We may remark, by the way, that we have been relieved from a serious scruple27 by discovering that silly novels by lady p. 180novelists rarely introduce us into any other than very lofty and fashionable society. We had imagined that destitute28 women turned novelists, as they turned governesses, because they had no other “ladylike” means of getting their bread. On this supposition, vacillating syntax, and improbable incident had a certain pathos29 for us, like the extremely supererogatory pincushions and ill-devised nightcaps that are offered for sale by a blind man. We felt the commodity to be a nuisance, but we were glad to think that the money went to relieve the necessitous, and we pictured to ourselves lonely women struggling for a maintenance, or wives and daughters devoting themselves to the production of “copy” out of pure heroism—perhaps to pay their husband’s debts or to purchase luxuries for a sick father. Under these impressions we shrank from criticising a lady’s novel: her English might be faulty, but we said to ourselves her motives30 are irreproachable31; her imagination may be uninventive, but her patience is untiring. Empty writing was excused by an empty stomach, and twaddle was consecrated33 by tears. But no! This theory of ours, like many other pretty theories, has had to give way before observation. Women’s silly novels, we are now convinced, are written under totally different circumstances. The fair writers have evidently never talked to a tradesman except from a carriage window; they have no notion of the working-classes except as “dependents;” they think five hundred a year a miserable34 pittance35; Belgravia and “baronial halls” are their primary truths; and they have no idea of feeling interest in any man who is not at least a great landed proprietor37, if not a prime minister. It is clear that they write in elegant boudoirs, with violet-colored ink and a ruby38 pen; that they must be entirely39 indifferent to publishers’ accounts, and inexperienced in every form of poverty except poverty of brains. It is true that we are constantly struck with the want of verisimilitude in their representations of the high society in which they seem to live; but then they betray no closer acquaintance with any other form of life. If their peers and peeresses are improbable, their p. 181literary men, tradespeople, and cottagers are impossible; and their intellect seems to have the peculiar40 impartiality41 of reproducing both what they have seen and heard, and what they have not seen and heard, with equal unfaithfulness.
There are few women, we suppose, who have not seen something of children under five years of age, yet in “Compensation,” a recent novel of the mind-and-millinery species, which calls itself a “story of real life,” we have a child of four and a half years old talking in this Ossianic fashion:
“‘Oh, I am so happy, dear grand mamma;—I have seen—I have seen such a delightful42 person; he is like everything beautiful—like the smell of sweet flowers, and the view from Ben Lemond;—or no, better than that—he is like what I think of and see when I am very, very happy; and he is really like mamma, too, when she sings; and his forehead is like that distant sea,’ she continued, pointing to the blue Mediterranean43; ‘there seems no end—no end; or like the clusters of stars I like best to look at on a warm fine night. . . . Don’t look so . . . your forehead is like Loch Lomond, when the wind is blowing and the sun is gone in; I like the sunshine best when the lake is smooth. . . . So now—I like it better than ever . . . It is more beautiful still from the dark cloud that has gone over it, when the sun suddenly lights up all the colors of the forests and shining purple rocks, and it is all reflected in the waters below.’”
We are not surprised to learn that the mother of this infant phenomenon, who exhibits symptoms so alarmingly like those of adolescence44 repressed by gin, is herself a ph?nix. We are assured, again and again, that she had a remarkably45 original in mind, that she was a genius, and “conscious of her originality46,” and she was fortunate enough to have a lover who was also a genius and a man of “most original mind.”
This lover, we read, though “wonderfully similar” to her “in powers and capacity,” was “infinitely superior to her in faith and development,” and she saw in him “‘Agape’—so rare to find—of which she had read and admired the meaning in her Greek Testament48; having, from her great facility in learning languages, read the Scriptures50 in their original tongues.” Of course! Greek and Hebrew are mere51 play to p. 182a heroine; Sanscrit is no more than a b c to her; and she can talk with perfect correctness in any language, except English. She is a polking polyglot52, a Creuzer in crinoline. Poor men. There are so few of you who know even Hebrew; you think it something to boast of if, like Bolingbroke, you only “understand that sort of learning and what is writ32 about it;” and you are perhaps adoring women who can think slightingly of you in all the Semitic languages successively. But, then, as we are almost invariably told that a heroine has a “beautifully small head,” and as her intellect has probably been early invigorated by an attention to costume and deportment, we may conclude that she can pick up the Oriental tongues, to say nothing of their dialects, with the same a?rial facility that the butterfly sips54 nectar. Besides, there can be no difficulty in conceiving the depth of the heroine’s erudition when that of the authoress is so evident.
In “Laura Gay,” another novel of the same school, the heroine seems less at home in Greek and Hebrew but she makes up for the deficiency by a quite playful familiarity with the Latin classics—with the “dear old Virgil,” “the graceful55 Horace, the humane56 Cicero, and the pleasant Livy;” indeed, it is such a matter of course with her to quote Latin that she does it at a picnic in a very mixed company of ladies and gentlemen, having, we are told, “no conception that the nobler sex were capable of jealousy58 on this subject. And if, indeed,” continues the biographer of Laura Gray, “the wisest and noblest portion of that sex were in the majority, no such sentiment would exist; but while Miss Wyndhams and Mr. Redfords abound59, great sacrifices must be made to their existence.” Such sacrifices, we presume, as abstaining61 from Latin quotations62, of extremely moderate interest and applicability, which the wise and noble minority of the other sex would be quite as willing to dispense63 with as the foolish and ignoble64 majority. It is as little the custom of well-bred men as of well-bred women to quote Latin in mixed parties; they can contain their familiarity with “the humane Cicero” without allowing it p. 183to boil over in ordinary conversation, and even references to “the pleasant Livy” are not absolutely irrepressible. But Ciceronian Latin is the mildest form of Miss Gay’s conversational65 power. Being on the Palatine with a party of sight-seers, she falls into the following vein66 of well-rounded remark: “Truth can only be pure objectively, for even in the creeds67 where it predominates, being subjective68, and parcelled out into portions, each of these necessarily receives a hue69 of idiosyncrasy, that is, a taint70 of superstition71 more or less strong; while in such creeds as the Roman Catholic, ignorance, interest, the basis of ancient idolatries, and the force of authority, have gradually accumulated on the pure truth, and transformed it, at last, into a mass of superstition for the majority of its votaries72; and how few are there, alas73! whose zeal74, courage, and intellectual energy are equal to the analysis of this accumulation, and to the discovery of the pearl of great price which lies hidden beneath this heap of rubbish.” We have often met with women much more novel and profound in their observations than Laura Gay, but rarely with any so inopportunely long-winded. A clerical lord, who is half in love with her, is alarmed by the daring remarks just quoted, and begins to suspect that she is inclined to free-thinking. But he is mistaken; when in a moment of sorrow he delicately begs leave to “recall to her memory, a dep?t of strength and consolation76 under affliction, which, until we are hard pressed by the trials of life, we are too apt to forget,” we learn that she really has “recurrence77 to that sacred dep?t,” together with the tea-pot. There is a certain flavor of orthodoxy mixed with the parade of fortunes and fine carriages in “Laura Gay,” but it is an orthodoxy mitigated78 by study of “the humane Cicero,” and by an “intellectual disposition79 to analyze80.”
“Compensation” is much more heavily dosed with doctrine81, but then it has a treble amount of snobbish82 worldliness and absurd incident to tickle83 the palate of pious frivolity84. Linda, the heroine, is still more speculative85 and spiritual than Laura Gay, but she has been “presented,” and has more and far p. 184grander lovers; very wicked and fascinating women are introduced—even a French lionne; and no expense is spared to get up as exciting a story as you will find in the most immoral86 novels. In fact, it is a wonderful pot pourri of Almack’s, Scotch87 second-sight, Mr. Rogers’s breakfasts, Italian brigands88, death-bed conversions89, superior authoresses, Italian mistresses, and attempts at poisoning old ladies, the whole served up with a garnish91 of talk about “faith and development” and “most original minds.” Even Miss Susan Barton, the superior authoress, whose pen moves in a “quick, decided92 manner when she is composing,” declines the finest opportunities of marriage; and though old enough to be Linda’s mother (since we are told that she refused Linda’s father), has her hand sought by a young earl, the heroine’s rejected lover. Of course, genius and morality must be backed by eligible93 offers, or they would seem rather a dull affair; and piety94, like other things, in order to be comme il faut, must be in “society,” and have admittance to the best circles.
“Rank and Beauty” is a more frothy and less religious variety of the mind-and-millinery species. The heroine, we are told, “if she inherited her father’s pride of birth and her mother’s beauty of person, had in herself a tone of enthusiastic feeling that, perhaps, belongs to her age even in the lowly born, but which is refined into the high spirit of wild romance only in the far descended96, who feel that it is their best inheritance.” This enthusiastic young lady, by dint97 of reading the newspaper to her father, falls in love with the prime minister, who, through the medium of leading articles and “the resumé of the debates,” shines upon her imagination as a bright particular star, which has no parallax for her living in the country as simple Miss Wyndham. But she forthwith becomes Baroness99 Umfraville in her own right, astonishes the world with her beauty and accomplishments100 when she bursts upon it from her mansion101 in Spring Gardens, and, as you foresee, will presently come into contact with the unseen objet aimé. Perhaps the words “prime minister” suggest to you a wrinkled or p. 185obese sexagenarian; but pray dismiss the image. Lord Rupert Conway has been “called while still almost a youth to the first situation which a subject can hold in the universe,” and even leading articles and a resumé of the debates have not conjured102 up a dream that surpasses the fact.
“The door opened again, and Lord Rupert Conway entered. Evelyn gave one glance. It was enough; she was not disappointed. It seemed as if a picture on which she had long gazed was suddenly instinct with life, and had stepped from its frame before her. His tall figure, the distinguished104 simplicity105 of his air—it was a living Vandyke, a cavalier, one of his noble cavalier ancestors, or one to whom her fancy had always likened him, who long of yore had with an Umfraville fought the Paynim far beyond the sea. Was this reality?”
Very little like it, certainly.
By and by it becomes evident that the ministerial heart is touched. Lady Umfraville is on a visit to the Queen at Windsor, and—
“The last evening of her stay, when they returned from riding, Mr. Wyndham took her and a large party to the top of the Keep, to see the view. She was leaning on the battlements, gazing from that ‘stately height’ at the prospect106 beneath her, when Lord Rupert was by her side. ‘What an unrivalled view!’ exclaimed she.
“‘Yes, it would have been wrong to go without having been up here. You are pleased with your visit?’
“‘Enchanted! A Queen to live and die under, to live and die for!’
“‘Ha!’ cried he, with sudden emotion, and with a eureka expression of countenance107, as if he had indeed found a heart in unison108 with his own.”
The “eureka expression of countenance” you see at once to be prophetic of marriage at the end of the third volume; but before that desirable consummation there are very complicated misunderstandings, arising chiefly from the vindictive110 plotting of Sir Luttrel Wycherley, who is a genius, a poet, and in every way a most remarkable111 character indeed. He is not only a romantic poet, but a hardened rake and a cynical112 wit; yet p. 186his deep passion for Lady Umfraville has so impoverished113 his epigrammatic talent that he cuts an extremely poor figure in conversation. When she rejects him, he rushes into the shrubbery and rolls himself in the dirt; and on recovering, devotes himself to the most diabolical114 and laborious115 schemes of vengeance117, in the course of which he disguises himself as a quack118 physician and enters into general practice, foreseeing that Evelyn will fall ill, and that he shall be called in to attend her. At last, when all his schemes are frustrated119, he takes leave of her in a long letter, written, as you will perceive from the following passage, entirely in the style of an eminent120 literary man:
“Oh, lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, will you ever cast one thought upon the miserable being who addresses you? Will you ever, as your gilded121 galley122 is floating down the unruffled stream of prosperity, will you ever, while lulled123 by the sweetest music—thine own praises—hear the far-off sigh from that world to which I am going?”
On the whole, however, frothy as it is, we rather prefer “Rank and Beauty” to the two other novels we have mentioned. The dialogue is more natural and spirited; there is some frank ignorance and no pedantry124; and you are allowed to take the heroine’s astounding125 intellect upon trust, without being called on to read her conversational refutations of sceptics and philosophers, or her rhetorical solutions of the mysteries of the universe.
Writers of the mind-and-millinery school are remarkably unanimous in their choice of diction. In their novels there is usually a lady or gentleman who is more or less of a upas tree; the lover has a manly126 breast; minds are redolent of various things; hearts are hollow; events are utilized128; friends are consigned129 to the tomb; infancy130 is an engaging period; the sun is a luminary131 that goes to his western couch, or gathers the rain-drops into his refulgent132 bosom133; life is a melancholy134 boon135; Albion and Scotia are conversational epithets136. There is a striking resemblance, too, in the character of their moral comments, such, for instance, as that “It is a fact, no less true p. 187than melancholy, that all people, more or less, richer or poorer, are swayed by bad example;” that “Books, however trivial, contain some subjects from which useful information may be drawn138;” that “Vice can too often borrow the language of virtue;” that “Merit and nobility of nature must exist, to be accepted, for clamor and pretension139 cannot impose upon those too well read in human nature to be easily deceived;” and that “In order to forgive, we must have been injured.” There is doubtless a class of readers to whom these remarks appear peculiarly pointed103 and pungent140; for we often find them doubly and trebly scored with the pencil, and delicate hands giving in their determined adhesion to these hardy141 novelties by a distinct très vrai, emphasized by many notes of exclamation142. The colloquial143 style of these novels is often marked by much ingenious inversion144, and a careful avoidance of such cheap phraseology as can be heard every day. Angry young gentlemen exclaim, “’Tis ever thus, methinks;” and in the half hour before dinner a young lady informs her next neighbor that the first day she read Shakespeare she “stole away into the park, and beneath the shadow of the greenwood tree, devoured145 with rapture146 the inspired page of the great magician.” But the most remarkable efforts of the mind-and-millinery writers lie in their philosophic147 reflections. The authoress of “Laura Gay,” for example, having married her hero and heroine, improves the event by observing that “if those sceptics, whose eyes have so long gazed on matter that they can no longer see aught else in man, could once enter with heart and soul, into such bliss148 as this, they would come to say that the soul of man and the polypus are not of common origin, or of the same texture149.” Lady novelists, it appears, can see something else besides matter; they are not limited to phenomena150, but can relieve their eyesight by occasional glimpses of the noumenon, and are, therefore, naturally better able than any one else to confound sceptics, even of that remarkable but to us unknown school which maintains that the soul of man is of the same texture as the polypus.
p. 188The most pitiable of all silly novels by lady novelists are what we may call the oracular species—novels intended to expound151 the writer’s religious, philosophical152, or moral theories. There seems to be a notion abroad among women, rather akin153 to the superstition that the speech and actions of idiots are inspired, and that the human being most entirely exhausted154 of common-sense is the fittest vehicle of revelation. To judge from their writings, there are certain ladies who think that an amazing ignorance, both of science and of life, is the best possible qualification for forming an opinion on the knottiest155 moral and speculative questions. Apparently, their recipe for solving all such difficulties is something like this: Take a woman’s head, stuff it with a smattering of philosophy and literature chopped small, and with false notions of society baked hard, let it hang over a desk a few hours every day, and serve up hot in feeble English when not required. You will rarely meet with a lady novelist of the oracular class who is diffident of her ability to decide on theological questions—who has any suspicion that she is not capable of discriminating156 with the nicest accuracy between the good and evil in all church parties—who does not see precisely157 how it is that men have gone wrong hitherto—and pity philosophers in general that they have not had the opportunity of consulting her. Great writers, who have modestly contented158 themselves with putting their experience into fiction, and have thought it quite a sufficient task to exhibit men and things as they are, she sighs over as deplorably deficient in the application of their powers. “They have solved no great questions”—and she is ready to remedy their omission159 by setting before you a complete theory of life and manual of divinity in a love story, where ladies and gentlemen of good family go through genteel vicissitudes, to the utter confusion of Deists, Puseyites, and ultra-Protestants, and to the perfect establishment of that peculiar view of Christianity which either condenses itself into a sentence of small caps, or explodes into a cluster of stars on the three hundred and thirtieth page. It is true, the ladies and p. 189gentlemen will probably seem to you remarkably little like any you have had the fortune or misfortune to meet with, for, as a general rule, the ability of a lady novelist to describe actual life and her fellow-men is in inverse161 proportion to her confident eloquence162 about God and the other world, and the means by which she usually chooses to conduct you to true ideas of the invisible is a totally false picture of the visible.
As typical a novel of the oracular kind as we can hope to meet with, is “The Enigma163: a Leaf from the Chronicles of the Wolchorley House.” The “enigma” which this novel is to solve is certainly one that demands powers no less gigantic than those of a lady novelist, being neither more nor less than the existence of evil. The problem is stated and the answer dimly foreshadowed on the very first page. The spirited young lady, with raven164 hair, says, “All life is an inextricable confusion;” and the meek165 young lady, with auburn hair, looks at the picture of the Madonna which she is copying, and—“There seemed the solution of that mighty166 enigma.” The style of this novel is quite as lofty as its purpose; indeed, some passages on which we have spent much patient study are quite beyond our reach, in spite of the illustrative aid of italics and small caps; and we must await further “development” in order to understand them. Of Ernest, the model young clergyman, who sets every one right on all occasions, we read that “he held not of marriage in the marketable kind, after a social desecration;” that, on one eventful night, “sleep had not visited his divided heart, where tumultuated, in varied167 type and combination, the aggregate168 feelings of grief and joy;” and that, “for the marketable human article he had no toleration, be it of what sort, or set for what value it might, whether for worship or class, his upright soul abhorred169 it, whose ultimatum170, the self-deceiver, was to him the great spiritual lie, ‘living in a vain show, deceiving and being deceived;’ since he did not suppose the phylactery and enlarged border on the garment to be merely a social trick.” (The italics and small caps are the author’s, and we hope they assist the reader’s p. 190comprehension.) Of Sir Lionel, the model old gentleman, we are told that “the simple ideal of the middle age, apart from its anarchy171 and decadence172, in him most truly seemed to live again, when the ties which knit men together were of heroic cast. The first-born colors of pristine173 faith and truth engraven on the common soul of man, and blent into the wide arch of brotherhood174, where the prim36?val law of order grew and multiplied each perfect after his kind, and mutually interdependent.” You see clearly, of course, how colors are first engraven on the soul, and then blent into a wide arch, on which arch of colors—apparently a rainbow—the law of order grew and multiplied, each—apparently the arch and the law—perfect after his kind? If, after this, you can possibly want any further aid toward knowing what Sir Lionel was, we can tell you that in his soul “the scientific combinations of thought could educe175 no fuller harmonies of the good and the true than lay in the prim?val pulses which floated as an atmosphere around it!” and that, when he was sealing a letter, “Lo! the responsive throb176 in that good man’s bosom echoed back in simple truth the honest witness of a heart that condemned177 him not, as his eye, bedewed with love, rested, too, with something of ancestral pride, on the undimmed motto of the family—‘Loiaute.’”
The slightest matters have their vulgarity fumigated178 out of them by the same elevated style. Commonplace people would say that a copy of Shakespeare lay on a drawing-room table; but the authoress of “The Enigma,” bent179 on edifying180 periphrasis, tells you that there lay on the table, “that fund of human thought and feeling, which teaches the heart through the little name, ‘Shakespeare.’” A watchman sees a light burning in an upper window rather longer than usual, and thinks that people are foolish to sit up late when they have an opportunity of going to bed; but, lest this fact should seem too low and common, it is presented to us in the following striking and metaphysical manner: “He marvelled—as a man will think for others in a necessarily separate personality, p. 191consequently (though disallowing181 it) in false mental premise—how differently he should act, how gladly he should prize the rest so lightly held of within.” A footman—an ordinary Jeames, with large calves183 and aspirated vowels—answers the door-bell, and the opportunity is seized to tell you that he was a “type of the large class of pampered184 menials, who follow the curse of Cain—‘vagabonds’ on the face of the earth, and whose estimate of the human class varies in the graduated scale of money and expenditure185. . . . These, and such as these, O England, be the false lights of thy morbid186 civilization!” We have heard of various “false lights,” from Dr. Cumming to Robert Owen, from Dr. Pusey to the Spirit-rappers, but we never before heard of the false light that emanates187 from plush and powder.
In the same way very ordinary events of civilized188 life are exalted189 into the most awful crises, and ladies in full skirts and manches à la Chinoise, conduct themselves not unlike the heroines of sanguinary melodramas190. Mrs. Percy, a shallow woman of the world, wishes her son Horace to marry the auburn-haired Grace, she being an heiress; but he, after the manner of sons, falls in love with the raven-haired Kate, the heiress’s portionless cousin; and, moreover, Grace herself shows every symptom of perfect indifference191 to Horace. In such cases sons are often sulky or fiery192, mothers are alternately man?uvring and waspish, and the portionless young lady often lies awake at night and cries a good deal. We are getting used to these things now, just as we are used to eclipses of the moon, which no longer set us howling and beating tin kettles. We never heard of a lady in a fashionable “front” behaving like Mrs. Percy under these circumstances. Happening one day to see Horace talking to Grace at a window, without in the least knowing what they are talking about, or having the least reason to believe that Grace, who is mistress of the house and a person of dignity, would accept her son if he were to offer himself, she suddenly rushes up to them and clasps them both, saying, “with a flushed countenance and in p. 192an excited manner”—“This is indeed happiness; for, may I not call you so, Grace?—my Grace—my Horace’s Grace!—my dear children!” Her son tells her she is mistaken, and that he is engaged to Kate, whereupon we have the following scene and tableau193:
“Gathering herself up to an unprecedented194 height (!) her eyes lightening forth98 the fire of her anger:
“‘Wretched boy!’ she said, hoarsely195 and scornfully, and clenching196 her hand, ‘Take then the doom197 of your own choice! Bow down your miserable head and let a mother’s—’
“‘Curse not!’ spake a deep low voice from behind, and Mrs. Percy started, scared, as though she had seen a heavenly visitant appear, to break upon her in the midst of her sin.
“Meantime Horace had fallen on his knees, at her feet, and hid his face in his hands.
“Who then, is she—who! Truly his ‘guardian198 spirit’ hath stepped between him and the fearful words, which, however unmerited, must have hung as a pall199 over his future existence;—a spell which could not be unbound—which could not be unsaid.
“Of an earthly paleness, but calm with the still, iron-bound calmness of death—the only calm one there—Katherine stood; and her words smote200 on the ear in tones whose appallingly201 slow and separate intonation202 rung on the heart like a chill, isolated203 tolling204 of some fatal knell205.
“‘He would have plighted206 me his faith, but I did not accept it; you cannot, therefore—you dare not curse him. And here,’ she continued, raising her hand to heaven, whither her large dark eyes also rose with a chastened glow, which, for the first time, suffering had lighted in those passionate207 orbs—‘here I promise, come weal, come woe208, that Horace Wolchorley and I do never interchange vows209 without his mother’s sanction—without his mother’s blessing210!’”
Here, and throughout the story, we see that confusion of purpose which is so characteristic of silly novels written by women. It is a story of quite modern drawing-room society—p. 193a society in which polkas are played and Puseyism discussed; yet we have characters, and incidents, and traits of manner introduced, which are mere shreds211 from the most heterogeneous212 romances. We have a blind Irish harper, “relic of the picturesque213 bards214 of yore,” startling us at a Sunday-school festival of tea and cake in an English village; we have a crazy gypsy, in a scarlet216 cloak, singing snatches of romantic song, and revealing a secret on her death-bed which, with the testimony217 of a dwarfish218 miserly merchant, who salutes219 strangers with a curse and a devilish laugh, goes to prove that Ernest, the model young clergyman, is Kate’s brother; and we have an ultra-virtuous220 Irish Barney, discovering that a document is forged, by comparing the date of the paper with the date of the alleged221 signature, although the same document has passed through a court of law and occasioned a fatal decision. The “Hall” in which Sir Lionel lives is the venerable country-seat of an old family, and this, we suppose, sets the imagination of the authoress flying to donjons and battlements, where “lo! the warder blows his horn;” for, as the inhabitants are in their bedrooms on a night certainly within the recollection of Pleaceman X. and a breeze springs up, which we are at first told was faint, and then that it made the old cedars222 bow their branches to the greensward, she falls into this medi?val vein of description (the italics are ours): “The banner unfurled it at the sound, and shook its guardian wing above, while the startled owl95 flapped her in the ivy57; the firmament223 looking down through her ‘argus eyes’—
‘Ministers of heaven’s mute melodies.’
And lo! two strokes tolled224 from out the warder tower, and ‘Two o’clock’ re-echoed its interpreter below.”
Such stories as this of “The Enigma” remind us of the pictures clever children sometimes draw “out of their own head,” where you will see a modern villa215 on the right, two knights225 in helmets fighting in the foreground, and a tiger grinning in a jungle on the left, the several objects being brought together p. 194because the artist thinks each pretty, and perhaps still more because he remembers seeing them in other pictures.
But we like the authoress much better on her medi?val stilts226 than on her oracular ones—when she talks of the Ich and of “subjective” and “objective,” and lays down the exact line of Christian160 verity227, between “right-hand excesses and left-hand declensions.” Persons who deviate228 from this line are introduced with a patronizing air of charity. Of a certain Miss Inshquine she informs us, with all the lucidity229 of italics and small caps, that “function, not form, as the inevitable230 outer expression of the spirit in this tabernacle age, weakly engrossed231 her.” And à propos of Miss Mayjar, an evangelical lady who is a little too apt to talk of her visits to sick women and the state of their souls, we are told that the model clergyman is “not one to disallow182, through the super crust, the undercurrent toward good in the subject, or the positive benefits, nevertheless, to the object.” We imagine the double-refined accent and protrusion232 of chin which are feebly represented by the italics in this lady’s sentences! We abstain60 from quoting any of her oracular doctrinal passages, because they refer to matters too serious for our pages just now.
The epithet137 “silly” may seem impertinent, applied233 to a novel which indicates so much reading and intellectual activity as “The Enigma,” but we use this epithet advisedly. If, as the world has long agreed, a very great amount of instruction will not make a wise man, still less will a very mediocre234 amount of instruction make a wise woman. And the most mischievous235 form of feminine silliness is the literary form, because it tends to confirm the popular prejudice against the more solid education of women.
When men see girls wasting their time in consultations236 about bonnets237 and ball dresses, and in giggling238 or sentimental239 love-confidences, or middle-aged240 women mismanaging their children, and solacing241 themselves with acrid242 gossip, they can hardly help saying, “For Heaven’s sake, let girls be better educated; let them have some better objects of thought—some p. 195more solid occupations.” But after a few hours’ conversation with an oracular literary woman, or a few hours’ reading of her books, they are likely enough to say, “After all, when a woman gets some knowledge, see what use she makes of it! Her knowledge remains243 acquisition instead of passing into culture; instead of being subdued244 into modesty245 and simplicity by a larger acquaintance with thought and fact, she has a feverish246 consciousness of her attainments247; she keeps a sort of mental pocket-mirror, and is continually looking in it at her own ‘intellectuality;’ she spoils the taste of one’s muffin by questions of metaphysics; ‘puts down’ men at a dinner-table with her superior information; and seizes the opportunity of a soirée to catechise us on the vital question of the relation between mind and matter. And then, look at her writings! She mistakes vagueness for depth, bombast248 for eloquence, and affectation for originality; she struts249 on one page, rolls her eyes on another, grimaces250 in a third, and is hysterical251 in a fourth. She may have read many writings of great men, and a few writings of great women; but she is as unable to discern the difference between her own style and theirs as a Yorkshireman is to discern the difference between his own English and a Londoner’s: rhodomontade is the native accent of her intellect. No—the average nature of women is too shallow and feeble a soil to bear much tillage; it is only fit for the very lightest crops.”
It is true that the men who come to such a decision on such very superficial and imperfect observation may not be among the wisest in the world; but we have not now to contest their opinion—we are only pointing out how it is unconsciously encouraged by many women who have volunteered themselves as representatives of the feminine intellect. We do not believe that a man was ever strengthened in such an opinion by associating with a woman of true culture, whose mind had absorbed her knowledge instead of being absorbed by it. A really cultured woman, like a really cultured man, is all the simpler and the less obtrusive252 for her knowledge; it has made her see herself p. 196and her opinions in something like just proportions; she does not make it a pedestal from which she flatters herself that she commands a complete view of men and things, but makes it a point of observation from which to form a right estimate of herself. She neither spouts253 poetry nor quotes Cicero on slight provocation254; not because she thinks that a sacrifice must be made to the prejudices of men, but because that mode of exhibiting her memory and Latinity does not present itself to her as edifying or graceful. She does not write books to confound philosophers, perhaps because she is able to write books that delight them. In conversation she is the least formidable of women, because she understands you, without wanting to make you aware that you can’t understand her. She does not give you information, which is the raw material of culture—she gives you sympathy, which is its subtlest essence.
A more numerous class of silly novels than the oracular (which are generally inspired by some form of High Church or transcendental Christianity) is what we may call the white neck-cloth species, which represent the tone of thought and feeling in the Evangelical party. This species is a kind of genteel tract255 on a large scale, intended as a sort of medicinal sweetmeat for Low Church young ladies; an Evangelical substitute for the fashionable novel, as the May Meetings are a substitute for the Opera. Even Quaker children, one would think, can hardly have been denied the indulgence of a doll; but it must be a doll dressed in a drab gown and a coal-scuttle-bonnet—not a worldly doll, in gauze and spangles. And there are no young ladies, we imagine—unless they belong to the Church of the United Brethren, in which people are married without any love-making—who can dispense with love stories. Thus, for Evangelical young ladies there are Evangelical love stories, in which the vicissitudes of the tender passion are sanctified by saving views of Regeneration and the Atonement. These novels differ from the oracular ones, as a Low Churchwoman often differs from a High Churchwoman: they are a little less p. 197supercilious and a great deal more ignorant, a little less correct in their syntax and a great deal more vulgar.
The Orlando of Evangelical literature is the young curate, looked at from the point of view of the middle class, where cambric bands are understood to have as thrilling an effect on the hearts of young ladies as epaulettes have in the classes above and below it. In the ordinary type of these novels the hero is almost sure to be a young curate, frowned upon, perhaps by worldly mammas, but carrying captive the hearts of their daughters, who can “never forget that sermon;” tender glances are seized from the pulpit stairs instead of the opera-box; tête-à-têtes are seasoned with quotations from Scripture49 instead of quotations from the poets; and questions as to the state of the heroine’s affections are mingled256 with anxieties as to the state of her soul. The young curate always has a background of well-dressed and wealthy if not fashionable society—for Evangelical silliness is as snobbish as any other kind of silliness—and the Evangelical lady novelist, while she explains to you the type of the scapegoat257 on one page, is ambitious on another to represent the manners and conversations of aristocratic people. Her pictures of fashionable society are often curious studies, considered as efforts of the Evangelical imagination; but in one particular the novels of the White Neck-cloth School are meritoriously258 realistic—their favorite hero, the Evangelical young curate, is always rather an insipid259 personage.
The most recent novel of this species that we happen to have before us is “The Old Grey Church.” It is utterly260 tame and feeble; there is no one set of objects on which the writer seems to have a stronger grasp than on any other; and we should be entirely at a loss to conjecture261 among what phases of life her experience has been gained, but for certain vulgarisms of style which sufficiently262 indicate that she has had the advantage, though she has been unable to use it, of mingling263 chiefly with men and women whose manners and characters have not had all their bosses and angles rubbed down by refined conventionalism. It is less excusable in an Evangelical novelist than p. 198in any other, gratuitously264 to seek her subjects among titles and carriages. The real drama of Evangelicalism—and it has abundance of fine drama for any one who has genius enough to discern and reproduce it—lies among the middle and lower classes; and are not Evangelical opinions understood to give an especial interest in the weak things of the earth, rather than in the mighty? Why, then, cannot our Evangelical lady novelists show us the operation of their religious views among people (there really are many such in the world) who keep no carriage, “not so much as a brass-bound gig,” who even manage to eat their dinner without a silver fork, and in whose mouths the authoress’s questionable265 English would be strictly266 consistent? Why can we not have pictures of religious life among the industrial classes in England, as interesting as Mrs. Stowe’s pictures of religious life among the negroes? Instead of this pious ladies nauseate267 us with novels which remind us of what we sometimes see in a worldly woman recently “converted;”—she is as fond of a fine dinner-table as before, but she invites clergymen instead of beaux; she thinks as much of her dress as before, but she adopts a more sober choice of colors and patterns; her conversation is as trivial as before, but the triviality is flavored with gospel instead of gossip. In “The Old Grey Church” we have the same sort of Evangelical travesty268 of the fashionable novel, and of course the vicious, intriguing269 baronet is not wanting. It is worth while to give a sample of the style of conversation attributed to this high-born rake—a style that, in its profuse270 italics and palpable innuendoes271, is worthy272 of Miss Squeers. In an evening visit to the ruins of the Colosseum, Eustace, the young clergyman, has been withdrawing the heroine, Miss Lushington, from the rest of the party, for the sake of a tête-à-tête. The baronet is jealous, and vents127 his pique273 in this way:
“There they are, and Miss Lushington, no doubt, quite safe; for she is under the holy guidance of Pope Eustace the First, who has, of course, been delivering to her an edifying homily on the wickedness of the heathens of yore, who, as tradition tells us, in this very p. 199place let loose the wild beastises on poor St. Paul!—Oh, no! by the bye, I believe I am wrong, and betraying my want of clergy8, and that it was not at all St. Paul, nor was it here. But no matter, it would equally serve as a text to preach from, and from which to diverge274 to the degenerate275 heathen Christians276 of the present day, and all their naughty practices, and so end with an exhortation277 to ‘come but from among them, and be separate;’—and I am sure, Miss Lushington, you have most scrupulously278 conformed to that injunction this evening, for we have seen nothing of you since our arrival. But every one seems agreed it has been a charming party of pleasure, and I am sure we all feel much indebted to Mr. Gray for having suggested it; and as he seems so capital a cicerone, I hope he will think of something else equally agreeable to all.”
This drivelling kind of dialogue, and equally drivelling narrative279, which, like a bad drawing, represents nothing, and barely indicates what is meant to be represented, runs through the book; and we have no doubt is considered by the amiable authoress to constitute an improving novel, which Christian mothers will do well to put into the hands of their daughters. But everything is relative; we have met with American vegetarians280 whose normal diet was dry meal, and who, when their appetite wanted stimulating281, tickled282 it with wet meal; and so, we can imagine that there are Evangelical circles in which “The Old Grey Church” is devoured as a powerful and interesting fiction.
But perhaps the least readable of silly women’s novels are the modern-antique species, which unfold to us the domestic life of Jannes and Jambres, the private love affairs of Sennacherib, or the mental struggles and ultimate conversion90 of Demetrius the silversmith. From most silly novels we can at least extract a laugh; but those of the modern-antique school have a ponderous283, a leaden kind of fatuity, under which we groan284. What can be more demonstrative of the inability of literary women to measure their own powers than their frequent assumption of a task which can only be justified285 by the rarest concurrence286 of acquirement with genius? The finest effort to reanimate the past is of course only approximative—is p. 200always more or less an infusion287 of the modern spirit into the ancient form—
Das ist im Grund der Herren eigner Geist,
In dem die Zeiten sich bespiegeln.
Admitting that genius which has familiarized itself with all the relics288 of an ancient period can sometimes, by the force of its sympathetic divination289, restore the missing notes in the “music of humanity,” and reconstruct the fragments into a whole which will really bring the remote past nearer to us, and interpret it to our duller apprehension—this form of imaginative power must always be among the very rarest, because it demands as much accurate and minute knowledge as creative vigor53. Yet we find ladies constantly choosing to make their mental mediocrity more conspicuous290 by clothing it in a masquerade of ancient names; by putting their feeble sentimentality into the mouths of Roman vestals or Egyptian princesses, and attributing their rhetorical arguments to Jewish high-priests and Greek philosophers. A recent example of this heavy imbecility is “Adonijah, a Tale of the Jewish Dispersion,” which forms part of a series, “uniting,” we are told, “taste, humor, and sound principles.” “Adonijah,” we presume, exemplifies the tale of “sound principles;” the taste and humor are to be found in other members of the series. We are told on the cover that the incidents of this tale are “fraught with unusual interest,” and the preface winds up thus: “To those who feel interested in the dispersed291 of Israel and Judea, these pages may afford, perhaps, information on an important subject, as well as amusement.” Since the “important subject” on which this book is to afford information is not specified292, it may possibly lie in some esoteric meaning to which we have no key; but if it has relation to the dispersed of Israel and Judea at any period of their history, we believe a tolerably well-informed school-girl already knows much more of it than she will find in this “Tale of the Jewish Dispersion.” “Adonijah” is simply the feeblest kind of love story, supposed p. 201to be instructive, we presume, because the hero is a Jewish captive and the heroine a Roman vestal; because they and their friends are converted to Christianity after the shortest and easiest method approved by the “Society for Promoting the Conversion of the Jews;” and because, instead of being written in plain language, it is adorned293 with that peculiar style of grandiloquence294 which is held by some lady novelists to give an antique coloring, and which we recognize at once in such phrases as these:—“the splendid regnal talent, undoubtedly295, possessed296 by the Emperor Nero”—“the expiring scion297 of a lofty stem”—“the virtuous partner of his couch”—“ah, by Vesta!”—and “I tell thee, Roman.” Among the quotations which serve at once for instruction and ornament298 on the cover of this volume, there is one from Miss Sinclair, which informs us that “Works of imagination are avowedly299 read by men of science, wisdom, and piety;” from which we suppose the reader is to gather the cheering inference that Dr. Daubeny, Mr. Mill, or Mr. Maurice may openly indulge himself with the perusal300 of “Adonijah,” without being obliged to secrete301 it among the sofa cushions, or read it by snatches under the dinner-table.
“Be not a baker302 if your head be made of butter,” says a homely303 proverb, which, being interpreted, may mean, let no woman rush into print who is not prepared for the consequences. We are aware that our remarks are in a very different tone from that of the reviewers who, with perennial304 recurrence of precisely similar emotions, only paralleled, we imagine, in the experience of monthly nurses, tell one lady novelist after another that they “hail” her productions “with delight.” We are aware that the ladies at whom our criticism is pointed are accustomed to be told, in the choicest phraseology of puffery, that their pictures of life are brilliant, their characters well drawn, their style fascinating, and their sentiments lofty. But if they are inclined to resent our plainness of speech, we ask them to reflect for a moment on the chary305 p. 202praise, and often captious306 blame, which their panegyrists give to writers whose works are on the way to become classics. No sooner does a woman show that she has genius or effective talent, than she receives the tribute of being moderately praised and severely307 criticised. By a peculiar thermometric adjustment, when a woman’s talent is at zero, journalistic approbation308 is at the boiling pitch; when she attains309 mediocrity, it is already at no more than summer heat; and if ever she reaches excellence310, critical enthusiasm drops to the freezing point. Harriet Martineau, Currer Bell, and Mrs. Gaskell have been treated as cavalierly as if they had been men. And every critic who forms a high estimate of the share women may ultimately take in literature, will on principle abstain from any exceptional indulgence toward the productions of literary women. For it must be plain to every one who looks impartially311 and extensively into feminine literature that its greatest deficiencies are due hardly more to the want of intellectual power than to the want of those moral qualities that contribute to literary excellence—patient diligence, a sense of the responsibility involved in publication, and an appreciation312 of the sacredness of the writer’s art. In the majority of women’s books you see that kind of facility which springs from the absence of any high standard; that fertility in imbecile combination or feeble imitation which a little self-criticism would check and reduce to barrenness; just as with a total want of musical ear people will sing out of tune75, while a degree more melodic313 sensibility would suffice to render them silent. The foolish vanity of wishing to appear in print, instead of being counterbalanced by any consciousness of the intellectual or moral derogation implied in futile314 authorship, seems to be encouraged by the extremely false impression that to write at all is a proof of superiority in a woman. On this ground we believe that the average intellect of women is unfairly represented by the mass of feminine literature, and that while the few women who write well are very far above the ordinary intellectual level of their sex, the many women who write ill are very far below it. So p. 203that, after all, the severer critics are fulfilling a chivalrous315 duty in depriving the mere fact of feminine authorship of any false prestige which may give it a delusive316 attraction, and in recommending women of mediocre faculties—as at least a negative service they can render their sex—to abstain from writing.
The standing109 apology for women who become writers without any special qualification is that society shuts them out from other spheres of occupation. Society is a very culpable317 entity318, and has to answer for the manufacture of many unwholesome commodities, from bad pickles319 to bad poetry. But society, like “matter,” and Her Majesty’s Government, and other lofty abstractions, has its share of excessive blame as well as excessive praise. Where there is one woman who writes from necessity, we believe there are three women who write from vanity; and besides, there is something so antispetic in the mere healthy fact of working for one’s bread, that the most trashy and rotten kind of feminine literature is not likely to have been produced under such circumstances. “In all labor116 there is profit;” but ladies’ silly novels, we imagine, are less the result of labor than of busy idleness.
Happily, we are not dependent on argument to prove that Fiction is a department of literature in which women can, after their kind, fully47 equal men. A cluster of great names, both living and dead, rush to our memories in evidence that women can produce novels not only fine, but among the very finest—novels, too, that have a precious speciality, lying quite apart from masculine aptitudes320 and experience. No educational restrictions321 can shut women out from the materials of fiction, and there is no species of art which is so free from rigid322 requirements. Like crystalline masses, it may take any form, and yet be beautiful; we have only to pour in the right elements—genuine observation, humor, and passion. But it is precisely this absence of rigid requirement which constitutes the fatal seduction of novel-writing to incompetent323 women. Ladies are not wont324 to be very grossly deceived as to their power of playing on the piano; here certain positive difficulties p. 204of execution have to be conquered, and incompetence325 inevitably326 breaks down. Every art which had its absolute technique is, to a certain extent, guarded from the intrusions of mere left-handed imbecility. But in novel-writing there are no barriers for incapacity to stumble against, no external criteria327 to prevent a writer from mistaking foolish facility for mastery. And so we have again and again the old story of La Fontaine’s ass5, who pats his nose to the flute328, and, finding that he elicits329 some sound, exclaims, “Moi, aussie, je joue de la flute”—a fable330 which we commend, at parting, to the consideration of any feminine reader who is in danger of adding to the number of “silly novels by lady novelists.”
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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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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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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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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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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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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complexion
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redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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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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scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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57
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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58
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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59
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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60
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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61
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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62
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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63
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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64
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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65
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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66
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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67
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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68
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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69
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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70
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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71
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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72
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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73
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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74
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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75
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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76
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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77
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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78
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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80
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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81
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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82
snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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83
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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84
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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85
speculative
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|
| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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86
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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87
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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88
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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89
conversions
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| 变换( conversion的名词复数 )； （宗教、信仰等）彻底改变； （尤指为居住而）改建的房屋； 橄榄球（触地得分后再把球射中球门的）附加得分 | |
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90
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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91
garnish
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| n.装饰，添饰，配菜 | |
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92
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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93
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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94
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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95
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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96
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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97
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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98
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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99
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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100
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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101
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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102
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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103
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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104
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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105
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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106
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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107
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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108
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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109
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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110
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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111
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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112
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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113
impoverished
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|
| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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114
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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115
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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116
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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117
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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118
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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119
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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120
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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121
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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122
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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123
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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124
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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125
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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126
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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127
vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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128
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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130
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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131
luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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132
refulgent
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| adj.辉煌的，灿烂的 | |
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133
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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134
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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135
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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136
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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137
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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138
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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139
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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140
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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141
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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142
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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143
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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144
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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145
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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146
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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147
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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148
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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149
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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150
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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151
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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152
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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153
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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154
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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155
knottiest
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| adj.（指木材）多结节的( knotty的最高级 )；多节瘤的；困难的；棘手的 | |
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156
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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157
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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158
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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159
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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160
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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161
inverse
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| adj.相反的，倒转的，反转的；n.相反之物；v.倒转 | |
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162
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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163
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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164
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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165
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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166
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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167
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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168
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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169
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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170
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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171
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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172
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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173
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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174
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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175
educe
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| v.引出；演绎 | |
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176
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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177
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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178
fumigated
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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180
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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181
disallowing
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|
| v.不承认（某事物）有效( disallow的现在分词 )；不接受；不准；驳回 | |
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182
disallow
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| v.不允许；拒绝 | |
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183
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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184
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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186
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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187
emanates
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的第三人称单数 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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188
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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189
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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190
melodramas
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| 情节剧( melodrama的名词复数 ) | |
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191
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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192
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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193
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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194
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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195
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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196
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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197
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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198
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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199
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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200
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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201
appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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202
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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203
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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204
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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205
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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206
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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207
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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208
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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209
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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210
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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211
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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212
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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213
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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214
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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215
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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216
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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217
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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218
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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219
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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220
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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221
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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222
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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223
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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224
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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225
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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226
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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227
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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228
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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229
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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230
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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231
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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232
protrusion
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| n.伸出，突出 | |
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233
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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234
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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235
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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236
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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237
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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238
giggling
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|
| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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239
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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240
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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241
solacing
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|
| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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242
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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243
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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244
subdued
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|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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245
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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246
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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247
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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248
bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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249
struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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250
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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251
hysterical
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|
| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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252
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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253
spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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254
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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255
tract
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|
| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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256
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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257
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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258
meritoriously
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259
insipid
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|
| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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260
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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261
conjecture
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|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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262
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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263
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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264
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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265
questionable
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|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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266
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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267
nauseate
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|
| v.使作呕；使感到恶心；使厌恶 | |
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268
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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269
intriguing
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|
| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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270
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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271
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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272
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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273
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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274
diverge
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| v.分叉，分歧，离题，使...岔开，使转向 | |
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275
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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276
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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277
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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278
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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279
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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280
vegetarians
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| n.吃素的人( vegetarian的名词复数 )；素食者；素食主义者；食草动物 | |
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281
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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282
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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283
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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284
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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285
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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286
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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287
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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288
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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289
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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290
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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291
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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292
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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293
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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294
grandiloquence
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| n.夸张之言，豪言壮语，豪语 | |
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295
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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296
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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297
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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298
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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299
avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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300
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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301
secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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302
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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303
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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304
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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305
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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306
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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307
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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308
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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309
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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310
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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311
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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312
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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melodic
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| adj.有旋律的，调子美妙的 | |
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314
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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315
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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316
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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317
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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318
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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319
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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320
aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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321
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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322
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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323
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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324
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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325
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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326
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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327
criteria
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| n.标准 | |
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328
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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329
elicits
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| 引出，探出( elicit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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330
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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