This tour produced a good deal of poetry; and here and there are touches which recall the old inspiration. Such is the comparison of the clouds about the Engelberg to hovering8 angels; and such the description of the eclipse falling upon the population of statues which throng9 the pinnacles10 of Milan Cathedral. But for the most part the poems relating to this tour have an artificial look; the sentiments in the vale of Chamouni seem to have been laboriously11 summoned for the occasion; and the poet’s admiration12 for the Italian maid and the Helvetian girl is a mere13 shadow of the old feeling for the Highland14 girl, to whom, in fact, he seems obliged to recur15 in order to give reality to his new emotion.
To conclude the subject of Wordsworth’s travels, I will mention here that in 1823 he made a tour in Holland, and in 1824 in North Wales, where his sonnet6 to the torrent16 at the Devil’s Bridge recalls the Swiss scenery seen in his youth with vigour17 and dignity. In 1828 he made another excursion in Belgium with Coleridge, and in 1829 he visited Ireland with his friend Mr. Marshall. Neither of these tours was productive. In 1831 he paid a visit with his daughter to Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, before his departure to seek health in Italy. Scott received them cordially, and had strength to take them to the Yarrow. “Of that excursion,” says Wordsworth, “the verses Yarrow Revisited are a memorial. On our return in the afternoon we had to cross the Tweed, directly opposite Abbotsford. A rich, but sad light, of rather a purple than a golden hue18, was spread over the Eildon hills at that moment; and, thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter would cross the stream (the Tweed), I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet beginning, A trouble not of clouds nor weeping rain. At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, tête-à-tête, when he spoke19 with gratitude20 of the happy life which, upon the whole, he had led. He had written in my daughter’s album, before he came into the breakfast-room that morning, a few stanzas21 addressed to her; and, while putting the book into her hand, in his own study, standing23 by his desk, he said to her, in my presence, ‘I should not have done anything of this kind but for your father’s sake; they are probably the last verses I shall ever write.’ They show how much his mind was impaired24: not by the strain of thought, but by the execution, some of the lines being imperfect, and one stanza22 wanting corresponding rhymes. One letter, the initial S., had been omitted in the spelling of his own name.”
There was another tour in Scotland in 1833, which produced Memorials of little poetic25 value. And in 1837 he made a long tour in Italy with Mr. Crabb Robinson. But the poems which record this tour indicate a mind scarcely any longer susceptible26 to any vivid stimulus27 except from accustomed objects and ideas. The Musings near Aquapendente are musings on Scott and Helvellyn; the Pine Tree of Monte Mario is interesting because—Sir George Beaumont has saved it from destruction; the Cuckoo at Laverna brings all childhood back into his heart. “I remember perfectly28 well,” says Crabb Robinson, “that I heard the cuckoo at Laverna twice before he heard it; and that it absolutely fretted29 him that my ear was first favoured; and that he exclaimed with delight, ‘I hear it! I hear it!’” This was his last foreign tour; nor, indeed, are these tours very noticeable except as showing that he was not blindly wedded30 to his own lake scenery; that his admiration could face comparisons, and keep the same vividness when he was fresh from other orders of beauty.
The productions of these later years took for the most part a didactic rather than a descriptive form. In the volume entitled Poems chiefly of Early and Later Years, published in 1842, were many hortatory or ecclesiastical pieces of inferior merit, and among them various additions to the Ecclesiastical Sketches31, a series of sonnets begun in 1821, but which he continued to enlarge, spending on them much of the energies of his later years. And although it is only in a few instances—as in the description of King’s College, Cambridge—that these sonnets possess force or charm enough to rank them high as poetry, yet they assume a certain value when we consider not so much their own adequacy as the greater inadequacy32 of all rival attempts in the same direction.
The Episcopalian Churchman, in this country or in the United States, will certainly nowhere find presented to him in poetical33 form so dignified34 and comprehensive a record of the struggles and the glories, of the vicissitudes35 and the edification, of the great body to which he belongs. Next to the Anglican liturgy—though next at an immense interval—these sonnets may take rank as the authentic36 exposition of her historic being—an exposition delivered with something of her own unadorned dignity, and in her moderate and tranquil37 tone.
I would not, however, seem to claim too much. The religion which these later poems of Wordsworth’s embody38 is rather the stately tradition of a great Church than the pangs39 and aspirations40 of a holy soul. There is little in them—whether for good or evil—of the stuff of which a Paul, a Francis, a Dominic are made. That fervent41 emotion—akin to the passion of love rather than to intellectual or moral conviction—finds voice through singers of a very different tone. It is fed by an inward anguish42, and felicity which, to those who have not felt them, seem as causeless as a lover’s moods; by wrestlings not with flesh and blood; by nights of despairing self-abasement; by ecstasies43 of an incommunicable peace. How great the gulf44 between Wordsworth and George Herbert!—Herbert “offering at heaven, growing and groaning45 thither,”—and Wordsworth, for whom the gentle regret of the lines,—
Me this unchartered freedom tires,
I feel the weight of chance desires,—
forms his most characteristic expression of the self-judgment of the solitary46 soul.
Wordsworth accomplished47 one reconciliation48 of great importance to mankind. He showed, as plainly in his way as Socrates had shown it long ago, with what readiness a profoundly original conception of the scheme of things will shape itself into the mould of an established and venerable faith. He united the religion of the philosopher with the religion of the churchman; one rarer thing he could not do; he could not unite the religion of the philosopher with the religion of the saint. It is, indeed, evident that the most inspiring feeling which breathes through Wordsworth’s ecclesiastical pieces is not of a doctrinal, not even of a spiritual kind. The ecclesiastical as well as the political sentiments of his later years are prompted mainly by the admiring love with which he regarded the structure of English society—seen as that society was by him in its simplest and most poetic aspect. This concrete attachment49 to the scenes about him had always formed an important element in his character. Ideal politics, whether in Church or State, had never occupied his mind, which sought rather to find its informing principles embodied50 in the England of his own day. The sonnet On a Parsonage in Oxfordshire well illustrates52 the loving minuteness with which he draws out the beauty and fitness of the established scheme of things,—the power of English country life to satisfy so many moods of feeling.
The country-seat of the English squire53 or nobleman has become—may we not say?—one of the world’s chosen types of a happy and a stately home. And Wordsworth, especially in his poems which deal with Coleorton, has shown how deeply he felt the sway of such a home’s hereditary54 majesty55, its secure and tranquillizing charm. Yet there are moods when the heart which deeply feels the inequality of human lots turns towards a humbler ideal. There are moments when the broad park, the halls and towers, seem no longer the fitting frame of human greatness, but rather an isolating56 solitude57, an unfeeling triumph over the poor.
In such a mood of mind it will not always satisfy us to dwell, as Wordsworth has so often done, on the virtue58 and happiness that gather round a cottage hearth,—which we must, after all, judge by a somewhat less exacting59 standard. We turn rather to the “refined rusticity” of an English Parsonage home.
Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
Is marked by no distinguishable line;
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine,—
and the clergyman’s abode61 has but so much of dignity as befits the minister of the Church which is the hamlet’s centre; enough to suggest the old Athenian boast of beauty without extravagance, and study without effeminacy; enough to show that dwellings63 where not this life but another is the prevailing64 thought and care, yet need not lack the graces of culture, nor the loves of home.
The sonnet on Seathwaite Chapel65, and the life of Robert Walker, the incumbent66 of Seathwaite, which is given at length in the notes to the sonnets on the Duddon, afford a still more characteristic instance of the clerical ideal towards which Wordsworth naturally turned. In Robert Walker he had a Cumbrian statesman turned into a practical saint; and he describes him with a gusto in which his laboured sonnets on Laud67 or on Dissensions are wholly deficient68.
It was in social and political matters that the consequences of this idealizing view of the facts around him in Cumberland were most apparent. Take education, for example. Wordsworth, as has been already stated, was one of the earliest and most impressive assertors of the national duty of teaching every English child to read. He insists on this with a prosaic69 earnestness which places several pages of the Excursion among what may be called the standing bugbears which his poems offer to the inexperienced reader. And yet as soon as, through the exertions70 of Bell and Lancaster, there seems to be some chance of really educating the poor, Dr. Bell, whom Coleridge fondly imagines as surrounded in heaven by multitudes of grateful angels, is to Wordsworth a name of horror. The mistresses trained on his system are called “Dr. Bell’s sour-looking teachers in petticoats.” And the instruction received in these new-fangled schools is compared to “the training that fits a boxer71 for victory in the ring.” The reason of this apparent inconsistency is not far to seek. Wordsworth’s eyes were fixed72 on the village life around him. Observation of that life impressed on him the imperative73 necessity of instruction in reading. But it was from a moral, rather than an intellectual point of view that he regarded it as needful, and, this opening into the world of ideas once secured, he held that the cultivation74 of the home affections and home duties was all that was needed beyond. And thus the Westmoreland dame75, “in her summer seat in the garden, and in winter by the fireside,” was elevated into the unexpected position of the ideal instructress of youth.
Conservatism of this kind could provoke nothing but a sympathetic smile. The case was different when the same conservative—even retrograde—tendency showed itself on subjects on which party-feeling ran high. A great part of the meditative76 energy of Wordsworth’s later years was absorbed by questions towards whose solution he contributed no new element, and which filled him with disproportionate fears. And some injustice77 has been done to his memory by those who have not fully78 realized the predisposing causes which were at work,—the timidity of age, and the deep-rooted attachment to the England which he knew.
I speak of age, perhaps, somewhat prematurely79, as the poet’s gradually growing conservatism culminated80 in his opposition81 to the Catholic Relief Bill, before he was sixty years old. But there is nothing to wonder at in the fact that the mind of a man of brooding and solitary habits should show traces of advancing age earlier than is the case with statesmen or men of the world, who are obliged to keep themselves constantly alive to the ideas of the generation that is rising around them. A deadness to new impressions, an unwillingness82 to make intellectual efforts in fresh directions, a tendency to travel the same mental pathways over and over again, and to wear the ruts of prejudice deeper at every step; such traces of age as these undoubtedly83 manifested themselves in the way in which the poet confronted the great series of changes—Catholic Emancipation84, Reform Bill, New Poor Law, on which England entered about the year 1829. “My sixty-second year,” Wordsworth writes, in 1832, “will soon be completed; and though I have been favoured thus far in health and strength beyond most men of my age, yet I feel its effects upon my spirits; they sink under a pressure of apprehension85 to which, at an earlier period of my life, they would probably have been superior.” To this it must be added, that the increasing weakness of the poet’s eyes seriously limited his means of information. He had never read much contemporary literature, and he read less than ever now. He had no fresh or comprehensive knowledge of the general condition of the country, and he really believed in the prognostication which was uttered by many also who did not believe in it, that with the Reform Bill the England which he knew and loved would practically disappear. But there was nothing in him of the angry polemic86, nothing of the calumnious87 partisan88. One of the houses where Mr. Wordsworth was most intimate and most welcome was that of a reforming member of parliament, who was also a manufacturer, thus belonging to the two classes for which the poet had the greatest abhorrence89. But the intimacy90 was never for a moment shaken, and indeed in that house Mr. Wordsworth expounded91 the ruinous tendency of Reform and manufactures with even unusual copiousness92, on account of the admiring affection with which he felt himself surrounded. The tone in which he spoke was never such as could give pain or excite antagonism93; and—if I may be pardoned for descending94 to a detail which well illustrates my position—the only rejoinder which these diatribes95 provoked was that the poet on his arrival was sometimes decoyed into uttering them to the younger members of the family, whose time was of less value, so as to set his mind free to return to those topics of more permanent interest where his conversation kept to the last all that tenderness, nobility, wisdom, which in that family, as in many others familiar with the celebrated96 persons of that day, won for him a regard and a reverence97 such as was accorded to no other man.
To those, indeed, who realized how deeply he felt these changes,— how profoundly his notion of national happiness was bound up with a lovely and vanishing ideal,—the prominent reflection was that the hopes and principles which maintained through all an underlying98 hope and trust in the future must have been potent99 indeed. It was no easy optimism which prompted the lines written in 1837—one of his latest utterances—in which he speaks to himself with strong self-judgment and resolute100 hope. On reading them one shrinks from dwelling62 longer upon an old man’s weakness and a brave man’s fears.
If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve101 in one sure track;
If Freedom, set, revive again,
And Virtue, flown, come back,—
Woe102 to the purblind103 crew who fill
The heart with each day’s care,
Nor learn, from past and future, skill
To bear and to forbear.
The poet had also during these years more of private sorrow than his tranquil life had for a long time experienced. In 1832 his sister had a most serious illness, which kept her for many months in a state of great prostration104, and left her, when the physical symptoms abated105, with her intellect painfully impaired, and her bright nature permanently106 overclouded. Coleridge, too, was nearing his end. “He and my beloved sister,” writes Wordsworth, in 1832, “are the two beings to whom my intellect is most indebted, and they are now proceeding107, as it were, pari passu, along the path of sickness, I will not say towards the grave, but I trust towards a blessed immortality108.”
In July, 1834, “every mortal power of Coleridge was frozen at its marvellous source,” And although the early intimacy had scarcely been maintained,—though the “comfortless and hidden well” had, for a time at least, replaced the “living murmuring fount of love” which used to spring beside Wordsworth’s door,—yet the loss was one which the surviving poet deeply felt. Coleridge was the only contemporary man of letters with whom Wordsworth’s connexion had been really close; and when Wordsworth is spoken of as one of a group of poets exemplifying in various ways the influence of the Revolution, it is not always remembered how very little he had to do with the other famous men of his time. Scott and Southey were valued friends, but he thought little of Scott’s poetry, and less of Southey’s. Byron and Shelley he seems scarcely to have read; and he failed altogether to appreciate Keats. But to Coleridge his mind constantly reverted109; he called him “the most wonderful man he had ever known,” and he kept him as the ideal auditor110 of his own poems, long after Coleridge had listened to the Prelude,—
A song divine of high and passionate111 thoughts
To their own music chanted.
In 1836, moreover, died one for whom Coleridge, as well as Wordsworth, had felt a very high respect and regard—Sarah Hutchinson, Mrs. Wordsworth’s sister, and long the inmate112 of Wordsworth’s household. This most valued friend had been another instance of the singular good fortune which attended Wordsworth in his domestic connexions; and when she was laid in Grasmere churchyard, the stone above her tomb expressed the wish of the poet and his wife that, even as her remains113 were laid beside their dead children’s, so their own bodies also might be laid by hers.
And now, while the inner circle of friends and relations began, to pass away, the outer circle of admirers was rapidly spreading. Between the years 1830 and 1840 Wordsworth passed from the apostle of a clique114 into the most illustrious man of letters in England. The rapidity of this change was not due to any remarkable115 accident, nor to the appearance of any new work of genius. It was merely an extreme instance of what must always occur where an author, running counter to the fashion of his age, has to create his own public in defiance116 of the established critical powers. The disciples117 whom he draws round him are for the most part young; the established authorities are for the most part old; so that by the time that the original poet is about sixty years old, most of his admirers will be about forty, and most of his critics will be dead. His admirers now become his accredited118 critics; his works are widely introduced to the public; and if they are really good his reputation is secure. In Wordsworth’s case the detractors had been unusually persistent119, and the reaction, when it came, was therefore unusually violent; it was even somewhat factitious in its extent; and the poems were forced by enthusiasts120 upon a public which was only half ripe for them. After the poet’s death a temporary counter-reaction succeeded, and his fame is only now finding its permanent level.
Among the indications of growing popularity was the publication of an American edition of Wordsworth’s poems in 1837, by Professor Reed of Philadelphia, with whom the poet interchanged many letters of interest. “The acknowledgments,” he says in one of these, “which I receive from the vast continent of America are among the most grateful that reach me. What a vast field is there open to the English mind, acting60 through our noble language! Let us hope that our authors of true genius will not be unconscious of that thought, or inattentive to the duty which it imposes upon them, of doing their utmost to instruct, to purify, and to elevate their readers.”
But of all the manifestations121 of the growing honour in which Wordsworth was held, none was more marked or welcome than the honorary degree of D.C.L. conferred on him by the University of Oxford51 in the summer of 1839. Keble, as Professor of Poetry, introduced him in words of admiring reverence, and the enthusiasm of the audience was such as had never been evoked122 in that place before, “except upon the occasions of the visits of the Duke of Wellington.” The collocation was an interesting one. The special claim advanced for Wordsworth by Keble in his Latin oration123 was “that he had shed a celestial124 light upon the affections, the occupations, the piety125 of the poor.” And to many men besides the author of the Christian126 Year it seemed that this striking scene was, as it were, another visible triumph of the temper of mind which is of the essence of Christianity; a recognition that one spirit more had become as a little child, and had entered into the kingdom of heaven.
In October, 1842, another token of public respect was bestowed127 on him in the shape of an annuity128 of 300￡ a year from the Civil List for distinguished129 literary merit. “I need scarcely add,” says Sir Robert Peel, in making the offer, “that the acceptance by you of this mark of favour from the Crown, considering the grounds on which it is proposed, will impose no restraint upon your perfect independence, and involve no obligation of a personal nature.” In March, 1843, came the death of Southey, and in a few days Wordsworth received a letter from Earl De la Warr, the Lord Chamberlain, offering him, in the most courteous130 terms, the office of Poet Laureate, which, however, he respectfully declined as imposing131 duties, “which, far advanced in life as I am, I cannot venture to undertake.”
This letter brought a reply from the Lord Chamberlain, pressing the office on him again, and a letter from Sir Robert Peel which gave dignified expression to the national feeling in the matter. “The offer,” he says, “was made to you by the Lord Chamberlain, with my entire concurrence132, not for the purpose of imposing on you any onerous133 or disagreeable duties, but in order to pay you that tribute of respect which is justly due to the first of living poets. The Queen entirely134 approved of the nomination135, and there is one unanimous feeling on the part of all who have heard of the proposal (and it is pretty generally known) that there could not be a question about the selection. Do not be deterred136 by the fear of any obligations which the appointment may be supposed to imply. I will undertake that you shall have nothing required from you. But as the Queen can select for this honourable137 appointment no one whose claims for respect and honour, on account of eminence138 as a poet, can be placed in competition with, yours, I trust you will not longer hesitate to accept it.”
This letter overcame the aged139 poet’s scruples140; and he filled with silent dignity the post of Laureate till after seven years’ space a worthy141 successor received
This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that uttered nothing base.
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1
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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3
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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6
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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7
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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8
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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10
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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12
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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13
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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14
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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18
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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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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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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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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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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40
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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41
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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42
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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43
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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44
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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45
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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46
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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47
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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48
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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49
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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50
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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51
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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52
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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53
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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54
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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55
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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56
isolating
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| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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57
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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58
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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59
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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60
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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61
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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62
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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63
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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64
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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65
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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66
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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67
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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68
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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69
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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70
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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71
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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72
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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73
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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74
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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75
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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76
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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77
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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78
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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79
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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80
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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82
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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83
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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84
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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85
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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86
polemic
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| n.争论，论战 | |
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87
calumnious
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| adj.毁谤的，中伤的 | |
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88
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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89
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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90
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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91
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
copiousness
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| n.丰裕，旺盛 | |
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93
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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94
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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95
diatribes
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| n.谩骂，讽刺( diatribe的名词复数 ) | |
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96
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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97
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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98
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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99
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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100
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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101
revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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102
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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103
purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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104
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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105
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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106
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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107
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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108
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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109
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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110
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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111
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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112
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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113
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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114
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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115
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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116
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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117
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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118
accredited
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| adj.可接受的；可信任的；公认的；质量合格的v.相信( accredit的过去式和过去分词 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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119
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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120
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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121
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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122
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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123
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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124
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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125
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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126
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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127
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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129
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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130
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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131
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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132
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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133
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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134
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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135
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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136
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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138
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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139
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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140
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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141
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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