“I admit, then [he says], that from the actor-manager’s point of view—his quite legitimate7 and inevitable8 point of view under our accursed system—the play has drawbacks that might well stand in the way of its production. But if any manager read it and did not recognise that he was face to face with an exceptional talent, and one of which, by judicious9 encouragement, much might be made, then I say that he showed a deplorable lack of discernment. This—hypothetic—manager ought to have sent for the authoress and said, ‘Miss Syrett, I cannot, for such and such reasons, produce this play. But there are scenes in it which show me that you have the making of a playwright10 in you. Have you other ideas? Yes, of course you[119] have. Well, go home and draw me out the scenario11 of a play that you think would suit me, and then come and let us talk it over. Remember, I promise nothing, except my very best attention to anything you may bring me. But that you shall have; and if you are not above taking hints from my experience, you may be able to avoid certain trifling12 errors and crudities into which you have fallen in this piece. Don’t be in a hurry. You ladies, if I may say so, are apt to imagine that, when once you have got an idea, a play can be improvised13 like a newspaper article or a six shilling novel. This is a mistake. A play, to have any solid value, must be carefully and laboriously14 built up. You will make false steps, find yourself in blind alleys15, and have to try back and start afresh many and many a time. You will have days of discouragement, when your characters refuse point-blank to do what you want them to. Probably you will find in the end that you have given as much thought and labour to every line of your play as you would to a[120] whole page of a novel. But if you are prepared to take your art seriously, you may rely upon my taking seriously whatever you may offer me. And be assured of this, that if you fail to do something really worth while, my disappointment will be scarcely less than your own.’ In some such words, as it seems to me, should the sagacious manager have addressed the authoress of The Finding of Nancy.”
Excellently intended, my dear Dr. Archer, excellently and honestly intended. But could gratuitousness16, or egregiousness18, or flat-footedness go further? Such an oration19, happily, might come out of none but a Scotch mouth or from any pen but that of a Scotchman. In point of unnecessariness it rivals pretty well aught that I have had the felicity to see in print. And it illustrates20 to admiration the Scotch faculty21 for spreading out the commonplace and being sententious over it.
What Dr. Archer’s view of the theatre may be nobody knows. In the beginning of the speech I have quoted he refers to “our accursed[121] system,” so that there must be a screw loose somewhere. For years Dr. Archer has been pounding away at this same system, and it seems to continue. Nor has Dr. Archer made the slightest dint22 upon it. A little while back, one of the wags in which London appears to abound23 pointed24 out that plays praised by Dr. Archer invariably come in for the shortest of runs. To which impeachment25 Dr. Archer replied, with great ingenuousness26, by printing a formidable list of plays which had survived his approval. Another wag having said something against the Scotch in a paper called The Outlook, Dr. Archer exclaimed, in cold type, “Outlook indeed! Methinks that north of the Tweed they will call it Outrage27!” This, of course, is a Scotch joke, and therefore an old one. In the year 600 or thereabouts, Gregory the Great, noting the fair faces and golden hair of some youths in the market-place of Rome, enquired28 from what country the men came. “They are Angles,” was the reply. “Not Angles,” quoth the worthy29 Gregory, “but[122] angels.” For thirteen centuries the pun of the Bishop30 of Rome had remained decently tucked away in the history books. And in 1901, Dr. Archer, who really is a wit, drags it forth31 and makes another like it.
All these, however, be small deer. If we wish to acquaint ourselves with the true inwardness of Dr. Archer as critic, we must turn to his magnum opus—that great guinea work of his, entitled Poets of the Younger Generation. Now, on the question of modern poetry, and particularly of the younger school of poets, people interested in poetry are always glad to hear words of wisdom. Have we any contemporary poets? If so, are they writing poetry for us, contemporary or otherwise? The subject invites. Somehow and for some reason or other it invited Dr. Archer. Indeed, it went further than inviting32 him; it inveigled33 him. No doubt the notion of writing a book about poets came to him on one of his discouraging days. He had been hammering, hammering, hammering at the theatre and “our accursed[123] system,” and he was fain for a softer job. What work could a poor, tired critic take up outside the potter’s field of our accursed system? When a critic gets into that frame of mind he always thinks of the poets. Dr. Archer thought of the poets—the living poets—the poets of the younger generation. Being a Scotchman, Dr. Archer thought, and straightway set to work. He appears to have plodded34 steadfastly35 through the writings of no fewer than thirty-three of the minor36 contemporary poets of England and America. Of each of these thirty-three children of the Muse37, beginning with the Rev38. H. C. Beeching and ending with William Butler Yeats, he wrote painful notices, bejewelled with excerpts40, put them into a book, and got them published by Mr. John Lane. With the beauty or otherwise of his thirty-three notices, in spite of their exquisite41 thirty-three-ness, I do not propose greatly to concern myself. Their general drift and tenor42 may be inferred from the following examples, culled43 from the article on Mr. Kipling:
[124]
“Far be it from me to disparage44 Scots Wha Hae, but I am not sure that it possesses the tonic45 quality of the refrain of Mr. Kipling’s song of defeat:
An’ there ain’t no chorus ’ere to give,
Nor there ain’t no band to play;
But I wish I was dead ’fore I done what I did
Or seen what I’d seed that day!
What in the name of goodness have Scots Wha Hae and these four lines got to do with one another? How can they be compared, except only as verse, and where, oh where, does the tonic quality of the Kipling lines come in? Again:
“In all the poetry of warfare46, was there ever a more exactly observed and yet imaginative touch than that which describes the guns of the enemy ‘shaking their bustles47 like ladies so fine’? It is grotesque48, and it is magnificent.”
As a matter of fact it is not observed at all, and it is certainly not magnificent. Ladies do not shake their bustles. Nowadays, indeed, they have no bustles to shake, and I[125] should imagine that the sound criticism about the simile49 is that it is too temporary and far fetched. And for the third and last time:
“Only by some narrow trick of definition can such work (McAndrew’s Hymn50) be excluded from the sphere of poetry; and poetry or no poetry, it is certainly very strong and vital literature.”
Here let us agree to differ with Dr. Archer, inasmuch as McAndrew’s Hymn is merely rhymed note-book eked51 out with a few phrases of the Doric.
On the whole, Poets of the Younger Generation might well have gone down to posterity52 as a collection of middling and slightly wrong-headed reviews, had Dr. Archer possessed53 a tithe54 of the shrewdness commonly imputed55 to persons of his blood. But in putting the book before the world, Dr. Archer could not be content to figure as a simple reviewer, he must needs preface it with a pompous56 and bloated introduction. “Appreciation57 [he says nobly] is the end[126] and aim of the following pages. The verb ‘to appreciate’ is used, rightly or wrongly, in two senses; it sometimes means to realise, at other times to enhance the value of a thing. I use the word in both significations. While attempting to define, to appraise58, the talent of individual poets, I hope to enhance the reader’s estimate of the value of contemporary poetry as a whole.” After several pages of this sort of thing we come upon a full-dress “personal statement,” the like of which has never before been given us by mortal critic. Practically, it is a biography of Dr. William Archer, with special reference to Dr. William Archer’s spiritual and intellectual growth and his “qualifications as a critic of poetry.” The pose and tone of it are inimitable. It puts Burns and his “wild artless notes” utterly59 to the blush. As Dr. Archer himself would say, it is grotesque and it is magnificent. It begins with a rataplan on ancestral drums: “In the first place, I am a pure bred Scotchman. There is some vague family legend of an ancestor of my[127] father’s having come from England with Oliver Cromwell and settled in Glasgow; but I never could discover any evidence of it. The only thing that speaks in its favour is that my name, common in England, is uncommon60 in Scotland. My maternal61 grandfather and grandmother both came of families that seem to have dwelt from time immemorial in and about Perth, at the gateway62 of the Highlands. This being so, it appears very improbable that there should not be some Keltic admixture in my blood; but I cannot absolutely lay my finger on any ‘Mac’ among my forbears. Both my parents belong to families of a deeply religious cast of mind, ultra-orthodox in dogma, heterodox and even vehemently63 dissenting64 on questions of Church Government. I can trace some way back in my mother’s family a strain of good, sound, orthodox literary culture and taste; of specially65 poetical66 faculty, little or none. It may, perhaps, be worth mentioning that one of my great-grandfathers or great-great-uncles printed—and I believe, edited—an[128] edition of the poets, much esteemed68 in its day.”
Nothing could be better worth mentioning, Mr. Archer. Pray proceed:
“The earliest symptom I can find in myself that can possibly be taken as showing any marked relation to the poetic67 side of life, is an extreme susceptibility (very clearly inherited from my father) to simple, pathetic music. It is related that even in my infancy69, one special tune—the Adeste Fideles—if so much as hummed in my neighbourhood, would always make me howl lustily; and, indeed, to this day it seems to me infinitely70 pathetic. I have carried through life, without any sort of musical gift, and with a very imperfect apprehension71 of tonality, harmony, and the refinements72 and complexities73 of musical expression, this keen sensibility to the emotional effect of certain lovely rhythms and simple curves of notes. I am not sure that Lascia ch’ie pranga, Che faer farò senza Euridice, and the cantabile in Chopin’s Funeral March, do not seem to me the very[129] divinest utterances74 of the human spirit, before which all the achievements of all the poets fade and grow dim. But it is all one to me (or very nearly so) whether they are reeled off on a barrel organ or performed by the greatest singers—the finest orchestra. Nay75, my own performance of them, in the silent chamber76 concerts of memory, are enough to bring the tears to my eyes.”
Good man!
“I cannot remember that the poetry I learned at school interested or pleased me particularly—‘On Linden, when the sun was low,’ ‘FitzJames was brave, yet to his heart,’ ‘The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,’ and so forth.… The first composition of mine that ever found its way into print was some sort of a rhapsody (in prose) on Byron at Missolonghi. The attack passed off in six months or so, and I am not aware that it left behind any permanent ill effects. At the same time I read the greater part of The Faerie Queene with a[130] certain pleasure, but without any real appreciation.”
Wordsworth this remarkable77 youth “read for a college essay”; “Coleridge came to him in the train of Wordsworth”; and at seventeen The Ancient Mariner78 seemed to him “the most magical of poems.” Tennyson he read “with pleasure”; Keats “had not yet taken hold” of him; and Milton he “could not read.” Ultimately, however, he came to appreciate Milton in this wise. “I spent my twentieth year idling in Australia, and, being somewhat hard up for literature, I set myself to read Paradise Lost from beginning to end, at the rate of a book a day. I accomplished79 the task, but it bored me unspeakably.… I did not return to it for seven or eight years, until one day I found myself starting on a railway journey with nothing to read, and paid a shilling at a station bookstall for a pocket Paradise Lost.” On that journey the scales fell from Dr. Archer’s eyes. Ever since, Paradise Lost has been to him “an inexhaustible mine of the pure gold of poetry.”[131] Later, we learn that Dr. Archer’s own metrical efforts have been “almost entirely80 confined to comic, or, at any rate, journalistic, verse,” though he “never attained81 even the fluency82 of the practised newspaper rhymester.” Greek and Latin verses, he adds, “were undreamt of in the Scottish curriculum of my day. Practically we knew not what quantity meant.”
Altogether, therefore, Dr. William Archer’s “qualifications as a critic of poetry” would seem to be, on his own showing, of a negative rather than a positive order. He is a pure bred Scotchman; he may have a little English blood in him, but he has not been able to trace it; he is without any sort of musical gift; he likes his music “reeled off on a barrel organ”; poetry had no charms for him till he was seventeen; and he did not discover Milton’s “inexhaustible mine of the pure gold of poetry” till he was twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age. Also at his college they “did not know what quantity meant.” Yet at the age of forty-three he[132] had “ready for press” five hundred pages of appreciations83 of poets of the younger generation. It is truly marvellous and prodigiously84 Scotch. And it sets one wondering. At what epoch85 in his extraordinary life did Dr. Archer begin to take a critical interest in the drama? Was he shovelled86 into that interest by the exigencies87 of his work on newspapers, or did it come to him, like his love of Milton, on a railway journey? Furthermore, how many of his brither Scots, who labour so solemnly in the vineyard of literary journalism88 and plume89 themselves on their “pull” in contemporary letters, are of the like origins and possess the same disqualifications as Dr. William Archer? I doubt if one per cent. of them is really competent. I know for a fact that ninety per cent. of them are absolutely devoid90 of taste, much less of understanding and vision, and that they exercise critical functions not because they have insight or feeling for literature, but because “a living” and certain petty powers are to be had out of it. The much vaunted “Scotch pull” in[133] criticism is without doubt the worst trouble that has ever assailed91 English letters. In a great measure it has been responsible for the general slackening and stodginess92 which have overtaken the whole business during the past decade or so. Persons who write, not to mention persons who read, know full well that at the present time criticism is well nigh a dead letter in this country. Reviews are no longer taken seriously either by authors or the public; the literary papers languish93, depending, for such revenue as they possess, upon publishers’ advertisements instead of upon circulation; literary opinion has been fined down to sheer puff94 on the one hand and flagrant abuse or neglect on the other, and to be the friend or admiring acquaintance of certain persons is become the only sure road to literary advancement95. It is the fashion to say that nobody, however ill-disposed, can stop the sale of a good book, or keep the author of such a book out of his meed of recognition. In the long result this is true. But waiting for the long result is a weary business,[134] particularly when you discover that there is an inclination96 on the part of the people who have “the pull” to put the clock back for you at every turn; what time they boom the work of their “ain folk” and shout loudly and insistently97 for catch-penny mediocrity. This, by the way, is not in any sense a “sore-head” asseveration; because my own writings have, as a rule, been of so slender a nature that I have marvelled98 to see them noticed at all. Besides, I do not think that I am without friends even among the apostles of the “Scotch pull.” They have done me many a service, and with a lively sense of favours to come I hereby offer them gratitude99. All the same, I should not be sorry to see them disbanded. I should not be sorry to hear that never a one of them was to be permitted again to set pen to paper in the capacity of reviewer. Literary journalism would be all the sweeter and saner100 for such a closure, and judging by the rates of payment they take, the “Scotch pull” combination would be very little the poorer.
[135]
NOTE[15]
The Scots opinion of Burns may perhaps be best illustrated101 by quoting a Burns-Night oration. The speech appended below may be taken as a moderate sample of what Burns’s admirers are in the habit of saying about him. I am indebted to Dr. Ross’s volume, Henley on Burns, for the excerpt39: “Burns suffered more from remorse103 and genuine penitence104 than probably any man who ever lived. Not only so, but the very bitterness of his cry, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner,’ has been seized upon by his calumniators, and used as a weapon to stab him behind his back. But leave Burns to his Maker105, and, keeping in view the parable106 of[136] the Pharisee and the publican, it is just possible, nay probable, that those who talk so glibly107 about the sins of Burns may find at the great day of reckoning that the penitent108 poet and the penitent publican are justified109 rather than they. There are certain classes of people who must always look upon Burns with doubt and suspicion. Many decent, worthy people, naturally and properly disliking the clay, miss the gold. Many worthy teetotallers dislike the poet on account of his drinking songs; but even they are beginning to forgive him for writing Willie brewed110 a peck o’ maut and such like. The Pharisee and the hypocrite, throughout their generations, will always dislike him, not because of his sins, but on account of his satires111:
Oh ye wha are sae guid yersel’,
Sae pious112 and sae holy,
You’ve nought113 to do but mark an’ tell
Yer neebour’s fauts and folly114;
Whose life is like a weel-gaun mill
Supplied in store o’ water:
The heapit clappers ebben still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter115.
“The ‘gigman’ and the clothes-horse can[137] never take to Burns. He is not sufficiently116 genteel for silly ladyism and spurious nobility:
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray, an’ a’ that,
Gie fules their silk, an’ knaves117 their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that.
“The ultra-Calvinist can never take to Burns, for Burns broke the back of ‘the auld118 licht.’ The genuine Calvinist of the poet’s time showed only the dark side of the shield. Burns showed the bright:
Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty119 stepp’d aside,
Do thou, All Good, for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err’d,
No other plea I have,
But ‘Thou art good, and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.’
“The golden calf120 is as much worshipped in England to-day as it was in the desert four thousand years ago:
If happiness have not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise and rich and great,
But never can be blest.
[138]
“Burns will never be praised by those who dote upon forms, vestments, and such like priestly trumpery121, for he wrote The Cottar’s Saturday Night:
Compared with this, how poor religion’s pride
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Religion’s every grace except the heart.
The Power incensed122 the pageant123 will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But, haply, in some cottage, far apart,
Will hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,
And in his book of life the inmate124 poor enrol125.
“A child of the common people himself, Burns never deserted126 his class. He taught the poor man that:
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
“He ennobled honest labour:
The honest man, though e’er sae puir,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
“He was the high priest of humanity:
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless127 thousands mourn.
Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress128;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss129.
[139]
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
That man to man the warld o’er
Shall brithers be, an’ a’ that.
“Ay, Burns is like a great mountain, based on earth, towering towards heaven—of a mixed character, containing gold, silver, brass130, iron, and clay, and from which every man, according to his taste, can become enriched by the gold and the silver, or get mired131 in the clay. All that is best in Burns (and that is nearly the whole) will remain a precious possession with the Anglo-Saxon race in the ages yet to come. The Stars and Stripes of our cousins across the sea—the great American people—will ere long float side by side with the grand old flag that for a thousand years has braved the battle and the breeze. And the Bible and Burns will lie side by side in the homes of the reunited Anglo-Saxon race,—the freest, bravest, and most liberty-loving people the world ever saw or shall see.”
It will be noted132 that herein Burns is made out to be an honest fellow who went wrong[140] only at times; also the mire102 in him is a small detail, his best being nearly the whole of him; also that in the glorious days to come, when the Anglo-Saxon races shall have fused into one great people, Burns and the Bible are to be our great literary and ethical133 standby.
As indicating the kind of abuse that the Scot is in the habit of levelling at persons who disagree with him as to Burns, I likewise print a set of verses aimed at Mr. Henley by one of Dr. Ross’s scarifiers:
Ere disappointment, cauld neglect, and spleen
Had soured my bluid an’ jaundiced baith my een,
My saul aspired134, upo’ the wings o’ rhyme,
To mount unscaithed to airy heichts sublime135;
An’, like the lark136, to drap, in music rare,
Braw sangs to cheer folks when their hearts were sair.
I struggled lang, but fand it a’ nae use,
Nocht paid, I saw, save arrogant137 abuse.
“Blind fule,” I cried, “to fling your pearls to swine.
Awa’ wi’ dreams o’ laurell’d days divine!
Bid Fame guid-bye, and a’ sic feckless trash,—
Henceforth write naething but what brings ye cash.”
I glower’d about for something worth my while—
Some thing held dear—on whilk to “spew” my bile,
An’ fixt my e’e upo’ a certain bard138,
Syne139 bocht a Jamieson, an’ studied hard;
An’ wha that hears me the vernacular140 speak
Wad think I learn’d the hale o’t in a week.
[141]
Weel up in Scotch, I set mysel’ to wark
To strip the Poet to his very sark,
An’ gie the warld a pictur’ o’ the Man
An’ a’ his Doin’s—on the cut-throat plan.
My book, gat up regairdless o’ expense,
Was hailed the book by ilka man o’ sense;
Some “half-read” gowks ayont the Tweed micht sneer141,
An’ name mysel’ in words no’ fit to hear;
I only leuch. The man himsel’ was deid—
He couldna reach me, sae I didna heed142.
The author of this effusion must have known perfectly143 well that Mr. Henley would have written just as he has written, if Burns had been alive. The suggestion that “he couldna reach me, and I didna heed,” is purely144 gratuitous17 and foolish.
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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gratuitousness
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| n.gratuitous（免费的，无偿的，无报酬的，不收酬劳的）的变形 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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egregiousness
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| Egregiousness | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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impeachment
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| n.弹劾；控告；怀疑 | |
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ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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inveigled
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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36
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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37
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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38
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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39
excerpt
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| n.摘录，选录，节录 | |
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40
excerpts
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| n.摘录，摘要( excerpt的名词复数 )；节选（音乐，电影）片段 | |
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41
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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42
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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43
culled
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| v.挑选，剔除( cull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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45
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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46
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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47
bustles
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| 热闹( bustle的名词复数 )； （女裙后部的）衬垫； 撑架 | |
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48
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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49
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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50
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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51
eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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52
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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53
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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54
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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55
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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56
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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57
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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58
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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59
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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60
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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61
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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62
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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63
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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64
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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65
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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66
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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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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68
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 | |
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69
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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70
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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71
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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72
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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75
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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76
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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77
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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78
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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79
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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80
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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81
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） | |
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82
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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83
appreciations
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| n.欣赏( appreciation的名词复数 )；感激；评定；（尤指土地或财产的）增值 | |
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84
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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85
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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86
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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87
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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88
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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89
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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90
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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91
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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92
stodginess
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| n.难消化，笨拙 | |
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93
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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94
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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95
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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96
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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97
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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98
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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100
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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101
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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102
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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103
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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104
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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105
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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106
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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107
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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108
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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109
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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110
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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111
satires
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| 讽刺，讥讽( satire的名词复数 )； 讽刺作品 | |
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112
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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113
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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114
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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115
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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116
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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117
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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118
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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119
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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120
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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121
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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122
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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123
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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124
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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125
enrol
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| v.（使）注册入学，（使）入学，（使）入会 | |
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126
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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127
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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128
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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129
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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130
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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131
mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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133
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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134
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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136
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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137
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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138
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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139
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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140
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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141
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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142
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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143
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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144
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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