“THIS Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan!” I hear one of my readers exclaim. “How much more edifying1 it would have been if you had made him give Arthur some truly spiritual advice! You might have put into his mouth the most beautiful things — quite as good as reading a sermon.”
Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation2 of the novelist to represent things as they never have been and never will be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character entirely3 after my own liking4; I might select the most unexceptionable type of clergyman and put my own admirable opinions into his mouth on all occasions. But it happens, on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any such arbitrary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and things as they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is doubtless defective5, the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflection faint or confused; but I feel as much bound to tell you as precisely6 as I can what that reflection is, as if I were in the witness-box, narrating7 my experience on oath.
Sixty years ago — it is a long time, so no wonder things have changed — all clergymen were not zealous8; indeed, there is reason to believe that the number of zealous clergymen was small, and it is probable that if one among the small minority had owned the livings of Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you would have liked him no better than you like Mr. Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him a tasteless, indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely that facts hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions and refined taste! Perhaps you will say, “Do improve the facts a little, then; make them more accordant with those correct views which it is our privilege to possess. The world is not just what we like; do touch it up with a tasteful pencil, and make believe it is not quite such a mixed entangled9 affair. Let all people who hold unexceptionable opinions act unexceptionably. Let your most faulty characters always be on the wrong side, and your virtuous10 ones on the right. Then we shall see at a glance whom we are to condemn11 and whom we are to approve. Then we shall be able to admire, without the slightest disturbance12 of our prepossessions: we shall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish13 which belongs to undoubting confidence.”
But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow- parishioner who opposes your husband in the vestry? With your newly appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you find painfully below that of his regretted predecessor14? With the honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing? With your neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you in your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things about you since your convalescence15? Nay16, with your excellent husband himself, who has other irritating habits besides that of not wiping his shoes? These fellow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are: you can neither straighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify17 their dispositions18; and it is these people — amongst whom your life is passed — that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is these more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people whose movements of goodness you should be able to admire — for whom you should cherish all possible hopes, all possible patience. And I would not, even if I had the choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty streets and the common green fields — on the real breathing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference19 or injured by your prejudice; who can be cheered and helped onward20 by your fellow- feeling, your forbearance, your outspoken21, brave justice.
So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to make things seem better than they were; dreading24 nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one’s best efforts, there is reason to dread23. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful25 facility in drawing a griffin — the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake26 us when we want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that even when you have no motive27 to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate28 feelings — much harder than to say something fine about them which is NOT the exact truth.
It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness29 that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous30 homely31 existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence32, of tragic33 suffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors34, to an old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary35 dinner, while the noonday light, softened36 perhaps by a screen of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim37 of her spinning-wheel, and her stone jug38, and all those cheap common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her — or I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged39 friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably with quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression of unmistakable contentment and goodwill40. “Foh!” says my idealistic friend, “what vulgar details! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exact likeness41 of old women and clowns? What a low phase of life! What clumsy, ugly people!”
But bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope? I am not at all sure that the majority of the human race have not been ugly, and even among those “lords of their kind,” the British, squat42 figures, ill-shapen nostrils43, and dingy44 complexions45 are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love amongst us. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying; yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for them, and their miniatures — flattering, but still not lovely — are kissed in secret by motherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could have never in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes, of middle stature46 and feeble beards, who have felt quite sure they could never love anything more insignificant47 than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles48. Yes! Thank God; human feeling is like the mighty49 rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for beauty — it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.
All honour and reverence50 to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and children — in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial51 light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic52 rules which shall banish53 from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent54 over the spade and done the rough work of the world — those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers55, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world there are so many of these common coarse people, who have no picturesque56 sentimental57 wretchedness! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of commonplace things — men who see beauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly58 the light of heaven falls on them. There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely59 beautiful women; few heroes. I can’t afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as your common labourer, who gets his own bread and eats it vulgarly but creditably with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should have a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who weighs out my sugar in a vilely61 assorted62 cravat63 and waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal64 in red scarf and green feathers — more needful that my heart should swell65 with loving admiration66 at some trait of gentle goodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth67 with me, or in the clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay68, or at the sublimest69 abstract of all clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able novelist.
And so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you to be in perfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying your demands on the clerical character. Perhaps you think he was not — as he ought to have been — a living demonstration70 of the benefits attached to a national church? But I am not sure of that; at least I know that the people in Broxton and Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with their clergyman, and that most faces brightened at his approach; and until it can be proved that hatred71 is a better thing for the soul than love, I must believe that Mr. Irwine’s influence in his parish was a more wholesome72 one than that of the zealous Mr. Ryde, who came there twenty years afterwards, when Mr. Irwine had been gathered to his fathers. It is true, Mr. Ryde insisted strongly on the doctrines74 of the Reformation, visited his flock a great deal in their own homes, and was severe in rebuking75 the aberrations76 of the flesh — put a stop, indeed, to the Christmas rounds of the church singers, as promoting drunkenness and too light a handling of sacred things. But I gathered from Adam Bede, to whom I talked of these matters in his old age, that few clergymen could be less successful in winning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr. Ryde. They learned a great many notions about doctrine73 from him, so that almost every church-goer under fifty began to distinguish as well between the genuine gospel and what did not come precisely up to that standard, as if he had been born and bred a Dissenter77; and for some time after his arrival there seemed to be quite a religious movement in that quiet rural district. “But,” said Adam, “I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young un, as religion’s something else besides notions. It isn’t notions sets people doing the right thing — it’s feelings. It’s the same with the notions in religion as it is with math’matics — a man may be able to work problems straight off in’s head as he sits by the fire and smokes his pipe, but if he has to make a machine or a building, he must have a will and a resolution and love something else better than his own ease. Somehow, the congregation began to fall off, and people began to speak light o’ Mr. Ryde. I believe he meant right at bottom; but, you see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beating down prices with the people as worked for him; and his preaching wouldn’t go down well with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my lord judge i’ the parish, punishing folks for doing wrong; and he scolded ’em from the pulpit as if he’d been a Ranter, and yet he couldn’t abide78 the Dissenters79, and was a deal more set against ’em than Mr. Irwine was. And then he didn’t keep within his income, for he seemed to think at first go-off that six hundred a-year was to make him as big a man as Mr. Donnithorne. That’s a sore mischief80 I’ve often seen with the poor curates jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. Mr. Ryde was a deal thought on at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books, but as for math’matics and the natur o’ things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was very knowing about doctrines, and used to call ’em the bulwarks81 of the Reformation; but I’ve always mistrusted that sort o’ learning as leaves folks foolish and unreasonable82 about business. Now Mester Irwine was as different as could be: as quick!— he understood what you meant in a minute, and he knew all about building, and could see when you’d made a good job. And he behaved as much like a gentleman to the farmers, and th’ old women, and the labourers, as he did to the gentry83. You never saw HIM interfering84 and scolding, and trying to play th’ emperor. Ah, he was a fine man as ever you set eyes on; and so kind to’s mother and sisters. That poor sickly Miss Anne — he seemed to think more of her than of anybody else in the world. There wasn’t a soul in the parish had a word to say against him; and his servants stayed with him till they were so old and pottering, he had to hire other folks to do their work.”
“Well,” I said, “that was an excellent way of preaching in the weekdays; but I daresay, if your old friend Mr. Irwine were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that he didn’t preach better after all your praise of him.”
“Nay, nay,” said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing himself back in his chair, as if he were ready to meet all inferences, “nobody has ever heard me say Mr. Irwine was much of a preacher. He didn’t go into deep speritial experience; and I know there s a deal in a man’s inward life as you can’t measure by the square, and say, ‘Do this and that ’ll follow,’ and, ‘Do that and this ’ll follow.’ There’s things go on in the soul, and times when feelings come into you like a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture85 says, and part your life in two a’most, so you look back on yourself as if you was somebody else. Those are things as you can’t bottle up in a ‘do this’ and ‘do that’; and I’ll go so far with the strongest Methodist ever you’ll find. That shows me there’s deep speritial things in religion. You can’t make much out wi’ talking about it, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine didn’t go into those things — he preached short moral sermons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty much up to what he said; he didn’t set up for being so different from other folks one day, and then be as like ’em as two peas the next. And he made folks love him and respect him, and that was better nor stirring up their gall86 wi’ being overbusy. Mrs. Poyser used to say — you know she would have her word about everything — she said, Mr. Irwine was like a good meal o’ victual, you were the better for him without thinking on it, and Mr. Ryde was like a dose o’ physic, he gripped you and worreted you, and after all he left you much the same.”
“But didn’t Mr. Ryde preach a great deal more about that spiritual part of religion that you talk of, Adam? Couldn’t you get more out of his sermons than out of Mr. Irwine’s?”
“Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young un, as religion’s something else besides doctrines and notions. I look at it as if the doctrines was like finding names for your feelings, so as you can talk of ’em when you’ve never known ’em, just as a man may talk o’ tools when he knows their names, though he’s never so much as seen ’em, still less handled ’em. I’ve heard a deal o’ doctrine i’ my time, for I used to go after the Dissenting87 preachers along wi’ Seth, when I was a lad o’ seventeen, and got puzzling myself a deal about th’ Arminians and the Calvinists. The Wesleyans, you know, are strong Arminians; and Seth, who could never abide anything harsh and was always for hoping the best, held fast by the Wesleyans from the very first; but I thought I could pick a hole or two in their notions, and I got disputing wi’ one o’ the class leaders down at Treddles’on, and harassed88 him so, first o’ this side and then o’ that, till at last he said, ‘Young man, it’s the devil making use o’ your pride and conceit89 as a weapon to war against the simplicity90 o’ the truth.’ I couldn’t help laughing then, but as I was going home, I thought the man wasn’t far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing and sifting91 what this text means and that text means, and whether folks are saved all by God’s grace, or whether there goes an ounce o’ their own will to’t, was no part o’ real religion at all. You may talk o’ these things for hours on end, and you’ll only be all the more coxy and conceited92 for’t. So I took to going nowhere but to church, and hearing nobody but Mr. Irwine, for he said notning but what was good and what you’d be the wiser for remembering. And I found it better for my soul to be humble93 before the mysteries o’ God’s dealings, and not be making a clatter94 about what I could never understand. And they’re poor foolish questions after all; for what have we got either inside or outside of us but what comes from God? If we’ve got a resolution to do right, He gave it us, I reckon, first or last; but I see plain enough we shall never do it without a resolution, and that’s enough for me.”
Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr. Irwine, as, happily, some of us still are of the people we have known familiarly. Doubtless it will be despised as a weakness by that lofty order of minds who pant after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general sense that their emotions are of too exquisite95 a character to find fit objects among their everyday fellowmen. I have often been favoured with the confidence of these select natures, and find them to concur96 in the experience that great men are overestimated97 and small men are insupportable; that if you would love a woman without ever looking back on your love as a folly98, she must die while you are courting her; and if you would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism99, you must never make a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly shrunk from confessing to these accomplished100 and acute gentlemen what my own experience has been. I am afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical assent101, and gratified them with an epigram on the fleeting102 nature of our illusions, which any one moderately acquainted with French literature can command at a moment’s notice. Human converse103, I think some wise man has remarked, is not rigidly104 sincere. But I herewith discharge my conscience, and declare that I have had quite enthusiastic movements of admiration towards old gentlemen who spoke22 the worst English, who were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never moved in a higher sphere of influence than that of parish overseer; and that the way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is lovable — the way I have learnt something of its deep pathos105, its sublime60 mysteries — has been by living a great deal among people more or less commonplace and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear nothing very surprising if you were to inquire about them in the neighbourhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most of the small shopkeepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in them. For I have observed this remarkable106 coincidence, that the select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their reverence and love, are curiously107 in unison108 with the narrowest and pettiest. For example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, the landlord of the Royal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye on his neighbours in the village of Shepperton, sum up his opinion of the people in his own parish — and they were all the people he knew — in these emphatic109 words: “Aye, sir, I’ve said it often, and I’ll say it again, they’re a poor lot i’ this parish — a poor lot, sir, big and little.” I think he had a dim idea that if he could migrate to a distant parish, he might find neighbours worthy110 of him; and indeed he did subsequently transfer himself to the Saracen’s Head, which was doing a thriving business in the back street of a neighbouring market-town. But, oddly enough, he has found the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as the inhabitants of Shepperton —”a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as comes for a go o’ gin are no better than them as comes for a pint111 o’ twopenny — a poor lot.”
收听单词发音 |
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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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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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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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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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waddles
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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51
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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52
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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53
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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56
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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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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62
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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63
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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sublimest
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| 伟大的( sublime的最高级 )； 令人赞叹的； 极端的； 不顾后果的 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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85
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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86
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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93
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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97
overestimated
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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99
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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100
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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101
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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102
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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103
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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104
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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105
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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106
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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107
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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108
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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109
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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110
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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111
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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