Jutland, which stretches between the German Ocean and the Baltic, until it ends at Skagen in a reef of quicksands, possesses a peculiar4 character. Towards the Baltic extend immense woods and hills; towards the North Sea, mountains and quicksands, scenery of a grand and solitary5 character; and between the two, infinite expanses of brown heath, with their wandering gipsies, their wailing6 birds, and their deep solitude7, which the Danish poet, Steen Blicher, has described in his novels.
This was the first foreign scenery which I had ever seen, and the impression, therefore, which it made upon me was very strong. [Footnote: This impressive and wild scenery, with its characteristic figures, of gipsies etc., is most exquisitely8 introduced into the author's novel of "O. T."; indeed it gives a coloring and tone to the whole work, which the reader never can forget. In my opinion Andersen never wrote anything finer in the way of description than many parts of this work, though as a story it is not equal to his others.—M. H.] In the cities, where my "Journey on Foot" and my comic poems were known, I met with a good reception. Funen revealed her rural life to me; and, not far from my birth-place of Odense, I passed several weeks at the country seat of the elder Iversen as a welcome guest. Poems sprung forth9 upon paper, but of the comic fewer and fewer. Sentiment, which I had so often derided10, would now be avenged11. I arrived, in the course of my journey, at the house of a rich family in a small city; and here suddenly a new world opened before me, an immense world, which yet could be contained in four lines, which I wrote at that time:—
They were my world, my home, my delight,
The soul beamed in them, and childlike peace,
And never on earth will their memory cease.
New plans of life occupied me. I would give up writing poetry,—to what could it lead? I would study theology, and become a preacher; I had only one thought, and that was she. But it was self-delusion: she loved another; she married him. It was not till several years later that I felt and acknowledged that it was best, both for her and for myself, that things had fallen out as they were. She had no idea, perhaps, how deep my feeling for her had been, or what an influence it produced in me. She had become the excellent wife of a good man, and a happy mother. God's blessing13 rest upon her!
In my "Journey on Foot," and in most of my writings, satire14 had been the prevailing15 characteristic. This displeased16 many people, who thought that this bent17 of mind could lead to no good purpose. The critics now blamed me precisely18 for that which a far deeper feeling had expelled from my breast. A new collection of Poetry, "Fancies and Sketches," which was published for the new year, showed satisfactorily what my heart suffered. A paraphrase19 of the history of my own heart appeared in a serious vaudeville20, "Parting and Meeting," with this difference only, that here the love was mutual21: the piece was not presented on the stage till five years later.
Among my young friends in Copenhagen at that time was Orla Lehmann, who afterwards rose higher in popular favor, on account of his political efforts than any man in Denmark. Full of animation22, eloquent23 and undaunted, his character of mind was one which interested me also. The German language was much studied at his father's; they had received there Heine's poems, and they were very attractive for young Orla. He lived in the country, in the neighborhood of the castle of Fredericksberg. I went there to see him, and he sang as I came one of Heine's verses, "Thalatta, Thalatta, du eviges Meer." We read Heine together; the afternoon and the evening passed, and I was obliged to remain there all night; but I had on this evening made the acquaintance of a poet, who, as it seemed to me, sang from the soul; he supplanted24 Hoffman, who, as might be seen by my "Journey on Foot," had formerly25 had the greatest influence on me. In my youth there were only three authors who as it were infused themselves into my blood,—Walter Scott, Hoffman, and Heine.
I betrayed more and more in my writings an unhealthy turn of mind. I felt an inclination26 to seek for the melancholy27 in life, and to linger on the dark side of things. I became sensitive and thought rather of the blame than the praise which was lavished28 on me. My late school education, which was forced, and my impulse to become an author whilst I was yet a student, make it evident that my first work, the "Journey on Foot," was not without grammatical errors. Had I only paid some one to correct the press, which was a work I was unaccustomed to, then no charge of this kind could have been brought against me. Now, on the contrary, people laughed at these errors, and dwelt upon them, passing over carelessly that in the book which had merit. I know people who only read my poems to find out errors; they noted29 down, for instance, how often I used the word beautiful, or some similar word. A gentleman, now a clergyman, at that time a writer of vaudevilles and a critic, was not ashamed, in a company where I was, to go through several of my poems in this style; so that a little girl of six years old, who heard with amazement30 that he discovered everything to be wrong, took the book, and pointing out the conjunction and, said, "There is yet a little word about which you have not scolded." He felt what a reproof31 lay in the remark of the child; he looked ashamed and kissed the little one. All this wounded me; but I had, since my school-days, become somewhat timid, and that caused me to take it all quietly: I was morbidly32 sensitive, and I was good-natured to a fault. Everybody knew it, and some were on that account almost cruel to me. Everybody wished to teach me; almost everybody said that I was spoiled by praise, and therefore they would speak the truth to me. Thus I heard continually of my faults, the real and the ideal weaknesses. In the mean time, however, my feelings burst forth; and then I said that I would become a poet whom they should see honored. But this was regarded only as the crowning mark of the most unbearable33 vanity; and from house to house it was repeated. I was a good man, they said, but one of the vainest in existence; and in that very time I was often ready wholly to despair of my abilities, and had, as in the darkest days of my school-life, a feeling, as if my whole talents were a self-deception. I almost believed so; but it was more than I could bear, to hear the same thing said, sternly and jeeringly34, by others; and if I then uttered a proud, an inconsiderate word, it was addressed to the scourge35 with which I was smitten36; and when those who smite37 are those we love, then do the scourges38 become scorpions39.
For this reason Collin thought that I should make a little journey,—for instance, to North Germany,—in order to divert my mind and furnish me with new ideas.
In the spring of 1831, I left Denmark for the first time. I saw L bek and Hamburg. Everything astonished me and occupied my mind. I saw mountains for the first time,—the Harzgebirge. The world expanded so astonishingly before me. My good humor returned to me, as to the bird of passage. Sorrow is the flock of sparrows which remains40 behind, and builds in the nests of the birds of passage. But I did not feel myself wholly restored.
In Dresden I made acquaintance with Tieck. Ingemann had given me a letter to him. I heard him one evening read aloud one of Shakspeare's plays. On taking leave of him, he wished me a poet's success, embraced and kissed me; which made the deepest impression upon me. The expression of his eyes I shall never forget. I left him with tears, and prayed most fervently41 to God for strength to enable me to pursue the way after which my whole soul strove—strength, which should enable me to express that which I felt in my soul; and that when I next saw Tieck, I might be known and valued by him. It was not until several years afterwards, when my later works were translated into German, and well received in his country, that we saw each other again; I felt the true hand-pressure of him who had given to me, in my second father-land, the kiss of consecration42.
In Berlin, a letter of Oersted's procured43 me the acquaintance of Chamisso. That grave man, with his long locks and honest eyes, opened the door to me himself, read the letter, and I know not how it was, but we understood each other immediately. I felt perfect confidence in him, and told him so, though it was in bad German. Chamisso understood Danish; I gave him my poems, and he was the first who translated any of them, and thus introduced me into Germany. It was thus he spoke44 of me at that time in the Morgenblatt: "Gifted with wit, fancy, humor, and a national naivet , Andersen has still in his power tones which awaken45 deeper echoes. He understands, in particular, how with perfect ease, by a few slight but graphic46 touches, to call into existence little pictures and landscapes, but which are often so peculiarly local as not to interest those who are unfamiliar47 with the home of the poet. Perhaps that which may be translated from him, or which is so already, may be the least calculated to give a proper idea of him."
Chamisso became a friend for my whole life. The pleasure which he had in my later writings may be seen by the printed letters addressed to me in the collected edition of his works.
The little journey in Germany had great influence upon me, as my Copenhagen friends acknowledged. The impressions of the journey were immediately written down, and I gave them forth under the title of "Shadow Pictures." Whether I were actually improved or not, there still prevailed at home the same petty pleasure in dragging out my faults, the same perpetual schooling48 of me; and I was weak enough to endure it from those who were officious meddlers. I seldom made a joke of it; but if I did so, it was called arrogance50 and vanity, and it was asserted that I never would listen to rational people. Such an instructor51 once asked me whether I wrote Dog with a little d;—he had found such an error of the press in my last work. I replied, jestingly, "Yes, because I here spoke of a little dog."
But these are small troubles, people will say. Yes, but they are drops which wear hollows in the rock. I speak of it here; I feel a necessity to do so; here to protest against the accusation52 of vanity, which, since no other error can be discovered in my private life, is seized upon, and even now is thrown at me like an old medal.
From the end of the year 1828, to the beginning of 1839, I maintained myself alone by my writings. Denmark is a small country; but few books at that time went to Sweden and Norway; and on that account the profit could not be great. It was difficult for me to pull through,—doubly difficult, because my dress must in some measure accord with the circles into which I went. To produce, and always to be producing, was destructive, nay53, impossible. I translated a few pieces for the theatre,—La Quarantaine, and La Reine de seize ans; and as, at that time, a young composer of the name of Hartmann, a grandson of him who composed the Danish folks-song of "King Christian54 stood by the tall, tall mast," wished for text to an opera, I was of course ready to write it. Through the writings of Hoffman, my attention had been turned to the masked comedies of Gozzi: I read Il Corvo, and finding that it was an excellent subject, I wrote, in a few weeks, my opera-text of the Raven55. It will sound strange to the ears of countrymen when I say that I, at that time, recommended Hartmann; that I gave my word for it, in my letter to the theatrical56 directors, for his being a man of talent, who would produce something good. He now takes the first rank among the living Danish composers.
I worked up also Walter Scott's "Bride of Lammermoor" for another young composer, Bredal. Both operas appeared on the stage; but I was subjected to the most merciless criticism, as one who had stultified57 the labors58 of foreign poets. What people had discovered to be good in me before seemed now to be forgotten, and all talent was denied to me. The composer Weyse, my earliest benefactor59, whom I have already mentioned, was, on the contrary, satisfied in the highest degree with my treatment of these subjects. He told me that he had wished for a long time to compose an opera from Walter Scott's "Kenilworth." He now requested me to commence the joint60 work, and write the text. I had no idea of the summary justice which would be dealt to me. I needed money to live, and, what still more determined61 me to it, I felt flattered to have to work with Weyse our most celebrated62 composer. It delighted me that he, who had first spoken in my favor at Siboni's house, now, as artist, sought a noble connection with me. I had scarcely half finished the text, when I was already blamed for having made use of a well-known romance. I wished to give it up; but Weyse consoled me, and encouraged me to proceed. Afterwards, before he had finished the music, when I was about to travel abroad, I committed my fate, as regarded the text, entirely63 to his hands. He wrote whole verses of it, and the altered conclusion is wholly his own. It was a peculiarity64 of that singular man that he liked no book which ended sorrowfully. For that reason, Amy must marry Leicester, and Elizabeth say, "Proud England, I am thine." I opposed this at the beginning; but afterwards I yielded, and the piece was really half-created by Weyse. It was brought on the stage, but was not printed, with the exception of the songs. To this followed anonymous66 attacks: the city post brought me letters in which the unknown writers scoffed67 at and derided me. That same year I published a new collection of poetry, "The Twelve Months of the Year;" and this book, though it was afterwards pronounced to contain the greater part of my best lyrical poems, was then condemned68 as bad.
At that time "The Monthly Review of Literature," though it is now gone to its grave, was in its full bloom. At its first appearance, it numbered among its co-workers some of the most distinguished69 names. Its want, however, was men who were qualified70 to speak ably on aesthetic71 works. Unfortunately, everybody fancies himself able to give an opinion upon these; but people may write excellently on surgery or pedagogical science, and may have a name in those things, and yet be dolts72 in poetry: of this proofs may be seen. By degrees it became more and more difficult for the critical bench to find a judge for poetical73 works. The one, however, who, through his extraordinary zeal1 for writing and speaking, was ready at hand, was the historian and states-councillor Molbeck, who played, in our time, so great a part in the history of Danish criticism, that I must speak of him rather more fully65. He is an industrious74 collector, writes extremely correct Danish, and his Danish dictionary, let him be reproached with whatever want he may, is a most highly useful work; but, as a judge of aesthetic works, he is one-sided, and even fanatically devoted75 to party spirit. He belongs, unfortunately, to the men of science, who are only one sixty-fourth of a poet, and who are the most incompetent76 judges of aesthetics77. He has, for example, by his critiques on Ingemann's romances, shown how far he is below the poetry which he censures78. He has himself published a volume of poems, which belong to the common run of books, "A Ramble79 through Denmark," written in the fade, flowery style of those times, and "A Journey through Germany, France, and Italy," which seems to be made up out of books, not out of life. He sate80 in his study, or in the Royal Library, where he has a post, when suddenly he became director of the theatre and censor81 of the pieces sent in. He was sickly, one-sided in judgment82, and irritable83: people may imagine the result. He spoke of my first poems very favorably; but my star soon sank for another, who was in the ascendant, a young lyrical poet, Paludan Muller; and, as he no longer loved, he hated me. That is the short history; indeed, in the selfsame Monthly Review the very poems which had formerly been praised were now condemned by the same judge, when they appeared in a new increased edition. There is a Danish proverb, "When the carriage drags, everybody pushes behind;" and I proved the truth of it now.
It happened that a new star in Danish literature ascended84 at this time. Heinrich Hertz published his "Letters from the Dead" anonymously85: it was a mode of driving all the unclean things out of the temple. The deceased Baggesen sent polemical letters from Paradise, which resembled in the highest degree the style of that author. They contained a sort of apotheosis86 of Heiberg, and in part attacks upon Oehlenschl ger and Hauch. The old story about my orthographical87 errors was again revived; my name and my school-days in Slagelse were brought into connection with St. Anders.
I was ridiculed88, or if people will, I was chastised89. Hertz's book went through all Denmark; people spoke of nothing but him. It made it still more piquant90 that the author of the work could not be discovered. People were enraptured91, and justly. Heiberg, in his "Flying Post," defended a few aesthetical insignificants, but not me. I felt the wound of the sharp knife deeply. My enemies now regarded me as entirely shut out from the world of spirits. I however in a short time published a little book, "Vignettes to the Danish Poets," in which I characterized the dead and the living authors in a few lines each, but only spoke of that which was good in them. The book excited attention; it was regarded as one of the best of my works; it was imitated, but the critics did not meddle49 with it. It was evident, on this occasion, as had already been the case, that the critics never laid hands on those of my works which were the most successful.
My affairs were now in their worst condition; and precisely in that same year in which a stipend92 for travelling had been conferred upon Hertz, I also had presented a petition for the same purpose. The universal opinion was that I had reached the point of culmination93, and if I was to succeed in travelling it must be at this present time. I felt, what since then has become an acknowledged fact, that travelling would be the best school for me. In the mean time I was told that to bring it under consideration I must endeavor to obtain from the most distinguished poets and men of science a kind of recommendation; because this very year there were so many distinguished young men who were soliciting94 a stipend, that it would be difficult among these to put in an available claim. I therefore obtained recommendations for myself; and I am, so far as I know, the only Danish poet who was obliged to produce recommendations to prove that he was a poet.
And here also it is remarkable95, that the men who recommended me have each one made prominent some very different qualification which gave me a claim: for instance, Oehlenschl ger, my lyrical power, and the earnestness that was in me; Ingemann, my skill in depicting96 popular life; Heiberg declared that, since the days of Wessel, no Danish poet had possessed97 so much humor as myself; Oersted remarked, every one, they who were against me as well as those who were for me, agreed on one subject, and this was that I was a true poet. Thiele expressed himself warmly and enthusiastically about the power which he had seen in me, combating against the oppression and the misery98 of life. I received a stipend for travelling; Hertz a larger and I a smaller one: and that also was quite in the order of things.
"Now be happy," said my friends, "make yourself aware of your unbounded good fortune! Enjoy the present moment, as it will probably be the only time in which you will get abroad. You shall hear what people say about you while you are travelling, and how we shall defend you; sometimes, however, we shall not be able to do that."
It was painful to me to hear such things said; I felt a compulsion of soul to be away, that I might, if possible, breathe freely; but sorrow is firmly seated on the horse of the rider. More than one sorrow oppressed my heart, and although I opened the chambers99 of my heart to the world, one or two of them I keep locked, nevertheless. On setting out on my journey, my prayer to God was that I might die far away from Denmark, or return strengthened for activity, and in a condition to produce works which should win for me and my beloved ones joy and honor.
Precisely at the moment of setting out on my journey, the form of my beloved arose in my heart. Among the few whom I have already named, there are two who exercised a great influence upon my life and my poetry, and these I must more particularly mention. A beloved mother, an unusually liberal-minded and well educated lady, Madame L ss c, had introduced me into her agreeable circle of friends; she often felt the deepest sympathy with me in my troubles; she always turned my attention to the beautiful in nature and the poetical in the details of life, and as almost everyone regarded me as a poet, she elevated my mind; yes, and if there be tenderness and purity in anything which I have written, they are among those things for which I have especially to be thankful to her. Another character of great importance to me was Collin's son Edward. Brought up under fortunate circumstances of life, he was possessed of that courage and determination which I wanted. I felt that he sincerely loved me, and I full of affection, threw myself upon him with my whole soul; he passed on calmly and practically through the business of life. I often mistook him at the very moment when he felt for me most deeply, and when he would gladly have infused into me a portion of his own character,—to me who was as a reed shaken by the wind. In the practical part of life, he, the younger, stood actively100 by my side, from the assistance which he gave in my Latin exercises, to the arranging the business of bringing out editions of my works. He has always remained the same; and were I to enumerate101 my friends, he would be placed by me as the first on the list. When the traveller leaves the mountains behind him, then for the first time he sees them in their true form: so is it also with friends.
I arrived at Paris by way of Cassel and the Rhine. I retained a vivid impression of all that I saw. The idea for a poem fixed itself firmer and firmer in my mind; and I hoped, as it became more clearly worked out, to propitiate102 by it my enemies. There is an old Danish folks-song of Agnete and the Merman, which bore an affinity103 to my own state of mind, and to the treatment of which I felt an inward impulse. The song tells that Agnete wandered solitarily104 along the shore, when a merman rose up from the waves and decoyed her by his speeches. She followed him to the bottom of the sea, remained there seven years, and bore him seven children. One day, as she sat by the cradle, she heard the church bells sounding down to her in the depths of the sea, and a longing105 seized her heart to go to church. By her prayers and tears she induced the merman to conduct her to the upper world again, promising106 soon to return. He prayed her not to forget his children, more especially the little one in the cradle; stopped up her ears and her mouth, and then led her upwards107 to the sea-shore. When, however, she entered the church, all the holy images, as soon as they saw her, a daughter of sin and from the depths of the sea, turned themselves round to the walls. She was affrighted, and would not return, although the little ones in her home below were weeping.
I treated this subject freely, in a lyrical and dramatic manner. I will venture to say that the whole grew out of my heart; all the recollections of our beechwoods and the open sea were blended in it.
In the midst of the excitement of Paris I lived in the spirit of the Danish folks-songs. The most heartfelt gratitude108 to God filled my soul, because I felt that all which I had, I had received through his mercy; yet at the same time I took a lively interest in all that surrounded me. I was present at one of the July festivals, in their first freshness; it was in the year 1833. I saw the unveiling of Napoleon's pillar. I gazed on the world-experienced King Louis Philippe, who is evidently defended by Providence109. I saw the Duke of Orleans, full of health and the enjoyment110 of life, dancing at the gay people's ball, in the gay Maison de Ville. Accident led in Paris to my first meeting with Heine, the poet, who at that time occupied the throne in my poetical world. When I told him how happy this meeting and his kind words made me, he said that this could not very well be the case, else I should have sought him out. I replied, that I had not done so precisely because I estimated him so highly. I should have feared that he might have thought it ridiculous in me, an unknown Danish poet, to seek him out; "and," added I, "your sarcastic111 smile would deeply have wounded me." In reply, he said something friendly.
Several years afterwards, when we again met in Paris, he gave me a cordial reception, and I had a view into the brightly poetical portion of his soul.
Paul D port met me with equal kindness. Victor Hugo also received me.
During my journey to Paris, and the whole month that I spent there, I
heard not a single word from home. Could my friends perhaps have nothing
agreeable to tell me? At length, however, a letter arrived; a large
letter, which cost a large sum in postage. My heart beat with joy and
I discovered not a single written word, nothing but a Copenhagen
discovered who the author was, perhaps he was one of those who
afterwards called me friend, and pressed my hand. Some men have base
thoughts: I also have mine.
It is a weakness of my country-people, that commonly, when abroad, during their residence in large cities, they almost live exclusively in company together; they must dine together, meet at the theatre, and see all the lions of the place in company. Letters are read by each other; news of home is received and talked over, and at last they hardly know whether they are in a foreign land or their own. I had given way to the same weakness in Paris; and in leaving it, therefore, determined for one month to board myself in some quiet place in Switzerland, and live only among the French, so as to be compelled to speak their language, which was necessary to me in the highest degree.
In the little city of Lodi, in a valley of the Jura mountains, where the snow fell in August, and the clouds floated below us, was I received by the amiable118 family of a wealthy watchmaker. They would not hear a word about payment. I lived among them and their friends as a relation, and when we parted the children wept. We had become friends, although I could not understand their patois119; they shouted loudly into my ear, because they fancied I must be deaf, as I could not understand them. In the evenings, in that elevated region, there was a repose120 and a stillness in nature, and the sound of the evening bells ascended to us from the French frontier. At some distance from the city, stood a solitary house, painted white and clean; on descending121 through two cellars, the noise of a millwheel was heard, and the rushing waters of a river which flowed on here, hidden from the world. I often visited this place in my solitary rambles122, and here I finished my poem of "Agnete and the Merman," which I had begun in Paris.
I sent home this poem from Lodi; and never, with my earlier or my later works, were my hopes so high as they were now. But it was received coldly. People said I had done it in imitation of Oehlenschl ger, who at one time sent home masterpieces. Within the last few years, I fancy, this poem has been somewhat more read, and has met with its friends. It was, however, a step forwards, and it decided123, as it were, unconsciously to me, my pure lyrical phasis. It has been also of late critically adjudged in Denmark, that, notwithstanding that on its first appearance it excited far less attention than some of my earlier and less successful works, still that in this the poetry is of a deeper, fuller, and more powerful character than anything which I had hitherto produced.
This poem closes one portion of my life.
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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avenged
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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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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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displeased
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bent
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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vaudeville
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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eloquent
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supplanted
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formerly
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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30
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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31
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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32
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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33
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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34
jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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35
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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36
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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37
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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38
scourges
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| 带来灾难的人或东西，祸害( scourge的名词复数 )； 鞭子 | |
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39
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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40
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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41
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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42
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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43
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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44
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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45
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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46
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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47
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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48
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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49
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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50
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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51
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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52
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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53
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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54
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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55
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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56
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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57
stultified
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| v.使成为徒劳，使变得无用( stultify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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59
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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60
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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63
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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64
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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67
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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71
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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72
dolts
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| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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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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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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75
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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76
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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77
aesthetics
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| n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学，审美学 | |
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78
censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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80
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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81
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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82
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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83
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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84
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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86
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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87
orthographical
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| adj.正字法的，拼字正确的 | |
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88
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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90
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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91
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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93
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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94
soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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95
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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96
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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98
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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99
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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100
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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101
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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102
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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103
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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104
solitarily
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| adv.独自一人地，寂寞地 | |
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105
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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106
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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107
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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110
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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111
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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112
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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113
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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114
lampoon
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| n.讽刺文章；v.讽刺 | |
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115
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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116
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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117
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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118
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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119
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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120
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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121
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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122
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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123
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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