, that neither Cicero nor Demosthenes was held to be at the head of their respective fields in Rome and Athens, in right of any absolute pre-eminence in the one leading power of an orator—viz. native and fervent445 vigour—but in right of a large comprehensive harmony of gifts, leaving possibly to some other orators, elder or rival to themselves, a superiority in each of an orator’s talents taken apart, but claiming the supremacy, nevertheless, upon the whole, by the systematic446 union of many qualities tending to one result: pleasing the taste by the harmonious447 coup d’œil from the total assemblage, and also adapting itself to a far larger variety of situations; for, after all, the mere son of thunder is disarmed448, and apt to become ridiculous, if you strip him of a passionate449 cause, of a theme saturated450 with human strife, and of an excitable or tempestuous451 audience.
Such an audience, however, it will be said that Demosthenes had, and sometimes (but not very often in those orations452 which survive) such a theme. As to his audience, certainly it was all that could be wished in point of violence and combustible454 passion; but also it was something more. A mighty advantage it is, doubtless, to an orator, when he sees and hears his own kindling455 passions instantaneously reflected in the blazing eyes and fiery456 shouts (the fremitus) of his audience—when he sees a whole people, personally or by deputation, swayed backwards457 and forwards, like a field of corn in a breeze, by the movements of his own appeals. But, unfortunately, in the Athenian audience, the ignorance, the headstrong violence of prejudice, the arrogance458, and, above all, the levity459 of the national mind—presented, to an orator the most favourite, a scene like that of an ocean always rocking with storms; like a wasp460 always angry; like a lunatic, always coming out of a passion or preparing to go into one. Well might Demosthenes prepare himself by sea-shore practice; in which I conceive that his purpose must have been, not so much (according to the common notion) to overcrow the noise of the forum, as to stand fire (if I may so express it) against the uproarious demonstrations462 of mob fury.
This quality of an Athenian audience must very seriously have interfered463 with the intellectual display of an orator. Not a word could he venture to say in the way of censure464 towards the public will—not even hypothetically to insinuate465 a fault; not a syllable466 could he utter even in the way of dissent467 from the favourite speculations469 of the moment. If he did, instantly a roar of menaces recalled him to a sense even of personal danger. And, again, the mere vivacity470 of his audience, requiring perpetual amusement and variety, compelled a man, as great even as Demosthenes, to curtail471 his arguments, and rarely, indeed, to pursue a theme with the requisite472 fulness of development or illustration; a point in which the superior dignity and the far less fluctuating mobility473 of the Roman mind gave an immense advantage to Cicero.
Demosthenes, in spite of all the weaknesses which have been arrayed against his memory by the hatred474 of his contemporaries, or by the anti-republican feelings of such men as Mitford, was a great man and an honest man. He rose above his countrymen. He despised, in some measure, his audience; and, at length, in the palmy days of his influence, he would insist on being heard; he would insist on telling the truth, however unacceptable; he would not, like the great rout285 of venal475 haranguers, lay any flattering unction to the capital distempers of the public mind; he would point out their errors, and warn them of their perils477. But this upright character of the man, victorious over his constitutional timidity, does but the more brightly illustrate319 the local law and the tyranny of the public feeling. How often do we find him, when on the brink478 of uttering ‘odious truth,’ obliged to pause, and to propitiate479 his audience with deprecatory phrases, entreating480 them to give him time for utterance, not to yell him down before they had heard his sentence to the end. Μη θορυζειτε—‘Gentlemen of Athens! for the love of God, do not make an uproar461 at what I am going to say! Gentlemen of Athens! humbly I beseech481 you to let me finish my sentence!’ Such are his continual appeals to the better feelings of his audience. Now, it is very evident that, in such circumstances, no man could do justice to any subject. At least, when speaking not before a tribunal of justice, but before the people in council assembled—that is, in effect, on his greatest stage of all—Demosthenes (however bold at times, and restive482 in a matter which he held to be paramount) was required to bend, and did bend, to the local genius of democracy, reinforced by a most mercurial483 temperament484. The very air of Attica, combined with great political power, kept its natives in a state of habitual486 intoxication487; and even wise men would have had some difficulty in mastering, as it affected488 themselves, the permanent bias towards caprice and insolence489.
Is this state of things at all taken into account in our modern critiques upon Demosthenes? The upshot of what I can find in most modern lecturers upon rhetoric and style, French or English, when speaking of Demosthenes, is this notable simile243, by way of representing the final effect of his eloquence—‘that, like a mountain torrent490, swollen491 by melting snow, or by rain, it carries all things before it.’ Prodigiously492 original! and exceedingly discriminative493! As if such an illustration would not equally represent the effect of a lyrical poem, of Mozart’s music, of a stormy chorus, or any other form whatever of impassioned vehemence. Meantime, I suspect grievously that not one of these critics has ever read a paragraph of Demosthenes. Nothing do you ever find quoted but a few notorious passages about Philip of Macedon, and the too-famous oath, by the manes of those that died at Marathon. I call it too famous, because (like Addison’s comparison of Marlborough, at Blenheim, to the angel in the storm—of which a schoolmaster then living said, that nine out of every ten boys would have hit upon it in a school exercise) it has no peculiar boldness, and must have occurred to every Athenian, of any sensibility, every day of his life. Hear, on the other hand, a modern oath, and (what is most remarkable) an oath sworn in the pulpit. A dissenting494 clergyman (I believe, a Baptist), preaching at Cambridge, and having occasion to affirm or to deny something or other, upon his general confidence in the grandeur of man’s nature, the magnificence of his conceptions, the immensity of his aspirations495, &c., delivered himself thus:—‘By the greatness of human ideals—by the greatness of human aspirations—by the immortality496 of human creations—by the Iliad—by the Odyssey‘—Now, that was bold, startling, sublime. But, in the other case, neither was the oath invested with any great pomp of imagery or expression; nor, if it had—which is more to the purpose—was such an oath at all representative of the peculiar manner belonging to Demosthenes. It is always a rude and inartificial style of criticism to cite from an author that which, whether fine or not in itself, is no fair specimen of his ordinary style.
What then is the characteristic style of Demosthenes?—It is one which grew naturally, as did his defects (by which I mean faults of omission497, in contradiction to such as are positive), from the composition of his audience. His audience, comprehending so much ignorance, and, above all, so much high-spirited impatience498, being, in fact, always on the fret499, kept the orator always on the fret. Hence arose short sentences; hence, the impossibility of the long, voluminous sweeps of beautiful rhythmus which we find in Cicero; hence, the animated form of apostrophe and crowded interrogations addressed to the audience. This gives, undoubtedly, a spirited and animated character to the style of Demosthenes; but it robs him of a large variety of structure applied to the logic, or the embellishment, or the music of his composition. His style is full of life, but not (like Cicero’s) full of pomp and continuous grandeur. On the contrary, as the necessity of rousing attention, or of sustaining it, obliged the Attic485 orator to rely too much on the personality of direct question to the audience, and to use brief sentences, so also the same impatient and fretful irritability500 forbade him to linger much upon an idea—to theorise, to speculate, or, generally, to quit the direct business path of the question then under consideration—no matter for what purpose of beauty, dignity, instruction, or even of ultimate effect. In all things, the immediate501—the instant—the præsens præsentissimum, was kept steadily502 before the eye of the Athenian orator, by the mere coercion503 of self-interest.
And hence, by the way, arises one most important feature of distinction between Grecian oratory (political oratory at least) on the one hand, and Roman (to which, in this point, we may add British) on the other. A Roman lawyer, senator, or demagogue, even, under proper restrictions—a British member of parliament—or even a candidate from the hustings504—but, most assuredly, and by the evidence of many a splendid example, an advocate addressing a jury—may embellish331 his oration453 with a wide circuit of historical, or of antiquarian, nay, even speculative505 discussion. Every Latin scholar will remember the leisurely506 and most facetious507, the good-natured and respectful, yet keenly satiric508, picture which the great Roman barrister draws of the Stoic509 philosophy, by way of rowing old Cato, who professed355 that philosophy with too little indulgence for venial510 human errors. The judices—that is, in effect, the jury—were tickled511 to the soul by seeing the grave Marcus Cato badgered with this fine razor-like raillery; and there can be no doubt that, by flattering the self-respect of the jury, in presuming them susceptible512 of so much wit from a liberal kind of knowledge, and by really delighting them with such a display of adroit513 teasing applied to a man of scenical gravity, this whole scene, though quite extrajudicial and travelling out of the record, was highly useful in conciliating the good-will of Cicero’s audience. The same style of liberal excursus from the more thorny514 path of the absolute business before the court, has been often and memorably515 practised by great English barristers—as, in the trial of Sacheverel, by many of the managers for the Commons; by ‘the fluent Murray,’ on various occasions; in the great cause of impeachment against our English Verres (or, at least, our Verres as to the situation, though not the guilt), Mr. Hastings; in many of Mr. Erskine’s addresses to juries, where political rights were at stake; in Sir James Mackintosh’s defence of Peltier for a libel upon Napoleon, when he went into a history of the press as applied to politics—(a liberal inquiry516, but which, except in the remotest manner, could not possibly bear upon the mere question of fact before the jury); and in many other splendid instances, which have really made our trials and the annals of our criminal jurisprudence one great fund of information and authority to the historian. In the senate, I need not say how much farther, and more frequently, this habit of large generalisation, and of liberal excursion from perhaps a lifeless theme, has been carried by great masters; in particular, by Edmund Burke, who carried it, in fact, to such excess, and to a point which threatened so much to disturb the movement of public business, that, from that cause more perhaps than from rude insensibility to the value of his speculations, he put his audience sometimes in motion for dinner, and acquired (as is well-known) the surname of the Dinner Bell.16
Now, in the Athenian audience, all this was impossible: neither in political nor in forensic19 harangues517 was there any license518 by rule, or any indulgence by usage, or any special privilege by personal favour, to the least effort at improving an individual case of law or politics into general views of jurisprudence, of statesmanship, of diplomacy519; no collateral discussions were tolerated—no illustrative details—no historical parallelisms—still less any philosophical325 moralisations. The slightest show of any tendency in these directions was summarily nipped in the bud: the Athenian gentlemen began to θορυζειν in good earnest if a man showed symptoms of entering upon any discussion whatever that was not intensely needful and pertinent520 in the first place—or which, in the second place, was not of a nature to be wound up in two sentences when a summons should arise either to dinner, or to the theatre, or to the succession of some variety anticipated from another orator.
Hence, therefore, finally arises one great peculiarity of Greek eloquence; and a most unfortunate one for its chance of ever influencing a remote posterity521, or, in any substantial sense, of its ever surviving in the real unaffected admiration of us moderns—that it embodies no alien, no collateral information as to manners, usages, modes of feeling—no extrinsic522 ornament430, no side glimpses into Grecian life, no casual historical details. The cause, and nothing but the cause—the political question, and nothing but the question—- pealed523 for ever in the ears of the terrified orator, always on sufferance, always on his good behaviour, always afraid, for the sake of his party or of his client, lest his auditors524 should become angry, or become impatient, or become weary. And from that intense fear, trammeling the freedom of his steps at every turn, and overruling every motion to the right or to the left, in pure servile anxiety for the mood and disposition525 of his tyrannical master, arose the very opposite result for us of this day—that we, by the very means adopted to prevent weariness in the immediate auditors, find nothing surviving in Grecian orations but what does weary us insupportably through its want of all general interest; and, even amongst private or instant details of politics or law, presenting us with none that throw light upon the spirit of manners, or the Grecian peculiarities526 of feeling. Probably an Athenian mob would not have cared much at the prospect527 of such a result to posterity; and, at any rate, would not have sacrificed one atom of their ease or pleasure to obviate528 such a result: but, to an Athenian orator, this result would have been a sad one to contemplate529. The final consequence is, that whilst all men find, or may find, infinite amusement, and instruction of the most liberal kind, in that most accomplished of statesmen and orators, the Roman Cicero—nay, would doubtless, from the causes assigned, have found, in their proportion, the same attractions in the speeches of the elder Antony, of Hortensius, of Crassus, and other contemporaries or immediate predecessors of Cicero—no person ever reads Demosthenes, still less any other Athenian orator, with the slightest interest beyond that which inevitably attaches to the words of one who wrote his own divine language with probably very superior skill.
But, from all this, results a further inference—viz. the dire affectation of those who pretend an enthusiasm in the oratory of Demosthenes; and also a plenary consolation to all who are obliged, from ignorance of Greek, to dispense304 with that novelty. If it be a luxury at all, it is and can be one for those only who cultivate verbal researches and the pleasures of philology530.
Even in the oratory of our own times, which oftentimes discusses questions to the whole growth and motion of which we have been ourselves parties present, or even accessary—questions which we have followed in their first emersion and separation from the clouds of general politics; their advance, slow or rapid, towards a domineering interest in the public passions; their meridian531 altitude; and perhaps their precipitous descent downwards532, whether from the consummation of their objects (as in the questions of the Slave Trade, of Catholic Emancipation533, of East India Monopoly), or from a partial victory and compromise with the abuse (as in the purification of that Augean stable, prisons, and, still more, private houses for the insane), or from the accomplishment of one stage or so in a progress which, by its nature, is infinite (as in the various steps taken towards the improvement, and towards the extension of education): even in cases like these, when the primary and ostensible534 object of the speaker already, on its own account, possesses a commanding attraction, yet will it often happen that the secondary questions, growing out of the leading one, the great elementary themes suggested to the speaker by the concrete case before him—as, for instance, the general question of Test Laws, or the still higher and transcendent question of Religious Toleration, and the relations between the State and religious opinions, or the general history of Slavery and the commerce in the human species, the general principles of economy as applied to monopolies, the past usages of mankind in their treatment of prisoners or of lunatics—these comprehensive and transcendent themes are continually allowed to absorb and throw into the shade, for a time, the minor535 but more urgent question of the moment through which they have gained their interest. The capital and primary interest gives way for a time to the derivative536 interest; and it does so by a silent understanding between the orator and his audience. The orator is well assured that he will not be taxed with wandering; the audience are satisfied that, eventually, they will not have lost their time: and the final result is, to elevate and liberalise the province of oratory, by exalting537 mere business (growing originally, perhaps, out of contingencies538 of finance, or trade, or local police) into a field for the higher understanding; and giving to the mere necessities of our position as a nation the dignity of great problems for civilising wisdom or philosophic philanthropy. Look back to the superb orations of Edmund Burke on questions limited enough in themselves, sometimes merely personal; for instance, that on American Taxation539, on the Reforms in our Household or Official Expenditure540, or at that from the Bristol hustings (by its primâ facie subject, therefore, a mere electioneering harangue476 to a mob). With what marvellous skill does he enrich what is meagre, elevate what is humble82, intellectualise what is purely technical, delocalise what is local, generalise what is personal! And with what result? Doubtless to the absolute contemporaries of those speeches, steeped to the very lips in the passions besetting541 their topics, even to those whose attention was sufficiently secured by the domineering interest, friendly or hostile, to the views of the speaker—even to these I say, that, in so far as they were at all capable of an intellectual pleasure, those parts would be most attractive which were least occupied with the present business and the momentary details. This order of precedency in the interests of the speech held even for them; but to us, removing at every annual step we take in the century, to a greater distance from the mere business and partisan542 interests of the several cases, this secondary attraction is not merely the greater of the two—to us it has become pretty nearly the sole one, pretty nearly the exclusive attraction.
As to religious oratory, that stands upon a different footing—the questions afloat in that province of human speculation468 being eternal, or at least essentially543 the same under new forms, receives a strong illustration from the annals of the English senate, to which also it gives a strong and useful illustration. Up to the era of James I., the eloquence of either House could not, for political reasons, be very striking, on the very principle which we have been enforcing. Parliament met only for dispatch of business; and that business was purely fiscal544, or (as at times it happened) judicial. The constitutional functions of Parliament were narrow; and they were narrowed still more severely545 by the jealousy of the executive government. With the expansion, or rather first growth and development of a gentry546, or third estate, expanded, pari passu, the political field of their jurisdiction547 and their deliberative functions. This widening field, as a birth out of new existences, unknown to former laws or usages, was, of course, not contemplated548 by those laws or usages. Constitutional law could not provide for the exercise of rights by a body of citizens, when, as yet, that body had itself no existence. A gentry, as the depository of a vast overbalance of property, real as well as personal, had not matured itself till the latter years of James I. Consequently the new functions, which the instinct of their new situation prompted them to assume, were looked upon by the Crown, most sincerely, as unlawful usurpations. This led, as we know, to a most fervent and impassioned struggle, the most so of any struggle which has ever armed the hands of men with the sword. For the passions take a far profounder sweep when they are supported by deep thought and high principles.
This element of fervid549 strife was already, for itself, an atmosphere most favourable to political eloquence. Accordingly, the speeches of that day, though generally too short to attain57 that large compass and sweep of movement without which it is difficult to kindle550 or to sustain any conscious enthusiasm in an audience, were of a high quality as to thought and energy of expression, as high as their circumstantial disadvantages allowed. Lord Strafford’s great effort is deservedly admired to this day, and the latter part of it has been often pronounced a chef-d’œuvre. A few years before that era, all the orators of note were, and must have been, judicial orators; and, amongst these, Lord Bacon, to whom every reader’s thoughts will point as the most memorable, attained551 the chief object of all oratory, if what Ben Jonson reports of him be true, that he had his audience passive to the motions of his will. But Jonson was, perhaps, too scholastic a judge to be a fair representative judge; and, whatever he might choose to say or to think, Lord Bacon was certainly too weighty—too massy with the bullion552 of original thought—ever to have realized the idea of a great popular orator—one who
‘Wielded at will a fierce democracy,’
and ploughed up the great deeps of sentiment, or party strife, or national animosities, like a Levanter or a monsoon553. In the schools of Plato, in the palæstra Stoicorum, such an orator might be potent554; not in fæce Romuli. If he had laboured with no other defect, had he the gift of tautology555? Could he say the same thing three times over in direct sequence? For, without this talent of iteration—of repeating the same thought in diversified556 forms—a man may utter good heads of an oration, but not an oration. Just as the same illustrious man’s essays are good hints—useful topics—for essays; but no approximation to what we, in modern days, understand by essays: they are, as an eminent557 author once happily expressed it to myself, ‘seeds, not plants or shrubs558; acorns559, that is, oaks in embryo560, but not oaks.’
Reverting561, however, to the oratory of the Senate, from the era of its proper birth, which we may date from the opening of that our memorable Long Parliament, brought together in November of 1642,17 our Parliamentary eloquence has now, within four years, travelled through a period of two centuries. A most admirable subject for an essay, or a Magazine article, as it strikes me, would be a bird’s-eye view—or rather a bird’s-wing flight—pursuing rapidly the revolutions of that memorable oracle562 (for such it really was to the rest of civilised Europe), which, through so long a course of years, like the Delphic oracle to the nations of old, delivered counsels of civil prudence29 and of national grandeur, that kept alive for Christendom the recollections of freedom, and refreshed to the enslaved Continent the old ideas of Roman patriotism563, which, but for our Parliament, would have uttered themselves by no voices on earth. That this account of the position occupied by our British Parliament, in relation to the rest of Europe, at least after the publication of the Debates had been commenced by Cave, with the aid of Dr. Johnson, is, in no respect, romantic or overcharged, may be learned from the German novels of the last century, in which we find the British debates as uniformly the morning accompaniment of breakfast, at the houses of the rural gentry, &c., as in any English or Scottish county. Such a sketch would, of course, collect the characteristics of each age, show in what connection these characteristics stood with the political aspects of the time, or with the modes of managing public business (a fatal rock to our public eloquence in England!), and illustrate the whole by interesting specimens564 from the leading orators in each generation: from Hampden to Pulteney, amongst oppositionists or patriots66; from Pulteney to O’Connell; or, again, amongst Ministers, from Hyde to Somers, from Lord Sunderland to Lords Oxford566 and Bolingbroke; and from the plain, downright Sir Robert Walpole, to the plain, downright Sir Robert Peel.
Throughout the whole of this review, the same ‘moral,’ if one might so call it, would be apparent—viz. that in proportion as the oratory was high and intellectual, did it travel out into the collateral questions of less instant necessity, but more durable567 interest; and that, in proportion as the Grecian necessity was or was not enforced by the temper of the House, or by the pressure of public business—the necessity which cripples the orator, by confining him within the severe limits of the case before him—in that proportion had or had not the oratory of past generations a surviving interest for modern posterity. Nothing, in fact, so utterly effete—not even old law, or old pharmacy568, or old erroneous chemistry—nothing so insufferably dull as political orations, unless when powerfully animated by that spirit of generalisation which only gives the breath of life and the salt which preserves from decay, through every age alike. The very strongest proof, as well as exemplification of all which has been said on Grecian oratory, may thus be found in the records of the British senate.
And this, by the way, brings us round to an aspect of Grecian oratory which has been rendered memorable, and forced upon our notice, in the shape of a problem, by the most popular of our native historians—the aspect, I mean, of Greek oratory in comparison with English. Hume has an essay upon the subject; and the true answer to that essay will open a wide field of truth to us. In this little paper, Hume assumes the superiority of Grecian eloquence, as a thing admitted on all hands, and requiring no proof. Not the proof of this point did he propose to himself as his object; not even the illustration of it. No. All that, Hume held to be superfluous569. His object was, to investigate the causes of this Grecian superiority; or, if investigate is too pompous a word for so slight a discussion, more properly, he inquired for the cause as something that must naturally lie upon the surface.
What is the answer? First of all, before looking for causes, a man should be sure of his facts. Now, as to the main fact at issue, I utterly deny the superiority of Grecian eloquence. And, first of all, I change the whole field of inquiry by shifting the comparison. The Greek oratory is all political or judicial: we have those also; but the best of our eloquence, by immeasurable degrees, the noblest and richest, is our religious eloquence. Here, of course, all comparison ceases; for classical Grecian religious eloquence, in Grecian attire570, there is none until three centuries after the Christian era, when we have three great orators, Gregory Nazianzen, Basil—of which two I have a very fixed571 opinion, having read large portions of both—and a third of whom I know nothing. To our Jeremy Taylor, to our Sir Thomas Browne, there is no approach made in the Greek eloquence. The inaugural chapter of the Holy Dying, to say nothing of many another golden passage; or the famous passage in the Urn40 Buriall, beginning—‘Now, since these bones have rested under the drums and tramplings of three conquests’—have no parallel in literature. The winding572 up of the former is more, in its effect, like a great tempestuous chorus from the Judas Maccabeus, or from Spohr’s St. Paul, than like human eloquence.
But, grant that this transfer of the comparison is unfair—still, it is no less unfair to confine the comparison on our part to the weakest part of our oratory; but no matter—let issue be joined even here. Then we may say, at once, that, for the intellectual qualities of eloquence, in fineness of understanding, in depth and in large compass of thought, Burke far surpasses any orator, ancient or modern. But, if the comparison were pushed more widely, very certain I am, that, apart from classical prejudice, no qualities of just thinking, or fine expression, or even of artificial ornament, could have been assigned by Hume, in which the great body of our deliberative and forensic orators fall short of Grecian models; though I will admit, that, by comparison with the Roman model of Cicero, there is seldom the same artful prefiguration of the oration throughout its future course, or the same sustained rhythmus and oratorial573 tone. The qualities of art are nowhere so prominently expressed, nowhere aid the effect so much, as in the great Roman master.
But, as to Greece, let us now, in one word, unveil the sole advantage which the eloquence of the Athenian assembly has over that of the English senate. It is this—the public business of Athens was as yet simple and unencumbered by details; the dignity of the occasion was scenically sustained. But, in England, the vast intricacy and complex interweaving of property, of commerce, of commercial interests, of details infinite in number, and infinite in littleness, break down and fritter away into fractions and petty minutiæ, the whole huge labyrinth299 of our public affairs. It is scarcely necessary to explain my meaning. In Athens, the question before the public assembly was, peace or war—before our House of Commons, perhaps the Exchequer574 Bills’ Bill; at Athens, a league or no league—in England, the Tithe391 of Agistment Commutation-Bills’ Renewal575 Bill; in Athens—shall we forgive a ruined enemy? in England—shall we cancel the tax on farthing rushlights? In short, with us, the infinity576 of details overlays the simplicity and grandeur of our public deliberations.
Such was the advantage—a mighty advantage—for Greece. Now, finally, for the use made of this advantage. To that point I have already spoken. By the clamorous and undeliberative qualities of the Athenian political audience, by its fitful impatience, and vehement295 arrogance, and fervid partisanship577, all wide and general discussion was barred in limine. And thus occurred this singular inversion578 of positions—the greatest of Greek orators was obliged to treat these Catholic questions as mere Athenian questions of business. On the other hand, the least eloquent579 of British senators, whether from the immense advance in knowledge, or from the custom and usage of Parliament, seldom fails, more or less, to elevate his intense details of pure technical business into something dignified580, either by the necessities of pursuing the historical relations of the matter in discussion, or of arguing its merits as a case of general finance, or as connected with general political economy, or, perhaps, in its bearings on peace or war. The Grecian was forced, by the composition of his headstrong auditory, to degrade and personalise his grand themes; the Englishman is forced, by the difference of his audience, by old prescription581, and by the opposition565 of a well-informed, hostile party, into elevating his merely technical and petty themes into great national questions, involving honour and benefit to tens of millions.
15 'Umbratic.' I have perhaps elsewhere drawn the attention of readers to the peculiar effects of climate, in shaping the modes of our thinking and imaging. A life of inertia582, which retreats from the dust and toil583 of actual experience, we (who represent the idea of effeminacy more naturally by the image of shrinking from cold) call a chimney-corner of a fireside experience; but the Romans, to whom the same effeminacy more easily fell under the idea of shrinking from the heat of the sun, called it an experience won in the shade; and a mere scholastic student, they called an umbraticus doctor.
16 Yet this story has been exaggerated; and, I believe, in strict truth, the whole case arose out of some fretful expressions of ill-temper on the part of Burke, and that the name was a retort from a man of wit, who had been personally stung by a sarcasm584 of the offended orator.
17 There was another Parliament of this same year 1642, which met in the spring (April, I think), but was summarily dissolved. A small quarto volume, of not unfrequent occurrence, I believe, contains some good specimens of the eloquence then prevalent—it was rich in thought, never wordy—in fact, too parsimonious585 in words and illustrations; and it breathed a high tone of religious principle as well as of pure-minded patriotism; but, for the reason stated above—its narrow circuit and very limited duration—the general character of the Parliamentary eloquence was ineffective.
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appraisal
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n.对…作出的评价;评价,鉴定,评估 | |
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2
pretensions
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自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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pro
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n.赞成,赞成的意见,赞成者 | |
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propriety
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n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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con
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n.反对的观点,反对者,反对票,肺病;vt.精读,学习,默记;adv.反对地,从反面;adj.欺诈的 | |
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consolation
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n.安慰,慰问 | |
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interval
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n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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inter
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v.埋葬 | |
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intervals
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n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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par
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n.标准,票面价值,平均数量;adj.票面的,平常的,标准的 | |
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11
corrupt
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v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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12
corrupted
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(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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13
bribed
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v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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14
stifled
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(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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15
peremptory
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adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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16
skilfully
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adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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17
untying
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untie的现在分词 | |
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18
philosophic
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adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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forensic
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adj.法庭的,雄辩的 | |
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kin
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n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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21
pending
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prep.直到,等待…期间;adj.待定的;迫近的 | |
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binding
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有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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judgment
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n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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approbation
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n.称赞;认可 | |
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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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26
pinions
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v.抓住[捆住](双臂)( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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perplexed
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adj.不知所措的 | |
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28
antiquity
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n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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29
prudence
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n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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30
countersigned
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v.连署,副署,会签 (文件)( countersign的过去式 ) | |
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31
mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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applied
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adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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dilemma
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n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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ass
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n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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bias
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n.偏见,偏心,偏袒;vt.使有偏见 | |
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perfectly
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adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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alleged
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a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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38
preposterous
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adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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advantageous
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adj.有利的;有帮助的 | |
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urn
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n.(有座脚的)瓮;坟墓;骨灰瓮 | |
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controversies
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争论 | |
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duels
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n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 );竞争,斗争 | |
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celebrated
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adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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delightful
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adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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connoisseurs
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n.鉴赏家,鉴定家,行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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tilting
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倾斜,倾卸 | |
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waded
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(从水、泥等)蹚,走过,跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
intrepid
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adj.无畏的,刚毅的 | |
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remarkably
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ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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50
talisman
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n.避邪物,护身符 | |
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51
eloquence
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n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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52
accomplishment
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n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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53
motive
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n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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54
err
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vi.犯错误,出差错 | |
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55
philological
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adj.语言学的,文献学的 | |
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56
logic
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n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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57
attain
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vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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58
attainment
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n.达到,到达;[常pl.]成就,造诣 | |
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59
attainments
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成就,造诣; 获得( attainment的名词复数 ); 达到; 造诣; 成就 | |
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60
sanity
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n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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61
subjectively
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主观地; 臆 | |
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62
repulsive
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adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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63
squandering
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v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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64
squander
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v.浪费,挥霍 | |
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65
patriot
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n.爱国者,爱国主义者 | |
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66
patriots
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爱国者,爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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67
drossy
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adj.浮渣一样的,铁渣的,碎屑的 | |
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68
excellence
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n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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69
grandee
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n.贵族;大公 | |
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70
fraught
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adj.充满…的,伴有(危险等)的;忧虑的 | |
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71
gem
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n.宝石,珠宝;受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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72
gems
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growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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73
adulatory
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adj. 谄媚的, 奉承的, 阿谀的 | |
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74
hangers
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n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 );挂耳 | |
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75
farce
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n.闹剧,笑剧,滑稽戏;胡闹 | |
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76
enacted
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制定(法律),通过(法案)( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
tinkling
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n.丁当作响声 | |
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78
cymbals
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pl.铙钹 | |
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79
sweeping
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adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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80
disdain
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n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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81
ransom
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n.赎金,赎身;v.赎回,解救 | |
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82
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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83
homage
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n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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84
sincerity
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n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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85
trumpery
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n.无价值的杂物;adj.(物品)中看不中用的 | |
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86
vilest
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adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 );可耻的;极坏的;非常讨厌的 | |
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87
jugs
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(有柄及小口的)水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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88
anecdotes
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n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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89
recollect
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v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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90
upbraided
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v.责备,申斥,谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
humbly
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adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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92
forgery
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n.伪造的文件等,赝品,伪造(行为) | |
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93
mimic
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v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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94
grunting
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咕哝的,呼噜的 | |
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95
felicitous
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adj.恰当的,巧妙的;n.恰当,贴切 | |
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96
hissed
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发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 ); 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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97
miserable
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adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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98
concealed
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a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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99
intelligible
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adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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100
conclusive
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adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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101
squeak
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n.吱吱声,逃脱;v.(发出)吱吱叫,侥幸通过;(俚)告密 | |
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102
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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103
justify
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vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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104
meditate
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v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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105
cursory
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adj.粗略的;草率的;匆促的 | |
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106
pedantic
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adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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107
extemporaneous
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adj.即席的,一时的 | |
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108
auditor
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n.审计员,旁听着 | |
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109
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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110
poetical
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adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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111
jot
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n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
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112
supremely
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adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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113
supreme
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adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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114
anterior
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adj.较早的;在前的 | |
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115
nay
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adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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116
conversed
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v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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117
bent
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n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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118
sublime
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adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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119
coeval
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adj.同时代的;n.同时代的人或事物 | |
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120
eldest
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adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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121
purely
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adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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122
melodious
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adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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123
gulf
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n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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124
delightfully
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大喜,欣然 | |
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125
titillated
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v.使觉得痒( titillate的过去式和过去分词 );逗引;激发;使高兴 | |
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126
mighty
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adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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127
exultation
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n.狂喜,得意 | |
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128
vocal
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adj.直言不讳的;嗓音的;n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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129
odyssey
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n.长途冒险旅行;一连串的冒险 | |
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130
murmurs
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n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
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131
renounce
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v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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132
utterance
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n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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133
ascertains
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v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
reimbursement
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n.偿还,退还 | |
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135
fragrant
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adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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136
frivolous
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adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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137
precisely
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adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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138
clamorous
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adj.吵闹的,喧哗的 | |
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139
thaw
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v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
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140
impeach
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v.弹劾;检举 | |
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141
impeachment
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n.弹劾;控告;怀疑 | |
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142
treatises
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n.专题著作,专题论文,专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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143
turnips
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芜青( turnip的名词复数 ); 芜菁块根; 芜菁甘蓝块根; 怀表 | |
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144
voluptuous
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adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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145
forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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146
ram
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(random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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147
imputed
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v.把(错误等)归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
imputing
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v.把(错误等)归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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149
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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150
grandeur
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n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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151
embodied
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v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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152
scattered
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adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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153
sublimity
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崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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154
retired
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adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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155
sequester
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vt.使退隐,使隔绝 | |
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156
sequestered
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adj.扣押的;隐退的;幽静的;偏僻的v.使隔绝,使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 );扣押 | |
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157
dire
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adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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158
animation
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n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
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159
prosaic
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adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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160
sapient
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adj.有见识的,有智慧的 | |
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161
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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162
oversight
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n.勘漏,失察,疏忽 | |
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163
monstrous
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adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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164
revert
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v.恢复,复归,回到 | |
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165
recurring
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adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
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166
narration
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n.讲述,叙述;故事;记叙体 | |
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167
picturesque
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adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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168
delineation
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n.记述;描写 | |
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169
sterile
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adj.不毛的,不孕的,无菌的,枯燥的,贫瘠的 | |
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170
accomplished
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adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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171
sullen
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adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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172
imperturbable
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adj.镇静的 | |
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173
faction
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n.宗派,小集团;派别;派系斗争 | |
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174
cramming
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n.塞满,填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 );填塞;塞满;(为考试而)死记硬背功课 | |
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175
tragic
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adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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176
whit
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n.一点,丝毫 | |
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177
exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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178
remorse
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n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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179
orphan
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n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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180
exulting
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vi. 欢欣鼓舞,狂喜 | |
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181
antagonist
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n.敌人,对抗者,对手 | |
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182
scourges
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带来灾难的人或东西,祸害( scourge的名词复数 ); 鞭子 | |
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183
extremity
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n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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184
scenically
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185
narrated
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v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
pathos
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n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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187
violation
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n.违反(行为),违背(行为),侵犯 | |
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188
tragical
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adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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189
inevitably
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adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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190
outrage
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n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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191
aberration
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n.离开正路,脱离常规,色差 | |
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192
transcending
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超出或超越(经验、信念、描写能力等)的范围( transcend的现在分词 ); 优于或胜过… | |
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193
memorable
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adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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194
bequest
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n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
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195
collateral
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adj.平行的;旁系的;n.担保品 | |
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196
derived
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vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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197
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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198
dwelling
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n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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199
counterfeit
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vt.伪造,仿造;adj.伪造的,假冒的 | |
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200
inevitable
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adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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201
immortal
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adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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202
consecrated
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adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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203
impended
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v.进行威胁,即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
abruptly
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adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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205
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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206
glorification
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n.赞颂 | |
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207
irresistible
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adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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208
brazen
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adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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209
aloof
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adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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210
spurned
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v.一脚踢开,拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
ramp
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n.暴怒,斜坡,坡道;vi.作恐吓姿势,暴怒,加速;vt.加速 | |
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212
warriors
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武士,勇士,战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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213
crested
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adj.有顶饰的,有纹章的,有冠毛的v.到达山顶(或浪峰)( crest的过去式和过去分词 );到达洪峰,达到顶点 | |
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214
descend
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vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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215
heralded
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v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 );宣布(好或重要) | |
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216
celestial
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adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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217
monotonously
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adv.单调地,无变化地 | |
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218
epic
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n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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219
opulence
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n.财富,富裕 | |
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220
penury
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n.贫穷,拮据 | |
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221
specimen
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n.样本,标本 | |
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222
Neptune
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n.海王星 | |
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223
hoofs
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n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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224
spanking
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adj.强烈的,疾行的;n.打屁股 | |
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225
frisky
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adj.活泼的,欢闹的;n.活泼,闹着玩;adv.活泼地,闹着玩地 | |
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226
gallop
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v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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227
ranting
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v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 );大叫大嚷地以…说教;气愤地)大叫大嚷;不停地大声抱怨 | |
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228
conceited
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adj.自负的,骄傲自满的 | |
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229
squinting
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斜视( squint的现在分词 ); 眯着眼睛; 瞟; 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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230
admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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231
rapture
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n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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232
raptures
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极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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233
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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234
economists
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n.经济学家,经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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235
galloping
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adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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236
slit
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n.狭长的切口;裂缝;vt.切开,撕裂 | |
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237
nib
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n.钢笔尖;尖头 | |
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238
alluding
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提及,暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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239
illustrating
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给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 ); 说明; 表明; (用示例、图画等)说明 | |
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240
waiving
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v.宣布放弃( waive的现在分词 );搁置;推迟;放弃(权利、要求等) | |
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241
solitary
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adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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242
animated
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adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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243
simile
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n.直喻,明喻 | |
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244
similes
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(使用like或as等词语的)明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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245
allusive
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adj.暗示的;引用典故的 | |
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246
demur
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v.表示异议,反对 | |
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247
picturesqueness
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248
stony
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adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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249
bedlam
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n.混乱,骚乱;疯人院 | |
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250
Flared
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adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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251
epithet
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n.(用于褒贬人物等的)表述形容词,修饰语 | |
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252
stereotyped
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adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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253
brass
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n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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254
epithets
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n.(表示性质、特征等的)词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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255
variegated
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adj.斑驳的,杂色的 | |
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256
plumes
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羽毛( plume的名词复数 ); 羽毛饰; 羽毛状物; 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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257
prologue
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n.开场白,序言;开端,序幕 | |
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258
festive
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adj.欢宴的,节日的 | |
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259
countenance
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n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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260
Christian
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adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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261
improper
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adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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262
distinguished
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adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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263
exquisite
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adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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264
simplicity
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n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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265
fidelity
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n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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266
narrative
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n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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267
embodies
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v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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268
brace
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n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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269
abide
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vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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270
regiment
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n.团,多数,管理;v.组织,编成团,统制 | |
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271
favourable
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adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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272
imprisoned
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下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
proprieties
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n.礼仪,礼节;礼貌( propriety的名词复数 );规矩;正当;合适 | |
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274
authenticity
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n.真实性 | |
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275
peril
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n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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276
plumed
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饰有羽毛的 | |
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277
mitigated
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v.减轻,缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
candid
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adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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279
circumscription
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n.界限;限界 | |
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280
prevailing
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adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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281
bondage
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n.奴役,束缚 | |
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282
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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283
defective
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adj.有毛病的,有问题的,有瑕疵的 | |
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284
pedantry
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n.迂腐,卖弄学问 | |
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285
rout
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n.溃退,溃败;v.击溃,打垮 | |
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286
lyric
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n.抒情诗,歌词;adj.抒情的 | |
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287
indigenous
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adj.土产的,土生土长的,本地的 | |
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288
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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289
presumptuous
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adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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290
spoke
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n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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291
abruptness
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n. 突然,唐突 | |
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292
fable
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n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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293
defunct
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adj.死亡的;已倒闭的 | |
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294
genealogies
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n.系谱,家系,宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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295
vehement
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adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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296
vehemently
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adv. 热烈地 | |
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297
utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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298
chaotic
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adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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299
labyrinth
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n.迷宫;难解的事物;迷路 | |
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300
labyrinths
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迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 ); (文字,建筑)错综复杂的 | |
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301
concertos
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n. [音]协奏曲 | |
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302
depreciate
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v.降价,贬值,折旧 | |
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303
dispenses
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v.分配,分与;分配( dispense的第三人称单数 );施与;配(药) | |
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304
dispense
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vt.分配,分发;配(药),发(药);实施 | |
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305
tumult
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n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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306
everlasting
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adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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307
slumber
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n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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308
agitation
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n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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309
sketch
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n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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310
inscriptions
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(作者)题词( inscription的名词复数 ); 献词; 碑文; 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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311
remains
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n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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312
rhetoric
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n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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313
orator
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n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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314
orators
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n.演说者,演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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315
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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316
doctrines
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n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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317
sufficiently
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adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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318
colloquial
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adj.口语的,会话的 | |
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319
illustrate
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v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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320
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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321
justified
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a.正当的,有理的 | |
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322
liberated
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a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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323
fabulous
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adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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324
philosophically
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adv.哲学上;富有哲理性地;贤明地;冷静地 | |
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325
philosophical
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adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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326
alleges
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断言,宣称,辩解( allege的第三人称单数 ) | |
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327
garrulous
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adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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328
bishop
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n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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329
diligent
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adj.勤勉的,勤奋的 | |
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330
diligently
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ad.industriously;carefully | |
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331
embellish
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v.装饰,布置;给…添加细节,润饰 | |
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332
embellishing
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v.美化( embellish的现在分词 );装饰;修饰;润色 | |
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333
veracity
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n.诚实 | |
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334
invaders
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入侵者,侵略者,侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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335
overthrow
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v.推翻,打倒,颠覆;n.推翻,瓦解,颠覆 | |
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336
arrogant
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adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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337
yoke
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n.轭;支配;v.给...上轭,连接,使成配偶 | |
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338
tyrants
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专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 ); 暴君似的人; (古希腊的)僭主; 严酷的事物 | |
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339
judicial
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adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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340
martial
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adj.战争的,军事的,尚武的,威武的 | |
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341
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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342
outraged
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a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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343
atrocity
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n.残暴,暴行 | |
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344
bloody
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adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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345
trampled
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踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 ); 践踏; 无视; 侵犯 | |
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346
ledger
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n.总帐,分类帐;帐簿 | |
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347
brutal
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adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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348
spartan
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adj.简朴的,刻苦的;n.斯巴达;斯巴达式的人 | |
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349
invoice
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|
vt.开发票;n.发票,装货清单 | |
参考例句: |
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|
350
ascend
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|
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
参考例句: |
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|
351
genial
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|
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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|
352
jovial
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|
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
353
yarns
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|
n.纱( yarn的名词复数 );纱线;奇闻漫谈;旅行轶事 | |
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|
354
monk
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|
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
参考例句: |
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|
355
professed
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|
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
356
chateau
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|
n.城堡,别墅 | |
参考例句: |
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|
357
apoplectic
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|
adj.中风的;愤怒的;n.中风患者 | |
参考例句: |
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|
358
Founder
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|
n.创始者,缔造者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
359
infancy
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|
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
参考例句: |
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|
360
conqueror
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|
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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|
|
361
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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|
|
362
reigning
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|
adj.统治的,起支配作用的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
363
provincial
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|
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
364
corps
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|
n.(通信等兵种的)部队;(同类作的)一组 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
365
auxiliaries
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|
n.助动词 ( auxiliary的名词复数 );辅助工,辅助人员 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
366
catastrophe
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|
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
367
cavalry
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|
n.骑兵;轻装甲部队 | |
参考例句: |
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|
368
victorious
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|
adj.胜利的,得胜的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
369
fortresses
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|
堡垒,要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
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|
370
coup
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|
n.政变;突然而成功的行动 | |
参考例句: |
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|
371
assassinated
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|
v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 );中伤;诋毁;破坏 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
372
shipping
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|
n.船运(发货,运输,乘船) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
373
conspicuous
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|
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
374
sneering
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|
嘲笑的,轻蔑的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
375
undoubtedly
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|
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
376
myriads
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|
n.无数,极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
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|
377
inaccurate
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|
adj.错误的,不正确的,不准确的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
378
miller
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|
n.磨坊主 | |
参考例句: |
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|
379
prodigious
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|
adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
380
allusions
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|
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
381
improperly
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|
不正确地,不适当地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
382
legitimately
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|
ad.合法地;正当地,合理地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
383
grandees
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|
n.贵族,大公,显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
384
civic
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|
adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
385
parity
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|
n.平价,等价,比价,对等 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
386
exhausted
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|
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
387
upwards
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|
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
388
lexicons
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|
n.词典( lexicon的名词复数 );专门词汇 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
389
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
390
antithesis
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|
n.对立;相对 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
391
tithe
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|
n.十分之一税;v.课什一税,缴什一税 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
392
ascertained
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|
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
393
behold
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|
v.看,注视,看到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
394
etymology
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|
n.语源;字源学 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
395
marrow
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|
n.骨髓;精华;活力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
396
ego
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|
n.自我,自己,自尊 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
397
chestnut
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|
n.栗树,栗子 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
398
dissertation
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|
n.(博士学位)论文,学术演讲,专题论文 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
399
secondly
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|
adv.第二,其次 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
400
interpretation
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|
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
401
filth
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|
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
402
adhesive
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|
n.粘合剂;adj.可粘着的,粘性的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
403
impure
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|
adj.不纯净的,不洁的;不道德的,下流的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
404
depositions
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|
沉积(物)( deposition的名词复数 ); (在法庭上的)宣誓作证; 处置; 罢免 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
405
antagonists
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|
对立[对抗] 者,对手,敌手( antagonist的名词复数 ); 对抗肌; 对抗药 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
406
serenity
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|
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
407
inaugural
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|
adj.就职的;n.就职典礼 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
408
plover
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|
n.珩,珩科鸟,千鸟 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
409
solitudes
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|
n.独居( solitude的名词复数 );孤独;荒僻的地方;人迹罕至的地方 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
410
moss
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|
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
411
wrath
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|
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
412
questionable
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|
adj.可疑的,有问题的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
413
treasury
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|
n.宝库;国库,金库;文库 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
414
premier
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|
adj.首要的;n.总理,首相 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
415
scholastic
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|
adj.学校的,学院的,学术上的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
416
chamber
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|
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
417
temperate
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|
adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
418
gathering
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|
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
419
disinterested
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|
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
420
forum
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|
n.论坛,讨论会 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
421
mischief
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|
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
422
inflaming
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|
v.(使)变红,发怒,过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
423
jealousy
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|
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
424
vengeance
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|
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
425
momentary
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|
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
426
pandering
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|
v.迎合(他人的低级趣味或淫欲)( pander的现在分词 );纵容某人;迁就某事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
427
remarkable
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|
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
428
peculiarity
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|
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
429
ornaments
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|
n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 );点缀;装饰品;首饰v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
430
ornament
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|
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
431
strife
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|
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
432
torpid
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|
adj.麻痹的,麻木的,迟钝的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
433
pompous
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|
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
434
cadence
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|
n.(说话声调的)抑扬顿挫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
435
faculties
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|
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
436
sonorous
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|
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
437
impartial
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|
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
438
esteemed
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|
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
439
forte
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|
n.长处,擅长;adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
440
oratory
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|
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
441
forgeries
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|
伪造( forgery的名词复数 ); 伪造的文件、签名等 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
442
vehemence
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|
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
443
supremacy
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|
n.至上;至高权力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
444
accomplishments
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|
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
445
fervent
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|
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
446
systematic
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|
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
447
harmonious
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|
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
448
disarmed
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|
v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 );使息怒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
449
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
450
saturated
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|
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
451
tempestuous
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|
adj.狂暴的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
452
orations
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|
n.(正式仪式中的)演说,演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
453
oration
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|
n.演说,致辞,叙述法 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
454
combustible
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|
a. 易燃的,可燃的; n. 易燃物,可燃物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
455
kindling
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|
n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
456
fiery
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|
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
457
backwards
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|
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
458
arrogance
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|
n.傲慢,自大 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
459
levity
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|
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
460
wasp
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|
n.黄蜂,蚂蜂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
461
uproar
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|
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
462
demonstrations
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|
证明( demonstration的名词复数 ); 表明; 表达; 游行示威 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
463
interfered
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|
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
464
censure
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|
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
465
insinuate
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|
vt.含沙射影地说,暗示 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
466
syllable
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|
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
467
dissent
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|
n./v.不同意,持异议 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
468
speculation
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|
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
469
speculations
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|
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
470
vivacity
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|
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
471
curtail
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|
vt.截短,缩短;削减 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
472
requisite
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|
adj.需要的,必不可少的;n.必需品 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
473
mobility
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|
n.可动性,变动性,情感不定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
474
hatred
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|
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
475
venal
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|
adj.唯利是图的,贪脏枉法的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
476
harangue
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|
n.慷慨冗长的训话,言辞激烈的讲话 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
477
perils
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|
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
478
brink
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|
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
479
propitiate
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|
v.慰解,劝解 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
480
entreating
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|
恳求,乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
481
beseech
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|
v.祈求,恳求 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
482
restive
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|
adj.不安宁的,不安静的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
483
mercurial
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|
adj.善变的,活泼的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
484
temperament
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|
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
485
attic
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|
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
486
habitual
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|
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
487
intoxication
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|
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
参考例句: |
|
|
488
affected
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|
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
489
insolence
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|
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
490
torrent
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|
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
491
swollen
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|
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
492
prodigiously
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|
adv.异常地,惊人地,巨大地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
493
discriminative
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|
有判别力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
494
dissenting
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|
adj.不同意的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
495
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
496
immortality
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|
n.不死,不朽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
497
omission
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n.省略,删节;遗漏或省略的事物,冗长 | |
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498
impatience
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n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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499
fret
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v.(使)烦恼;(使)焦急;(使)腐蚀,(使)磨损 | |
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500
irritability
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n.易怒 | |
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501
immediate
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adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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502
steadily
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adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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503
coercion
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n.强制,高压统治 | |
参考例句: |
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504
hustings
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n.竞选活动 | |
参考例句: |
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505
speculative
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adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
参考例句: |
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506
leisurely
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adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
参考例句: |
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507
facetious
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adj.轻浮的,好开玩笑的 | |
参考例句: |
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508
satiric
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adj.讽刺的,挖苦的 | |
参考例句: |
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509
stoic
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n.坚忍克己之人,禁欲主义者 | |
参考例句: |
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|
510
venial
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adj.可宽恕的;轻微的 | |
参考例句: |
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511
tickled
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(使)发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)愉快,逗乐 | |
参考例句: |
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|
512
susceptible
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adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
513
adroit
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adj.熟练的,灵巧的 | |
参考例句: |
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514
thorny
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adj.多刺的,棘手的 | |
参考例句: |
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515
memorably
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难忘的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
516
inquiry
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n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
参考例句: |
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517
harangues
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n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
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|
518
license
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n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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|
519
diplomacy
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n.外交;外交手腕,交际手腕 | |
参考例句: |
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|
520
pertinent
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adj.恰当的;贴切的;中肯的;有关的;相干的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
521
posterity
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n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
参考例句: |
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|
522
extrinsic
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|
adj.外部的;不紧要的 | |
参考例句: |
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523
pealed
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|
v.(使)(钟等)鸣响,(雷等)发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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524
auditors
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|
n.审计员,稽核员( auditor的名词复数 );(大学课程的)旁听生 | |
参考例句: |
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|
525
disposition
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n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
参考例句: |
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|
526
peculiarities
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n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
参考例句: |
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|
527
prospect
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|
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
参考例句: |
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|
528
obviate
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|
v.除去,排除,避免,预防 | |
参考例句: |
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|
529
contemplate
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|
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
参考例句: |
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|
530
philology
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|
n.语言学;语文学 | |
参考例句: |
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|
531
meridian
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|
adj.子午线的;全盛期的 | |
参考例句: |
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532
downwards
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|
adj./adv.向下的(地),下行的(地) | |
参考例句: |
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533
emancipation
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|
n.(从束缚、支配下)解放 | |
参考例句: |
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|
534
ostensible
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|
adj.(指理由)表面的,假装的 | |
参考例句: |
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535
minor
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|
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
参考例句: |
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|
536
derivative
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|
n.派(衍)生物;adj.非独创性的,模仿他人的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
537
exalting
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|
a.令人激动的,令人喜悦的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
538
contingencies
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|
n.偶然发生的事故,意外事故( contingency的名词复数 );以备万一 | |
参考例句: |
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|
539
taxation
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|
n.征税,税收,税金 | |
参考例句: |
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|
540
expenditure
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|
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
参考例句: |
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|
541
besetting
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|
adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 );不断围攻;镶;嵌 | |
参考例句: |
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|
542
partisan
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|
adj.党派性的;游击队的;n.游击队员;党徒 | |
参考例句: |
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|
543
essentially
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|
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
参考例句: |
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|
544
fiscal
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|
adj.财政的,会计的,国库的,国库岁入的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
545
severely
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|
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
参考例句: |
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|
546
gentry
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|
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
参考例句: |
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|
547
jurisdiction
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|
n.司法权,审判权,管辖权,控制权 | |
参考例句: |
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|
548
contemplated
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|
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
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|
549
fervid
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|
adj.热情的;炽热的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
550
kindle
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|
v.点燃,着火 | |
参考例句: |
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|
551
attained
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|
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
552
bullion
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|
n.金条,银条 | |
参考例句: |
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|
553
monsoon
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|
n.季雨,季风,大雨 | |
参考例句: |
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|
554
potent
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|
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
555
tautology
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|
n.无谓的重复;恒真命题 | |
参考例句: |
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|
556
diversified
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|
adj.多样化的,多种经营的v.使多样化,多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 );进入新的商业领域 | |
参考例句: |
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|
557
eminent
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|
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
558
shrubs
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|
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
559
acorns
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|
n.橡子,栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
560
embryo
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|
n.胚胎,萌芽的事物 | |
参考例句: |
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|
561
reverting
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|
恢复( revert的现在分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
参考例句: |
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|
562
oracle
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|
n.神谕,神谕处,预言 | |
参考例句: |
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|
563
patriotism
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|
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
参考例句: |
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|
564
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 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
565
opposition
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|
n.反对,敌对 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
566
Oxford
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|
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
参考例句: |
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|
567
durable
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|
adj.持久的,耐久的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
568
pharmacy
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|
n.药房,药剂学,制药业,配药业,一批备用药品 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
569
superfluous
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|
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
570
attire
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|
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
参考例句: |
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|
571
fixed
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|
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
572
winding
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|
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
参考例句: |
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|
573
oratorial
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|
adj.演说的,雄辩的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
574
exchequer
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|
n.财政部;国库 | |
参考例句: |
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|
575
renewal
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|
adj.(契约)延期,续订,更新,复活,重来 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
576
infinity
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|
n.无限,无穷,大量 | |
参考例句: |
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|
577
Partisanship
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|
n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
参考例句: |
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|
578
inversion
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|
n.反向,倒转,倒置 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
579
eloquent
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|
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
580
dignified
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|
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
参考例句: |
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|
581
prescription
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|
n.处方,开药;指示,规定 | |
参考例句: |
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|
582
inertia
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|
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
参考例句: |
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|
583
toil
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|
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
参考例句: |
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|
584
sarcasm
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|
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
参考例句: |
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|
585
parsimonious
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|
adj.吝啬的,质量低劣的 | |
参考例句: |
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