Thomas Hardy is a Dorset man both by birth and residence. He was born on 2nd June 1840, in a pretty, thatched cottage in the hamlet of Higher Bockhampton. If one takes the London road out of Dorchester, a walk of a mile and a turn to the right will lead to the village of Stinsford; passing this hamlet and keeping to the road which crosses Kingston Park, a turn to the left breaks on to Higher Bockhampton. The house stands on the edge of Thorncombe Wood, skirting Bockhampton Heath, but Hardy has told us that within the last fifty years the wood enclosed the house on every side.
Come into this old-world dwelling3 itself. The living-room is grey and white and dim. Ivy4 peers in at the open windows set deep in the thick walls. The floor is grey and shining, stone-flagged; the ceiling cross-beamed with rich old oak; the fireplace wide and deep, and the whole building covered with a fine roof of thatch2. Here the earlier years of the novelist were spent, here the aroma5 of the earth and woods invaded his heart when it was young. The environment helped to feed the long, long thoughts of the boy and gave him the image of the beginning of man living in the woods in the darkness, outwitting the wolves. It was here in the cradle of nature that Hardy first gained his minute knowledge of nature, and learnt how life and the meaning of life must be linked with place and the meaning of place. As in old Greek drama the chorus was directed to the audience at certain stages, so does Hardy turn the place spirit upon the progress of the story at certain moments with a vital bearing upon the action. He sees, as only the artist can see, how all the world is interwoven, and how the human spirit cannot be divorced from the plain course of nature without pity and disaster. To Hardy's delicate subtlety6 of mind in perceiving the right values of character and environment we owe the tremendous effect of certain great scenes: the selection of Woolbridge House, the antique and dismal7 old home of the Turbervilles, for the scene of Tess's confession8; the thunderstorm during which Oak saved his beloved Bathsheba's ricks; the mist that rolled wickedly over the cart conveying Fanny Robin's body from the workhouse, and produced the horrible drip-drip-drip on the coffin9 while the drivers caroused10 in an inn; the strange scene where Wildeve, "the Rousseau of Egdon," and the travelling ruddleman dice11 for Mrs Yeobright's money by the light of glow-worms. The delineation12 of Norcombe Hill at the commencement of Far from the Madding Crowd sets the key to which the theme of the story must always return after many delightful13 changes, and the vivid account of the lonely monarchy14 of the shepherd's night with his sheep, and the opulent silence when "the roll of the world eastward15 is almost a palpable movement" show the power and relentless16 grip of Hardy's work. Incidentally, also, with what fascinating detail does he introduce Bathsheba Everdene to the reader, so that we at once perceive what a curious blend of joyfulness17, pride, astuteness18 and irresponsibility she would gradually develop as the years pass on—witness the little incident at the toll-gate, where, seated on the top of the loaded wagon19, she refused to concede his rightful pence to the aggrieved20 turnpike-keeper.
The name of Hardy is very frequently encountered in Dorset, but the novelist's family is commonly said to be of the same blood as Nelson's Hardy. That Hardy's family possessed21 the sprightliness22 and resource of the Dorset people there can be little doubt, and this fact is[Pg 103] accentuated23 by an anecdote24 concerning Hardy's grandfather, told by Mr Alfred Pope, a member of the Dorset Field Club, at a meeting of the society. About a century ago Mr Hardy's grandfather was crossing a lonely heath one midnight in June when he discovered he was being followed by two footpads. He rolled a furze faggot on to the path, sat down on it, took off his hat, stuck two fern fronds26 behind his ears to represent horns, and then pretended to read a letter, which he took from his pocket, by the light of the glow-worms he had picked up and placed round the brim of his hat. The men took fright and bolted on seeing him, and a rumour27 soon got abroad in the neighbourhood that the devil had been seen at midnight near Greenhill Pond.
At the age of seventeen Hardy was articled to an ecclesiastical architect of Dorchester named Hicks, and it was in pursuance of this calling that he enjoyed many opportunities of studying not only architecture, but also the country folk, whose types he has been so successful in delineating. Architecture has deeply coloured all his work, from Desperate Remedies to Jude the Obscure. The former of these stories (in which, as it will be remembered, three of the characters are architects practising the miscellaneous vocations28 of stewards29, land surveyors and the like,[Pg 104] familiar to architects in country towns) appeared in 1871, signed only with initials. It was followed in the next year by Under the Greenwood Tree, and at this date Hardy departed from architecture (in which he had distinguished30 himself so far as to be a prize-winner at a Royal Society's competition). In 1873 A Pair of Blue Eyes appeared, and in 1874 Far from the Madding Crowd ran through the Cornhill. It was the first of his books to be published in yellow-backed form, which was then a sign that the novel had reached the highest point of popularity.
His first novel, The Poor Man and the Lady, was never published, and probably never will be, having been suppressed at Hardy's own request, although accepted for publication on the advice of George Meredith. But it was not long before he had finished a second story, Desperate Remedies, which first saw the light through the agency of Tinsley Brothers in 1871.
His first published article appeared without signature in Chambers's Journal, on 18th March 1865, entitled, "How I Built Myself a House," and was of a semi-humorous character. But previous to this Hardy had written a considerable amount of verse, all of which, with the exception of one poem, The Fire at Tranter Sweatley's, was unfortunately destroyed. This Wessex ballad33 appeared, bowdlerised, in The Gentleman's Magazine in November 1875. The ballad was first reproduced in its original form at the end of Mr Lane's bibliography34, together with the novelist's biographical note on his friend and neighbour, the Rev32. William Barnes, the Dorset poet, contributed to The Athenæum in October 1886. Of Mr Hardy's remaining contributions to periodical literature in other directions than fiction I need, perhaps, only mention his paper on "The Dorset Labourer," published in Longmans' in July 1893.
The Trumpet36 Major was published in 1881, and the next novel was A Laodicean, which appeared originally in Harper's Magazine.
"The writing of this tale," says Mr Hardy in the new preface to the book, "was rendered memorable37, to two persons at least, by a tedious illness of five months that laid hold of the author soon after the story was begun in a well-known magazine, during which period the narrative38 had to be strenuously39 continued by dictation to a predetermined cheerful ending. As some of these novels of Wessex life address themselves more especially to readers into whose soul the iron has entered, and whose years have less pleasure in them now than heretofore, so A Laodicean may perhaps help to wile40 away an idle afternoon of the comfortable ones whose lines have fallen to them in pleasant places; above all, of that large and happy section of the reading public which has not yet reached ripeness of years; those to whom marriage is the pilgrim's Eternal City, and not a milestone41 on the way."
Hardy's next novel, Two on a Tower, was published in three volumes in 1882. Four years elapsed before Mr Hardy's tenth novel, The Mayor of Casterbridge, made its appearance, though his story of The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid, which came out in The Graphic35 Summer Number in 1883, was reprinted in book form in America in 1884. The Woodlanders came next, this time through Messrs Macmillan, who published it in 1887 in three volumes. Wessex Tales, in two volumes, appeared in 1888, though the stories had been making their appearance in various periodicals since 1879.
In 1891 came Tess of the D'Urbervilles, which took the reading and criticising world by surprise. Hardy became explicit42 and charged the collective judgment43 of society with being shallow and contrary to the laws of nature. He dashed aside the conventions and proclaimed a "ruined" girl a "pure woman," and made definite charges against the code of society, which, in the belief that it was contending against immorality44, was all the while destroying some of nature's finest and most sensitive material. Hardy does not preach, but there is more than a dramatic situation in Angel Clare's confession to Tess on the night of their wedding, for he shows the hopelessness of any justice coming to the "fallen" girl. Even if Tess had been faultless, all her faith, devotion, love and essential sweetness would have been given to an unjust and sinful man. The whole situation is summed up in the conversation which follows Angel Clare's confession of an "eight-and-forty hours'" dissipation. Hardy shows (and endorses) that it was quite right that Tess, with her natural, unsophisticated intelligence, should look upon her loss of virginity out of wedlock45 as a thing to be regretted and also a thing to be forgiven—just as the same event in Angel Clare's life:
"Perhaps, although you smile, it is as serious as yours or more so."
"It can hardly be more serious, dearest."
"It cannot—oh no, it cannot." She jumped up joyfully46 at the hope. "No, it cannot be more serious, certainly," she cried, "because 'tis just the same!"
For life and light and movement it would be hard to surpass Chapter XXVIII. of Far from the Madding Crowd, where Sergeant47 Troy's skilful48 and dazzling exhibition with a sword bewilders Bathsheba and ends in that unpropitious, fugitive49 kiss.
It is a curious fact that, although Hardy's novels are such a true living influence, there are many people who feel that as a poet he has somehow just failed to hit the mark. But he himself regards his verse as the most important part of his work, and a section of his readers look upon it as the most distinctive50 English poetry of the past twenty years. In some quarters his poems are received with that curiosity which is awarded to a man of genius who breaks out freakishly with some strange hobby. People might look upon Rudyard Kipling with just such curiosity if he invited his friends to inspect his latest experiments in fretwork. However, to those of us who have followed his lyric51 poems and his supreme52 achievement, The Dynasts, it seems a well-nigh inexplicable53 phenomenon that much of his poetry should have passed into the limbo54 of forgotten things. Is there something wrong with his poems, or unusual about them? There is certainly a puzzling quality in his work. When his Wessex Poems were published in 1899 the reviewers, in a chorus, decided55 that it was "want of form" which weakened his verse, and it is interesting to read how Literature summed up his position as a poet:
"Here is no example of that positive inability to write well in verse which has marked several great prose writers, such as in Carlyle and Hume; nor of that still more curious ability to write once or twice well, and never to regain56 the careless rapture57, as in Berkeley and Chateaubriand. The phenomenon is a strongly marked and appropriate accent of his own, composing (so to speak) professionally in verse, able to amuse and move us along lines strictly58 parallel with his prose, and yet lacking something. This is not a case like George Eliot's, where the essence of the writer's style evaporates in the restraint of verse. Never was Mr Hardy more intensely and exclusively himself than in 'My Cicely.' Yet is this a complete success? Much as we admire it, we cannot say that it is.
"'And by Weatherbury Castle, and therence
Through Casterbridge bore I
To tomb her whose light, in my deeming,
Extinguished had He,'
is not quite satisfactory. Why? Simply and solely59 because the form is grotesque60. Here is the colour of poetry but not its sound, its essence but not its shape.
"It might seem only right that in the face of a volume of verse so violent and rugged61 as Wessex Poems we should protest that this is not the more excellent way of writing poetry. At the same time, every man must preserve his individuality, if he has one to preserve, as Mr Hardy assuredly has; and we have no reason to suppose that it is the desire of the author of 'The Peasant's Confession' to found a school or issue a propaganda. On the contrary, it is far more likely that he has put forth62 his Wessex verses with extreme simplicity63 and modesty64, not asking himself in what relation they stand to other people's poetry. As a matter of fact, the Wessex Poems will probably enjoy a double fate. They will supply to lovers of emotional narrative verse several poetic65 tales which they will lay up in memory among their treasures; and in time to come professors of literary history, when observing the retrogression of an imaginative period, and when speaking of Lydgate, of Donne, of the Spasmodists here, of the Symbolists in France, will mention Mr Hardy also as a signal example of the temporary success of a violent protest against the cultivation66 of form in verse."
But critics of discrimination are now beginning to discover that Thomas Hardy's poems do not lack the qualities which give poetic form a true balance. He fails to achieve popularity as a poet, they argue, because the "concentrated and unpalatable expression of his philosophy proves too disagreeable to those who seek relief from life in literature," and because the first shock of the grinding harshness of his peculiar67 style "is a barrier against the recognition of his merits." Certainly he makes no direct appeal to the ear of the reader. But on reading his lyric poems a second time—some of which, it must be admitted, must assuredly offend those who have unbounded faith in the human soul, whether from the standpoint of the Church or otherwise—the first grotesqueness68 of effect wears off, leaving at times a clear-cut and bitter touch that it would seem impossible to improve upon. It is true we find among the youthful poems some of great gloom and sadness, but it is well to bear in mind when making an estimate of Hardy's work and personality that certain natures express their thoughts in unusual ways. It is all the time wrong to assume that Hardy does not perceive anything else in life but a bitter and hopeless procession, just because his eloquence69 is always keener upon perceiving tragedy. It is true, he himself has confessed, that he shares with Sophocles the conviction that "not to be born is best"; but at the same time the spirit which moves always under the surface of his poetry tells us that man, being born, must make the best of life, and especially do what he can to ease the burdens of his fellow-men. After his moments of depression he finds his own consolations70. He takes a great pleasure in the trivial little objects and customs of rustic71 life—those simple things that are best of all, and his poem Afterwards is a good example both of his measured and harmonious72 style, and of his "dark, unconscious instinct of primitive73 nature-worship":
"If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
One may say, 'He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now he is gone.'
If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that Winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'?"
The reader instinctively75 pictures Hardy as a morose76, grim, cynical77 man—but he is really anything but that. From all accounts Hardy is mirrored in the whimsical and deep mirth that is so intermixed in the rustic characters in his novels. "It is too often assumed," says the capricious and tiresome78 Ethelberta—April-natured Hardy would call her—"that a person's fancy is a person's real mind.... Some of the lightest of rhymes were composed between the deepest fits of dismals I have known."
Some years ago The English Illustrated79 Magazine printed an account of a visit paid by a cyclist to Hardy at his Dorchester home. Authentic80 pictures of Hardy are so scarce that I venture to draw on this interview:
"The picture he presented was, for the moment at least, all-satisfying; there was more than nervousness in the strangely harassed-looking face, with the most sensitive features that I had ever seen. The deep-set eyes were troubled, but there was no mistaking their fearless courage. I knew that I was looking at a man whose soul was more ravaged81 than ever his careworn82 features were with the riddle83 of life and the tragedy of it, and yet a soul utterly84 self-reliant, for all the shyness of the outward man.
"I attempted no compliments, and asked him instead why he was so pessimistic a writer, why he wrote at once the most beautiful and the most dreadful of stories, and why he had not shown us far more often than he has done a picture of requited85 love, or of requited love that was not victimised at once by some pitiless act of fate.
"Mr Hardy had not sat down himself, but had stood by the fireplace, with his white hands holding the lapels of his old-fashioned tweed coat.
"We were on better terms in a moment, as Mr Hardy replied, his voice curiously86 halting, but not as if he was in any doubt of his sentiments. It seemed a mixture of irony87 and diffidence.
"'You are a young man,' he said. 'The cruelty of fate becomes apparent to people as they grow older. At first one may perhaps escape contact with it, but if one lives long enough one realises that happiness is very ephemeral.'
"There's too much sham89 optimism, humbugging and even cruel optimism,' Mr Hardy retorted. 'Sham optimism is really a more heartless doctrine90 to preach than even an exaggerated pessimism91—the latter leaves one at least on the safe side. There is too much sentiment in most fiction. It is necessary for somebody to write a little mercilessly, although, of course, it's painful to have to do it.'"
That is what we must do if we wish to move on the higher ideal of philosophical92 speculation93 as Hardy explains it. He points out that there is something in a novel that should transcend94 pessimism, meliorism or optimism, and that is the search for truth:
"So that to say one view is worse than other views without proving it erroneous implies the possibility of a false view being better or more expedient95 than a true view; and no pragmatic proppings can make that idolum specus stand on its feet, for it postulates96 a prescience denied to humanity."
Charges of pessimism Hardy dismisses as the product of the chubble-headed people who only desire to pair all the couples off at the end of a novel and leave them with a plentiful97 supply of "simply exquisite98" babies, hard cash and supreme contentment.
As I have hinted before, the face and the wealth of the earth are a constant joy to Hardy, and he has great admiration99 for the Dorset rustics100—those sprack-witted, earthy philosophers who have won support for his novels even in circles where his ideals of life are not in favour. He enthusiastically follows the ways and works of nature in which man co-operates. One instantly calls to mind Winterborne, the travelling cider-maker in The Woodlanders, as an instance of this: "He looked and smelt101 like Autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat colour, his eyes blue as cornflowers, his sleeves and leggings dyed with fruit stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination102 for those who have been born and bred among the orchards103."
William Barnes was born at Rushay, near Pentridge, a village about four miles from Cranborne, in the north-east of the county, on the Wiltshire border, and in the heart of the Vale of Blackmore, the beauties of which he was never tired of extolling105 in his gentle poems enriched with his native dialect. His mother was a woman of good education and refined tastes, and he attended an endowed school at Struminster, where the classes were composed of boys and girls and conducted in the American way. On leaving school he entered a solicitor's office in the same town, but at the age of eighteen he removed to Dorchester. In 1823 he went to Mere31, in Somerset, where he worked as a schoolmaster for four years in loneliness. At this time he married Miss Julia Miles, and after an additional eight years at Mere he returned to Dorchester, where teaching was still his profession. One might almost say that Dorchester was his spiritual birthplace, for here his genius began to attract more than local attention, and here he grew into the hearts of the people so deeply that when he passed away all wished to preserve his memory in the form of a public statue. Barnes was one of the secretaries of the Dorset Field Club. His most earnest wish was to enter the Church, and from St John's College, Cambridge, he was ordained106 by the Bishop107 of Salisbury in 1847, and became pastor108 of Whitcombe. He fell on troublous days and passed through a labyrinth109 of trials—sickness, death and sordid110 money embarrassments111. Only once did he allow his pent-up humours of discouragement to break loose. One day he came in to his family with a sheaf of correspondence in which letters from duns were accompanied by others containing warm eulogy112 of the poet. "What a mockery is life!" he exclaimed; "they praise me and take away my bread! They might be putting up a statue to me some day when I am dead, while all I want now is leave to live. I asked for bread and they gave me a stone," he added bitterly. At about this time he was awarded a Civil List pension of seventy pounds a year, while the gift of the living of Came relieved him of the anxiety over money matters. The happiest days of his life were spent at Came, and here he followed with great diligence his one hobby—the Anglicising of the Latinised English words in our vocabulary, which he called speech-lore.
He wrote two books on this subject, called Redecraft and Speechcraft. In his preface to Speechcraft he announced it as "a small trial towards the upholding of our own strong old Anglo-Saxon speech and the ready teaching of it to purely113 English minds by their own tongue." It was his fancy to replace all foreign and derived114 words with words based on Saxon roots. The following are selected from his glossary115 of Latinised words, with their Saxon equivalents facing them:—
Accelerate to on-quicken.
Accent word-strain.
Aeronaut air-farer.
Ancestor fore-elder.
Botany wort-lore.
Democracy folkdom.
Equivalent worth-evenness.
Foliate to leafen.
Initial word-head.
Thomas Hardy's note on the genius of his dead friend is a generous estimate: "Unlike Burns, Béranger, and other poets of the people, Barnes never assumed the high conventional style, and he entirely121 leaves alone ambition, pride, despair, defiance122, and other of the grander passions which move mankind, great and small. His rustics are as a rule happy people, and very seldom feel the sting of the rest of modern mankind—the disproportion between the desire for serenity123 and the power of obtaining it. One naturally thinks of Crabbe in this connection, but though they touch at points, Crabbe goes much further than Barnes in questioning the justice of circumstance. Their pathos124, after all, is the attribute upon which the poems must depend for their endurance; and the incidents which embody125 it are those of everyday cottage life, tinged126 throughout with that 'light that never was,' which the emotional art of the lyrist can project upon the commonest things. It is impossible to prophesy127, but surely much English literature will be forgotten when Woak Hill is still read for its intense pathos, Blackmore Maidens128 for its blitheness129, and In the Spring for its Arcadian ecstasy130."
In 1896 he published a copy of Early English and the Saxon English. In this he traces both Angles and Saxons. It was his idea that the ancient dykes131 which cut up so much of our land were delved132 by them to mark their settlements rather than to use in the case of warfare133. He also sturdily asserted that the Britons were accomplished134 road-makers before the Romans came, and that the Romans merely improved roads already existing.
The poem of Woak Hill is based on a Persian form of metre called The Pearl, because the rhymes are supposed to represent a series of beads135 upon a rosary. The pearl, or sequence of assonance, is shown in the second word in the last line of each stanza136:
"When sycamore-trees were a-spreading
Green-ruddy in hedges
A-dried at Woak Hill,
I packed up my goods all a-shining
With long years of handling
To ride at Woak Hill.
The brown thatchen roof of the dwelling
I then were a-leaving
My bride at Woak Hill.
But now for some years her light footfall
'S a-lost from the flooring.
Too soon for my joy and my children
She died at Woak Hill.
But still I do think that in soul
To ho' for her motherless children,
Her pride at Woak Hill.
So lest she should tell me hereafter
I stole off 'ithout her
And left her uncalled at house-ridden
I call'd her so fondly, with lippens
All soundless to others,
And took her with air-reaching hand
To my side at Woak Hill.
On the road I did look round, a-talking
To light at my shoulder,
Miles wide from Woak Hill.
And that's why folk thought, for a season,
My mind were a-wand'ring
With sorrow, when I were so sorely
A-tried at Woak Hill.
I wanted to think that I guided
My guide from Woak Hill."
Barnes saw the pathos in the joy of utter physical weariness of a labourer, and one of his finest poems depicts144 a cottage under a swaying poplar:
"An' hands a-tired by day, were still,
Wi' moonlight on the door."
He always has that deep, quiet craving145 for the hearth146, the fire, the protecting thatch of a cottage, which gives his work a pathetic touch. I think sometimes that Barnes must have been nearer to being cold, homeless and tired at times than is generally understood.
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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caroused
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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joyfulness
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astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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anecdote
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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fronds
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rumour
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vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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33
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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34
bibliography
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| n.参考书目；(有关某一专题的)书目 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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36
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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38
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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39
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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40
wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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41
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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42
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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43
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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44
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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45
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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46
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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47
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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48
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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49
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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50
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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51
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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52
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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53
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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54
limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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55
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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56
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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57
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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58
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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59
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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60
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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61
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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62
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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64
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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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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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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67
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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68
grotesqueness
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69
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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70
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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71
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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72
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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73
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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74
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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75
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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76
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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77
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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78
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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79
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
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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81
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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82
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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83
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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84
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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85
requited
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| v.报答( requite的过去式和过去分词 )；酬谢；回报；报复 | |
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86
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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87
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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88
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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89
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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90
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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91
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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92
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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93
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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94
transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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95
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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96
postulates
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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98
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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99
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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100
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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101
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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102
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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103
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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104
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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105
extolling
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| v.赞美( extoll的现在分词 )；赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的现在分词 ) | |
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106
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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107
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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108
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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109
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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110
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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111
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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112
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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113
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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114
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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115
glossary
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| n.注释词表；术语汇编 | |
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116
acoustics
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| n.声学，(复)音响效果，音响装置 | |
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117
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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118
aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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119
deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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120
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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121
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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122
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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123
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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124
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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125
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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126
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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128
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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129
blitheness
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| n.blithe（快乐的）的变形 | |
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130
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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131
dykes
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| abbr.diagonal wire cutters 斜线切割机n.堤( dyke的名词复数 )；坝；堰；沟 | |
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132
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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134
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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135
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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136
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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137
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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138
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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139
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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140
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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141
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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142
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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143
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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144
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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145
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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146
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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