Emerson and Longfellow died within six months of Whitman’s Boston visit; the former being buried in that graveyard1 at Sleepy Hollow where Walt had so recently stood by the green mounds2 that mark the resting-places of Hawthorne and of Thoreau.[652] Carlyle had died a year earlier; Carlyle who so deeply impressed his impetuous pathetic personality upon all that he handled, and who was one of the principal literary influences upon Whitman during his later years, as Emerson had doubtless been an inspiration in the earlier. And while Walt had been working on the Osgood proof-sheets, James Garfield, the friend who used to hail him as he passed on Pennsylvania Avenue riding with Pete Doyle, shouting out some tag from the Leaves, and who had now become President of the United States, died amid the mourning of the nation.
Whitman’s daily life had been poorer these last two or three years, since Mrs. Gilchrist’s return to England, but new friends were continually added to his circle. Among these was Mr. W. S. Kennedy, who was working for awhile on one of the Philadelphia papers, and has since published a notable collection of reminiscences and memoranda3 of his relations with the Camden poet.
The Christmas of 1882[653] brought him a delightful4 gift in the friendship of a Quaker family. Mr. Pearsall Smith was a wealthy Philadelphia glass merchant, who with his wife had, till recently, been a member of the[Pg 302] Society of Friends. He had had a remarkable5 career as an evangelist, both in his own country and in Europe; his eloquence6 and magnetic personality having been instrumental in changing the course of many lives. His wife also was an active worker in the fields of religion and philanthropy; and their home in Germantown—one of the suburbs of Philadelphia most remote in every sense from plebeian7 Camden—became a meeting-place for men and women interested and engaged in the work of reform. By this time, however, Mr. Pearsall Smith himself, finding in human nature more forces than were accounted for in the evangelical philosophy, had withdrawn8 from active participation9 in its labours.
The elder of his daughters, Miss Mary Whitall Smith, a thoughtful and enthusiastic college girl, came back from New England, where she was studying, fired by a determination to meet Walt Whitman. Her parents discovered with dismay that she had read the Leaves, at first with the consternation10 proper to her Quaker training, but later with ardour. Respectable Philadelphians, and especially members of the Society of Friends, were disposed to regard the poet as an outrageous11, dangerous person, who lived in a low place, among disreputable and vulgar associates. His works were classed by them with the wares12 of obscene book-vendors, as absolutely impossible.
The parents’ consternation at their daughter’s resolve may well be imagined. But being wise parents, they were prepared to learn; and Mr. Smith eventually drove her over in a stylish13 carriage behind a pair of excellent horses.
Picture of Mary Whitall Smith (Mrs. Berenson) in 1884.
MARY WHITALL SMITH (MRS. BERENSON) IN 1884
They found Whitman at home. He descended14 slowly, leaning on his stick, to the little stuffy15 parlour where they were waiting; and with a kindly16, affectionate amusement received the girl’s homage17. Her father immediately and impulsively18 asked the old man to drive back and spend the night with them. This was the spontaneous kind of hospitality which most delighted Walt, and after a moment’s hesitation19, in which he weighed the matter, he decided20 in favour of his new friends and[Pg 303] their excellent equipage. His sister-in-law quickly produced the boots and other necessaries, and they set forth21. Whitman loved to drive and to be driven, and as he sat on the back seat by his adoring young friend, he heartily22 enjoyed the whole situation. It was indeed enough to warm an old man’s heart.
After listening to her avowals, he recommended Miss Smith to study Emerson and Thoreau, but was evidently well pleased with her praise. Genuine devotion he always accepted.
He stayed a couple of days on this occasion; delighting in long drives along the Wissahickon Creek23, and showing himself very much at home among the young people of the household.
From this time on, and until the family left for England in 1886, he was their frequent visitor; and in later years—while reverently24 remembering Mrs. Gilchrist, who died in 1885—he came to speak of Mary Whitall Smith as his “staunchest living woman friend”. His letters to her father also are evidences of a close intimacy25 between the two men. Thus it seems permissible26 to speak here at greater length than usual of their relations, which serve besides to illustrate27 others not less affectionate.
Often during the college vacations, when the house was filled with merry young folk, Whitman would sit in the hall to catch the sounds of their laughter, enhanced by a little distance; or from his corner, leaning upon his stick, he would look on for hours together while they danced. Spirits ran high on these occasions, and all the higher for his smiling presence. He enjoyed everything, and not least the wholesome28 incipient29 love-making which he was quick to notice, and encourage.
Often he was full of fun; and still, as in the old days, he sang gaily30 as he splashed about in his bath, a delighted group of young people listening on the landing without to the strains of “Old Jim Crow,” some Methodist hymn31, or negro melody. At night, before retiring, he would take a walk under the stars, sometimes alone,[Pg 304] sometimes with his girl friend, who could appreciate the companionableness of silence.
He was always perfectly32 frank, as well as perfectly courteous33; if he preferred solitude34 he said so; and if, when at table, his hostess proposed to read aloud some long family letter, and asked him in an aside whether he would like to hear it, he would smile and answer, No.
He came to see them usually in his familiar grey suit; but in winter he wore one of heavier make, which was, however, provided with an overcoat only; indoors, he then put on the knitted cardigan jacket seen in some of his portraits. On one occasion, when some local literary people were invited to meet him, he appeared unaccustomedly conscious of his clothes. Uncomfortable at the absence of a coat, he tried the overcoat for awhile; but becoming very hot before the dinner was done, he beat a retreat into the hall; and there divesting35 himself of the burden, returned in his ordinary comfortable dress. Such incidents admirably illustrate his simple and homely36 ways.[654]
Henceforward, though records are multiplied, the movement of Whitman’s life is less and less affected37 by outer events, and becomes yearly more private and elusive38.
Picture of Whitman at sixty-two.
WHITMAN AT SIXTY-TWO
There is little to record of 1883, save that shortly after his sixty-fourth birthday there appeared the biographical study of Whitman by his Canadian friend. Like the earlier and smaller sketch39 by John Burroughs, Dr. Bucke’s volume was revised and authenticated40 by the poet, and is an invaluable41 record. Though fragmentary and far from exhaustive, it is written by one of the very few who can be said to have caught the real significance of the life and personality of the author of Leaves of Grass. That he fully42 understood Whitman, neither he nor his poet friend ever suggested; but then one must add that Whitman always laughingly asserted he did not by any means understand himself.[655]
[Pg 305]
As a result of the sales of the Philadelphia edition and the royalties43 which they brought him, the old man was now enabled to carry a long-cherished plan into execution.
On March the 26th, 1884,[656] he left his brother’s house, and removed to a little two-story cottage on Mickle Street, near by. Here he installed himself, at first with an elderly workman and his wife, and afterwards under the more efficient régime of Mrs. Mary Davis, a buxom44 New Jersey45 widow of comfortable presence, who brought into the house that homely atmosphere which Whitman had so long been seeking.[657]
Downstairs, in the little front parlour, he carried on what remained to him of his own publishing—the old autograph editions which he had not entrusted46 to Mr. McKay; and over it, upstairs, was his bedroom, which he liked to compare with a big ship’s cabin. In the backyard were lilacs, which he loved; and a shady tree stood in the side-walk in front.
He found his little “shack,” as he called it, pleasant and restful, and his own. He was not much worried by the rasping church choir47 and the bells, which jangled cruelly loud for such sensitive hearing every Sunday; nor by the neighbourhood of a guano factory, which was noticeable enough to the most ordinary nose.[658] Here his friends from far and near were frequent visitors, Dr. Bucke, John Burroughs and Peter Doyle among them; and in June came Edward Carpenter from England on his second visit.[659]
Carpenter had now issued his slender green Towards Democracy, that strange, prophetic, intimate book, so unlike all others, even the Leaves which it most resembles. It was seven years since the two men had met, and the older had grown thinner and more weary-looking. He had not been worsted in the long struggle with time and illness, but they had left their mark upon his body.
[Pg 306]
The visitor renewed his first impressions of that complex personality; felt again the wistful affection mingled48 with the contradictiousobstinacy; recognised the same watchful49 caution and keen perception, “a certain artfulness,” and the old “wild hawk50 look” of his untameable spirit; but, beneath all, the wonderful unfathomed tenderness.
Whitman manifestly had his moods, “lumpishly immovable” at times, at times deliberately51 inaccessible52. He took a certain wilful53 pleasure in denial, for the quality of “cussedness” was strong in him. And his friends admired his magnificent “No,” issuing from him naked and unashamed, just as mere54 acquaintances dreaded55 it.
But in other moods he was all generosity56, and you knew in him a man who had given himself body, mind and spirit to Love, never contented57 to give less than all.
Among the topics of their conversations was the Labour Movement, in which Carpenter was actively58 interested. Whitman professed59 his belief in co-operation, at the same time reiterating60 his deeply-rooted distrust of elected persons, of officials and committees. He had lived in Washington; and besides, his feeling for personal initiative, his wholesome and passionate61 love of individuality, and its expression in every field, set him always and everywhere against mere delegates and agents. Above all things, he abhorred62 regimentation63, officialism and interference. “I believe, like Carlyle, in men,” he said with emphasis. He hoped for more generous, and, as he would say, more prudent64, captains of industry; but he looked for America’s realisation to an ever-increasing class of independent yeomanry, who should constitute the solid and permanent bulk of the Republic.
Regarding America from the universal point of view, as the standard-bearer of Liberty among the nations, he thought of Free-trade as a moral rather than a merely economic question. Free-trade and a welcome to all foreigners were for Whitman integral parts of the American ideal. “The future of the world,” he would[Pg 307] say, “is one of open communication and solidarity65 of all races”; and he added, with a dogmatism characteristic of his people, “if that problem [of free interchange] cannot be solved in America, it cannot be solved anywhere”.
In considering Whitman’s attitude towards the Social Problem, and especially the Labour Problem, whose development in America he had been watching since the close of the war, one must consider the conditions of his time and country.[660] The Industrial Revolution, which is still in progress—and which in its progress is changing the face of the globe, disintegrating66 the old society down to its very basis in family life—has revealed itself to us in the last generation, much more clearly than to Whitman, who grew up seventy years ago in a new land.
We can see now that, though it may prelude67 a reconstruction68 of human society and relations in all their different phases, it is itself destructive rather than constructive69. We recognise that it does not bring equality of opportunity to all, as its earlier observers had predicted;[661] but that, on the contrary, it destroys much of the meaning of opportunity; the control of capital which is the motive70 power of modern industrial life, falling more and more into the hands of a small group of legatees, on whose pleasure the rest of the community tends to become dependent for its livelihood71.
And we see the results of this new economic condition in the character of the populations of those vast cities into which the Industrial Revolution is still gathering72 the peoples of Europe and America. Among these, the spirit of individual enterprise and initiative is continually choked by the narrow range of their opportunity. Their lives become the melancholy73 exponents74 of that theory of the specialisation of industry against which the humanitarians76 of the age have all inveighed77.
[Pg 308]
Serious as it was becoming in the New World, the Labour Question had not yet, in Whitman’s time, assumed an aspect so menacing as in the Old. Even to-day the proportion of Americans engaged in agriculture is four times as large as that which rules in Great Britain; and except in the North Atlantic States, the rural population does not seem to be actually losing ground;[662] though its increase is much less rapid than that of the urban districts, into which more than a third of the population is now gathered, as against a fifth at the close of the war, or an eighth in the middle of the century. At the time of Whitman’s death nearly three-quarters of the total number of American farmers were the owners of their farms; and it was in these working proprietors78, with the similar body of half-independent artisans who were owners of their houses, that he placed his social faith. These were, as we have seen, the men whom he regarded as citizens in the fullest sense.[663]
In this view he was doubtless influenced by Mill, whose Principles of Political Economy he seems to have studied soon after its appearance in 1848. Roughly speaking, Mill had supplemented the teaching of Adam Smith, that individual liberty is the one sure foundation for the wealth of nations, by describing the proper sphere of social intervention79 in industrial matters. His picture of the future industry—the association of the labourers themselves on terms of equality, collectively owning the capital with which they carry on their operations, and working under managers selected and removable by themselves—has been quoted as the socialist80 ideal.[664]
And Mill was deeply influenced by the early Socialists81.[665] Their activity in Europe during the first half of the nineteenth century was so remarkable that it must have come under the notice of Whitman. Robert Owen, intoxicated82 with what was perhaps a rather shallow conception of the great truth of human perfectibility, had spent[Pg 309] his life and wealth in unsuccessful but most suggestive social experiments. No less optimistic were his French contemporaries, St. Simon and Fourier.
In striking contrast with them and their doctrinaire83 systems, Proudhon, the peasant, who presents not a few points of agreement with Whitman, looked forward to voluntarism as the final form of society, and detested84 alike the theoretic elaboration and the sexual lubricity of his amiable85 but, on the whole, unpractical compatriots.
The failure of the risings of 1848, and the succeeding period of reaction, checked the socialist movement,[666] and social reform was left for awhile to middle-class Liberalism, with its philanthropic ignorance of the real needs of the workers; until, in the last generation, the demands of labour, the pressure of poverty and the aspirations86 of social enthusiasts87, have together furnished the motive power for a further struggle for the collectivist ideal of “intelligent happiness and pleasurable energy” for all.[667]
This recent movement was at first most unequally yoked88 with an unbeliever in the brilliant, fatalistic theory of Karl Marx. Marx was a year older than Whitman; his acute Hebrew intellect was trained under the Hegelian system of thought, but he was apparently89 destitute90 of the finer historic sense, as well as of Hegel’s idealism.[668] The humanitarian75 character of the social movement is now once more sweeping91 it far beyond his formulas; but in Whitman’s time the Marxian theory dominated Socialism.
In Long Island and New York, during the period of Whitman’s youth, the social condition was, on the whole, free from serious disorders92, save those incident upon growth and rapid development. The spirit of Elizabethan enterprise, the practical achievement of brave and ardently93 conceived ideas, ruled in that democratic society wherein his habit of mind was shaped, and of which it was in large degree a natural product.[Pg 310] Whitman’s youth and early manhood were little touched by evidences of any social disease so deep-seated as to encourage ideas of revolution. It is true that the vested interests of the slave party made themselves felt in New York; but neither to him nor to the “Free-soil” party did the anti-slavery movement suggest that other change which the political title they adopted brings so vividly94 before the mind to-day. “Free-soil” had for him no definitely Socialistic significance.
And it was only, as we have seen, after the war that the accentuation of the labour problem brought it into prominence95 in the American cities. Whenever, thereafter, Whitman, leaving the comparative quiet of his own surroundings, revisited the metropolis96, or wandered to some great western centre of industry, he realised dimly the progressive approach of the crisis.
The increase in the accumulation of wealth was far outrunning even the rapid increase in population; but a large proportion of this wealth was being concentrated in a few hands which threatened to control the national policy. Manufacture was facilitated by the immense influx97 of immigrants who swelled98 the dependent city populations, and these immigrants coming more and more from the south-east of Europe, that is to say, from the most backward, ignorant and turbulent nations, promised by their presence to create a social problem in the North and Middle West not less acute if less extensive than that of the negro in the South.
Democracy looks with suspicion on the very poor,[669] quoth Whitman, meaning that the poverty of the poor incapacitates them for citizenship99. That, I think, is one of the great and final arguments against the policy of laissez faire under existing circumstances.
Things would go very well if left to themselves, says the philosophic100 theorist, and so even Whitman is often inclined to declare.[670] But just as the organised party of slavery, in the fifty years before the war, refused to[Pg 311] leave things to right themselves, so the party of property to-day interferes101, more or less unconsciously, with the principle which it so loudly proclaims. It is because of the existence of innumerable sacrosanct102 parchments, customs and traditions, and all the subtly clinging fingers of mortmain, that laissez faire remains103 an empty phrase. If we could burn the parchments and loose the fingers, men might go free. But still for the sake of the nation’s health the poor would need to be assisted to rise out of the helpless condition into which society has allowed them to be thrust and held.
We have noted104 Whitman’s hearty105 approval of Canada’s benevolent106 institutions for the incapable107; he fully recognised the duty of society toward such as these.[671] And however hesitating his declarations on a subject which he was willing to leave to younger men, the main principle of his social economy, the right of each individual to be well born, carries us far from the policy of any party dominant108 to-day in our political life.
He recognised this right as far more fundamental than any secondary privilege which has been accorded to property for social convenience. And it is because this right continues to be denied to millions of future citizens, to the most serious peril109 of the whole Republic, and apparently for no better reason than that its recognition must impede110 the present rate of increase in material development, that the Socialist party has arisen in America. It is safe to say that it is the only party which deliberately aims at social amelioration and the equal opportunity of all citizens; and in this respect it seeks to realise Whitman’s ideal. In so far, however, as it clings to European theories, and identifies itself solely111 with a section of the nation, proclaiming a class-war in the interests, not of America or of Humanity, but of Labour—large, and inclusive as the term may be—it seems directly to antagonise that ideal.
Whitman would certainly be belied112 by the label of “Socialist”; but “Individualist” would as little de[Pg 312]scribe him. He was, and must always remain, outside of parties, and to some extent in actual antagonism113 to them; for while recognising its purpose and necessity, he was essentially114 jealous of government and control. He wanted to see the Americans managing their own affairs as little as possible by deputy, and, as far as possible, in their own persons. That, I take it, is the only form of collectivism or social life which is ultimately desirable; and all political reform will aim at its practical realisation. It depends most of all upon the simultaneous deepening of social consciousness and sympathy and increase of the means and spirit of individual independence. Only by these simultaneous developments can we hope to see established that Society of Comrades which was the America of Whitman’s vision.
On the practical side of the Labour Question the old man occasionally expressed his emphatic115 dislike of certain sides of Trade unionism, and probably misunderstood, as he clearly mistrusted the movement. “When the Labour agitation,” he would say, “is other than a kicking of somebody else out to let myself in, I shall warm up to it, maybe.”[672] And of the workman he added: “He should make his cause the cause of the manliness116 of all men; that assured, every effort he may make is all right”.
But he was a poor man himself, judged by modern standards, and he had a profoundly human and practical sympathy with the lives of the poor. He knew exactly where their shoe pinched. And thus, whatever his dislike of unionism, he was an admirable administrator117 of charity. His delight in giving made him the willing almoner of at least one wealthy Philadelphia magnate,[673] and during severe winters he was enabled to supply his friends, the drivers of the street cars, with warm overcoats. In his diary, alongside of the addresses of those who purchased his books, are long lists of these driver friends, dimly reminiscent of the hospital lists which he used to keep in Washington.
[Pg 313]
Walt was always an incurable118 giver of gifts, and these, one may be sure, never weakened the manly119 independence of their recipients120. His admiration121 for generous men of wealth, like George Peabody, has found a place in Leaves of Grass.[674] For he saw that to love is both to give and to receive, and in that holy commerce both actions alike are blessed.
His interest in social work is shown in a hitherto unpublished letter written about this time to Mary Whitall Smith, who had married and gone to England, and who sent him accounts of the work being done among the poor of the East End through the agency of Toynbee Hall. Of this he writes at noon on the 20th of July, 1885: “The account of the Toynbee Hall doings and chat [is] deeply interesting to me. I think much of all genuine efforts of the human emotions, the soul and bodily and intellectual powers, to exploit themselves for humanity’s good: the efforts in themselves I mean (sometimes I am not sure but they are the main matter)—without stopping to calculate whether the investment is tip-top in a business or statistical122 point of view.
“These libations, ecstatic life-pourings as it were of precious wine or rose-water on vast desert-sands or great polluted river—taking chances for returns or no returns—what were they (or are they) but the theory and practice of the beautiful God Christ? or of all Divine personality?”
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graveyard
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mounds
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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delightful
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remarkable
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eloquence
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plebeian
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withdrawn
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participation
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consternation
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outrageous
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wares
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stylish
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descended
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stuffy
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kindly
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homage
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impulsively
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hesitation
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decided
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forth
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heartily
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creek
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reverently
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intimacy
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permissible
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wholesome
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incipient
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gaily
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hymn
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perfectly
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courteous
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solitude
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divesting
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homely
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affected
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elusive
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sketch
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authenticated
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invaluable
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fully
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royalties
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buxom
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jersey
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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48
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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49
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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50
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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51
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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52
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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53
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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54
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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56
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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57
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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58
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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59
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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62
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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63
regimentation
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| n.编组团队；系统化，组织化 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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66
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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68
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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71
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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72
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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exponents
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| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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humanitarians
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| n.慈善家( humanitarian的名词复数 ) | |
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inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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82
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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doctrinaire
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| adj.空论的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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95
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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96
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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98
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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99
citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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100
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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101
interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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102
sacrosanct
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| adj.神圣不可侵犯的 | |
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103
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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104
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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105
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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106
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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107
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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108
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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109
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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110
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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111
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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112
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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113
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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114
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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115
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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116
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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117
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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118
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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119
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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120
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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121
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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122
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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