At this time the young man seemed to have his fate in his own hands. He was full of noble impulses, as well as of extraordinary gifts; not accustomed to resist temptation, it is true, from any higher motive15 than strong family affection, but showing so much power of attachment16 to all about him that they took pleasure in believing that, after a time, he would “right himself,” and that they should have pride and delight in the use he would then make of his splendid talents. His aunt especially made him her great favourite. There are always peculiar17 trials in the life of an only boy in a family of girls. He is expected to act a part in life; to do, while they are only to be; and the necessity of their giving way to him in some things, is too often exaggerated into their giving way to him in all, and thus rendering18 him utterly19 selfish. In the family about whom I am writing, while the rest were almost ascetic20 in their habits, Branwell was allowed to grow up self-indulgent; but, in early youth, his power of attracting and attaching people was so great, that few came in contact with him who were not so much dazzled by him as to be desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed. Of course, he was careful enough not to reveal anything before his father and sisters of the pleasures he indulged in; but his tone of thought and conversation became gradually coarser, and, for a time, his sisters tried to persuade themselves that such coarseness was a part of manliness21, and to blind themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse than other young men. At present, though he had, they were aware, fallen into some errors, the exact nature of which they avoided knowing, still he was their hope and their darling; their pride, who should some time bring great glory to the name of Brontë.
He and his sister Charlotte were both slight and small of stature22, while the other two were of taller and larger make. I have seen Branwell’s profile; it is what would be generally esteemed23 very handsome; the forehead is massive, the eye well set, and the expression of it fine and intellectual; the nose too is good; but there are coarse lines about the mouth, and the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and thick, indicating self-indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin conveys an idea of weakness of will. His hair and complexion24 were sandy. He had enough of Irish blood in him to make his manners frank and genial25, with a kind of natural gallantry about them. In a fragment of one of his manuscripts which I have read, there is a justness and felicity of expression which is very striking. It is the beginning of a tale, and the actors in it are drawn26 with much of the grace of characteristic portrait-painting, in perfectly27 pure and simple language which distinguishes so many of Addison’s papers in the “Spectator.” The fragment is too short to afford the means of judging whether he had much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story are not thrown into conversation. But altogether the elegance28 and composure of style are such as one would not have expected from this vehement29 and ill-fated young man. He had a stronger desire for literary fame burning in his heart, than even that which occasionally flashed up in his sisters’. He tried various outlets30 for his talents. He wrote and sent poems to Wordsworth and Coleridge, who both expressed kind and laudatory31 opinions, and he frequently contributed verses to the Leeds Mercury. In 1840, he was living at home, employing himself in occasional composition of various kinds, and waiting till some occupation, for which he might be fitted without any expensive course of preliminary training, should turn up; waiting, not impatiently; for he saw society of one kind (probably what he called “life”) at the Black Bull; and at home he was as yet the cherished favourite.
Miss Branwell was unaware33 of the fermentation of unoccupied talent going on around her. She was not her nieces’ confidante—perhaps no one so much older could have been; but their father, from whom they derived35 not a little of their adventurous37 spirit, was silently cognisant of much of which she took no note. Next to her nephew, the docile38, pensive32 Anne was her favourite. Of her she had taken charge from her infancy39; she was always patient and tractable40, and would submit quietly to occasional oppression, even when she felt it keenly. Not so her two elder sisters; they made their opinions known, when roused by any injustice41. At such times, Emily would express herself as strongly as Charlotte, although perhaps less frequently. But, in general, notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might be occasionally unreasonable42, she and her nieces went on smoothly43 enough; and though they might now and then be annoyed by petty tyranny, she still inspired them with sincere respect, and not a little affection. They were, moreover, grateful to her for many habits she had enforced upon them, and which in time had become second nature: order, method, neatness in everything; a perfect knowledge of all kinds of household work; an exact punctuality, and obedience44 to the laws of time and place, of which no one but themselves, I have heard Charlotte say, could tell the value in after-life; with their impulsive45 natures, it was positive repose46 to have learnt implicit47 obedience to external laws. People in Haworth have assured me that, according to the hour of day—nay, the very minute—could they have told what the inhabitants of the parsonage were about. At certain times the girls would be sewing in their aunt’s bedroom—the chamber48 which, in former days, before they had outstripped49 her in their learning, had served them as a schoolroom; at certain (early) hours they had their meals; from six to eight, Miss Branwell read aloud to Mr. Brontë; at punctual eight, the household assembled to evening prayers in his study; and by nine he, the aunt, and Tabby, were all in bed,—the girls free to pace up and down (like restless wild animals) in the parlour, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be their future life.
At the time of which I write, the favourite idea was that of keeping a school. They thought that, by a little contrivance, and a very little additional building, a small number of pupils, four or six, might be accommodated in the parsonage. As teaching seemed the only profession open to them, and as it appeared that Emily at least could not live away from home, while the others also suffered much from the same cause, this plan of school-keeping presented itself as most desirable. But it involved some outlay50; and to this their aunt was averse51. Yet there was no one to whom they could apply for a loan of the requisite52 means, except Miss Branwell, who had made a small store out of her savings53, which she intended for her nephew and nieces eventually, but which she did not like to risk. Still, this plan of school-keeping remained uppermost; and in the evenings of this winter of 1839-40, the alterations54 that would be necessary in the house, and the best way of convincing their aunt of the wisdom of their project, formed the principal subject of their conversation.
This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily, during the months of dark and dreary55 weather. Nor were external events, among the circle of their friends, of a cheerful character. In January, 1840, Charlotte heard of the death of a young girl who had been a pupil of hers, and a schoolfellow of Anne’s, at the time when the sisters were together at Roe56 Head; and had attached herself very strongly to the latter, who, in return, bestowed57 upon her much quiet affection. It was a sad day when the intelligence of this young creature’s death arrived. Charlotte wrote thus on January 12th, 1840:—
“Your letter, which I received this morning, was one of painful interest. Anne C., it seems, is dead; when I saw her last, she was a young, beautiful, and happy girl; and now ‘life’s fitful fever’ is over with her, and she ‘sleeps well.’ I shall never see her again. It is a sorrowful thought; for she was a warm-hearted, affectionate being, and I cared for her. Wherever I seek for her now in this world, she cannot be found, no more than a flower or a leaf which withered58 twenty years ago. A bereavement59 of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling those must have who have seen all drop round them, friend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone. But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine.”
During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing a story. Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but it is in too small a hand to be read without great fatigue60 to the eyes; and one cares the less to read it, as she herself condemned61 it, in the preface to the “Professor,” by saying that in this story she had got over such taste as she might once have had for the “ornamental and redundant62 in composition.” The beginning, too, as she acknowledges, was on a scale commensurate with one of Richardson’s novels, of seven or eight volumes. I gather some of these particulars from a copy of a letter, apparently63 in reply to one from Wordsworth, to whom she had sent the commencement of the story, sometime in the summer of 1840.
“Authors are generally very tenacious64 of their productions, but I am not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without much distress65. No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of it . . . I had materials in my head for half-a-dozen volumes . . . Of course, it is with considerable regret I relinquish1 any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched66. It is very edifying67 and profitable to create a world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants, who are so many Melchisedecs, and have no father nor mother but your own imagination . . . I am sorry I did not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the ‘Ladies’ Magazine’ was flourishing like a green bay-tree. In that case, I make no doubt, my aspirations68 after literary fame would have met with due encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy and West into the very best society, and recording69 all their sayings and doings in double-columned close-printed pages . . . I recollect70, when I was a child, getting hold of some antiquated71 volumes, and reading them by stealth with the most exquisite72 pleasure. You give a correct description of the patient Grisels of those days. My aunt was one of them; and to this day she thinks the tales of the ‘Ladies’ Magazine’ infinitely73 superior to any trash of modern literature. So do I; for I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty74 of admiration75, but a very weak one of criticism . . . I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney’s clerk or a novel-reading dress-maker. I will not help you at all in the discovery; and as to my handwriting, or the ladylike touches in my style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that—I may employ an amanuensis. Seriously, sir, I am very much obliged to you for your kind and candid76 letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to read and notice the novelette of an anonymous77 scribe, who had not even the manners to tell you whether he was a man or a woman, or whether his ‘C. T.’ meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tomkins.”
There are two or three things noticeable in the letter from which these extracts are taken. The first is the initials with which she had evidently signed the former one to which she alludes78. About this time, to her more familiar correspondents, she occasionally calls herself “Charles Thunder,” making a kind of pseudonym79 for herself out of her Christian80 name, and the meaning of her Greek surname. In the next place, there is a touch of assumed smartness, very different from the simple, womanly, dignified81 letter which she had written to Southey, under nearly similar circumstances, three years before. I imagine the cause of this difference to be twofold. Southey, in his reply to her first letter, had appealed to the higher parts of her nature, in calling her to consider whether literature was, or was not, the best course for a woman to pursue. But the person to whom she addressed this one had evidently confined himself to purely82 literary criticisms, besides which, her sense of humour was tickled83 by the perplexity which her correspondent felt as to whether he was addressing a man or a woman. She rather wished to encourage the former idea; and, in consequence, possibly, assumed something of the flippancy84 which very probably existed in her brother’s style of conversation, from whom she would derive36 her notions of young manhood, not likely, as far as refinement85 was concerned, to be improved by the other specimens86 she had seen, such as the curates whom she afterwards represented in “Shirley.”
These curates were full of strong, High-Church feeling. Belligerent87 by nature, it was well for their professional character that they had, as clergymen, sufficient scope for the exercise of their warlike propensities88. Mr. Brontë, with all his warm regard for Church and State, had a great respect for mental freedom; and, though he was the last man in the world to conceal89 his opinions, he lived in perfect amity90 with all the respectable part of those who differed from him. Not so the curates. Dissent91 was schism92, and schism was condemned in the Bible. In default of turbaned Saracens, they entered on a crusade against Methodists in broadcloth; and the consequence was that the Methodists and Baptists refused to pay the church-rates. Miss Brontë thus describes the state of things at this time:—
“Little Haworth has been all in a bustle93 about church-rates, since you were here. We had a stirring meeting in the schoolroom. Papa took the chair, and Mr. C. and Mr. W. acted as his supporters, one on each side. There was violent opposition94, which set Mr. C.’s Irish blood in a ferment34, and if papa had not kept him quiet, partly by persuasion95 and partly by compulsion, he would have given the Dissenters96 their kale through the reek—a Scotch98 proverb, which I will explain to you another time. He and Mr. W. both bottled up their wrath99 for that time, but it was only to explode with redoubled force at a future period. We had two sermons on dissent, and its consequences, preached last Sunday—one in the afternoon by Mr. W., and one in the evening by Mr. C. All the Dissenters were invited to come and hear, and they actually shut up their chapels100, and came in a body; of course the church was crowded. Mr. W. delivered a noble, eloquent101, High-Church, Apostolical-Succession discourse102, in which he banged the Dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly. I thought they had got enough for one while, but it was nothing to the dose that was thrust down their throats in the evening. A keener, cleverer, bolder, and more heart-stirring harangue103 than that which Mr. C. delivered from Haworth pulpit, last Sunday evening, I never heard. He did not rant104; he did not cant105; he did not whine106; he did not sniggle; he just got up and spoke107 with the boldness of a man who was impressed with the truth of what he was saying, who has no fear of his enemies, and no dread108 of consequences. His sermon lasted an hour, yet I was sorry when it was done. I do not say that I agree either with him, or with Mr. W., either in all or in half their opinions. I consider them bigoted109, intolerant, and wholly unjustifiable on the ground of common sense. My conscience will not let me be either a Puseyite or a Hookist; mais, if I were a Dissenter97, I would have taken the first opportunity of kicking, or of horse-whipping both the gentlemen for their stern, bitter attack on my religion and its teachers. But in spite of all this, I admired the noble integrity which could dictate111 so fearless an opposition against so strong an antagonist112.
“P.S.—Mr. W. has given another lecture at the Keighley Mechanics’ Institution, and papa has also given a lecture; both are spoken of very highly in the newspapers, and it is mentioned as a matter of wonder that such displays of intellect should emanate113 from the village of Haworth, ‘situated among the bogs114 and mountains, and, until very lately, supposed to be in a state of semi-barbarism.’ Such are the words of the newspaper.”
To fill up the account of this outwardly eventless year, I may add a few more extracts from the letters entrusted115 to me.
“May 15th, 1840.
“Do not be over-persuaded to marry a man you can never respect—I do not say love; because, I think, if you can respect a person before marriage, moderate love at least will come after; and as to intense passion, I am convinced that that is no desirable feeling. In the first place, it seldom or never meets with a requital116; and, in the second place, if it did, the feeling would be only temporary: it would last the honeymoon117, and then, perhaps, give place to disgust, or indifference118, worse, perhaps, than disgust. Certainly this would be the case on the man’s part; and on the woman’s—God help her, if she is left to love passionately119 and alone.
“I am tolerably well convinced that I shall never marry at all. Reason tells me so, and I am not so utterly the slave of feeling but that I can occasionally hear her voice.”
“June 2nd, 1840.
“M. is not yet come to Haworth; but she is to come on the condition that I first go and stay a few days there. If all be well, I shall go next Wednesday. I may stay at G--- until Friday or Saturday, and the early part of the following week I shall pass with you, if you will have me—which last sentence indeed is nonsense, for as I shall be glad to see you, so I know you will be glad to see me. This arrangement will not allow much time, but it is the only practicable one which, considering all the circumstances, I can effect. Do not urge me to stay more than two or three days, because I shall be obliged to refuse you. I intend to walk to Keighley, there to take the coach as far as B---, then to get some one to carry my box, and to walk the rest of the way to G-. If I manage this, I think I shall contrive120 very well. I shall reach B. by about five o’clock, and then I shall have the cool of the evening for the walk. I have communicated the whole arrangement to M. I desire exceedingly to see both her and you. Good-bye.
C. B.
C. B.
C. B.
C. B.
“If you have any better plan to suggest I am open to conviction, provided your plan is practicable.”
“August 20th, 1840.
“Have you seen anything of Miss H. lately? I wish they, or somebody else, would get me a situation. I have answered advertisements without number, but my applications have met with no success.
“I have got another bale of French books from G. containing upwards121 of forty volumes. I have read about half. They are like the rest, clever, wicked, sophistical, and immoral122. The best of it is, they give one a thorough idea of France and Paris, and are the best substitute for French conversation that I have met with.
“I positively123 have nothing more to say to you, for I am in a stupid humour. You must excuse this letter not being quite as long as your own. I have written to you soon, that you might not look after the postman in vain. Preserve this writing as a curiosity in caligraphy—I think it is exquisite—all brilliant black blots124, and utterly illegible125 letters. ‘CALIBAN.’
“‘The wind bloweth where it listeth. Thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, nor whither it goeth.’ That, I believe, is Scripture126, though in what chapter or book, or whether it be correctly quoted, I can’t possibly say. However, it behoves me to write a letter to a young woman of the name of E., with whom I was once acquainted, ‘in life’s morning march, when my spirit was young.’ This young woman wished me to write to her some time since, though I have nothing to say—I e’en put it off, day by day, till at last, fearing that she will ‘curse me by her gods,’ I feel constrained127 to sit down and tack110 a few lines together, which she may call a letter or not as she pleases. Now if the young woman expects sense in this production, she will find herself miserably128 disappointed. I shall dress her a dish of salmagundi—I shall cook a hash—compound a stew—toss up an omelette soufflèe à la Française, and send it her with my respects. The wind, which is very high up in our hills of Judea, though, I suppose, down in the Philistine129 flats of B. parish it is nothing to speak of, has produced the same effects on the contents of my knowledge-box that a quaigh of usquebaugh does upon those of most other bipeds. I see everything couleur de rose, and am strongly inclined to dance a jig130, if I knew how. I think I must partake of the nature of a pig or an ass—both which animals are strongly affected131 by a high wind. From what quarter the wind blows I cannot tell, for I never could in my life; but I should very much like to know how the great brewing-tub of Bridlington Bay works, and what sort of yeasty froth rises just now on the waves.
“A woman of the name of Mrs. B., it seems, wants a teacher. I wish she would have me; and I have written to Miss W. to tell her so. Verily, it is a delightful132 thing to live here at home, at full liberty to do just what one pleases. But I recollect some scrubby old fable133 about grasshoppers134 and ants, by a scrubby old knave135 yclept Æsop; the grasshoppers sang all the summer, and starved all the winter.
“A distant relation of mine, one Patrick Branwell, has set off to seek his fortune in the wild, wandering, adventurous, romantic, knight-errant-like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railroad. Leeds and Manchester—where are they? Cities in the wilderness136, like Tadmor, alias137 Palmyra—are they not?
“There is one little trait respecting Mr. W. which lately came to my knowledge, which gives a glimpse of the better side of his character. Last Saturday night he had been sitting an hour in the parlour with Papa; and, as he went away, I heard Papa say to him ‘What is the matter with you? You seem in very low spirits to-night.’ ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been to see a poor young girl, who, I’m afraid, is dying.’ ‘Indeed; what is her name?’ ‘Susan Bland138, the daughter of John Bland, the superintendent139.’ Now Susan Bland is my oldest and best scholar in the Sunday-school; and, when I heard that, I thought I would go as soon as I could to see her. I did go on Monday afternoon, and found her on her way to that ‘bourn whence no traveller returns.’ After sitting with her some time, I happened to ask her mother, if she thought a little port wine would do her good. She replied that the doctor had recommended it, and that when Mr. W. was last there, he had brought them a bottle of wine and jar of preserves. She added, that he was always good-natured to poor folks, and seemed to have a deal of feeling and kindheartedness about him. No doubt, there are defects in his character, but there are also good qualities . . . God bless him! I wonder who, with his advantages, would be without his faults. I know many of his faulty actions, many of his weak points; yet, where I am, he shall always find rather a defender140 than an accuser. To be sure, my opinion will go but a very little way to decide his character; what of that? People should do right as far as their ability extends. You are not to suppose, from all this, that Mr. W. and I are on very amiable141 terms; we are not at all. We are distant, cold, and reserved. We seldom speak; and when we do, it is only to exchange the most trivial and common-place remarks.”
The Mrs. B. alluded142 to in this letter, as in want of a governess, entered into a correspondence with Miss Brontë, and expressed herself much pleased with the letters she received from her, with the “style and candour of the application,” in which Charlotte had taken care to tell her, that if she wanted a showy, elegant, or fashionable person, her correspondent was not fitted for such a situation. But Mrs. B. required her governess to give instructions in music and singing, for which Charlotte was not qualified143: and, accordingly, the negotiation144 fell through. But Miss Brontë was not one to sit down in despair after disappointment. Much as she disliked the life of a private governess, it was her duty to relieve her father of the burden of her support, and this was the only way open to her. So she set to advertising145 and inquiring with fresh vigour146.
In the meantime, a little occurrence took place, described in one of her letters, which I shall give, as it shows her instinctive147 aversion to a particular class of men, whose vices148 some have supposed she looked upon with indulgence. The extract tells all that need be known, for the purpose I have in view, of the miserable149 pair to whom it relates.
“You remember Mr. and Mrs. ---? Mrs. --- came here the other day, with a most melancholy150 tale of her wretched husband’s drunken, extravagant151, profligate152 habits. She asked Papa’s advice; there was nothing she said but ruin before them. They owed debts which they could never pay. She expected Mr. ---’s instant dismissal from his curacy; she knew, from bitter experience, that his vices were utterly hopeless. He treated her and her child savagely153; with much more to the same effect. Papa advised her to leave him for ever, and go home, if she had a home to go to. She said, this was what she had long resolved to do; and she would leave him directly, as soon as Mr. B. dismissed him. She expressed great disgust and contempt towards him, and did not affect to have the shadow of regard in any way. I do not wonder at this, but I do wonder she should ever marry a man towards whom her feelings must always have been pretty much the same as they are now. I am morally certain no decent woman could experience anything but aversion towards such a man as Mr. ---. Before I knew, or suspected his character, and when I rather wondered at his versatile154 talents, I felt it in an uncontrollable degree. I hated to talk with him—hated to look at him; though as I was not certain that there was substantial reason for such a dislike, and thought it absurd to trust to mere155 instinct, I both concealed156 and repressed the feeling as much as I could; and, on all occasions, treated him with as much civility as I was mistress of. I was struck with Mary’s expression of a similar feeling at first sight; she said, when we left him, ‘That is a hideous157 man, Charlotte!’ I thought ‘He is indeed.’”
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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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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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stimulant
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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metropolis
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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attachment
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peculiar
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rendering
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utterly
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ascetic
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manliness
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stature
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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complexion
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genial
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drawn
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perfectly
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elegance
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vehement
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outlets
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laudatory
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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35
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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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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39
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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40
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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41
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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42
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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43
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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44
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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46
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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47
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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48
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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51
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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52
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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53
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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54
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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56
roe
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| n.鱼卵；獐鹿 | |
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57
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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59
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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61
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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62
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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63
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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66
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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68
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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69
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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70
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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71
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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72
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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73
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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74
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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75
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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76
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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77
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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78
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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80
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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81
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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82
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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83
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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84
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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85
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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86
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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87
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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88
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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89
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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90
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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91
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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92
schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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93
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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94
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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95
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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96
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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97
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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98
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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99
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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100
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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101
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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102
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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103
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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104
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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105
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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106
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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107
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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108
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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109
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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110
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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111
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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112
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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113
emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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114
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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115
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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117
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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118
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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119
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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120
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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121
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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122
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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123
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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124
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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125
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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126
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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127
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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128
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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129
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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130
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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131
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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132
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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133
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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134
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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135
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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136
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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137
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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138
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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139
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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140
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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141
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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142
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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144
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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145
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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146
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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147
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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148
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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149
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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150
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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151
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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152
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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153
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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154
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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155
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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156
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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157
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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