The winter of this year in the north was hard and cold; it affected6 Miss Brontë's health less than usual, however, probably because the change and the medical advice she had taken in London had done her good; probably, also, because her friend had come to pay her a visit, and enforced that attention to bodily symptoms which Miss Brontë was too apt to neglect, from a fear of becoming nervous herself about her own state and thus infecting her father. But she could scarcely help feeling much depressed7 in spirits as the anniversary of her sister Emily's death came round; all the recollections connected with it were painful, yet there were no outward events to call off her attention, and prevent them from pressing hard upon her. At this time, as at many others, I find her alluding8 in her letters to the solace9 which she found in the books sent her from Cornhill.
"What, I sometimes ask, could I do without them? I have recourse to them as to friends; they shorten and cheer many an hour that would be too long and too desolate10 otherwise; even when my tired sight will not permit me to continue reading, it is pleasant to see them on the shelf, or on the table. I am still very rich, for my stock is far from exhausted11. Some other friends have sent me books lately. The perusal12 of Harriet Martineau's 'Eastern Life' has afforded me great pleasure; and I have found a deep and interesting subject of study in Newman's work on the Soul. Have you read this work? It is daring,—it may be mistaken,—but it is pure and elevated. Froude's 'Nemesis13 of Faith' I did not like; I thought it morbid14; yet in its pages, too, are found sprinklings of truth."
By this time, "Airedale, Wharfedale, Calderdale, and Ribblesdale" all knew the place of residence of Currer Bell. She compared herself to the ostrich15 hiding its head in the sand; and says that she still buries hers in the heath of Haworth moors16; but "the concealment17 is but self-delusion." Indeed it was. Far and wide in the West Riding had spread the intelligence that Currer Bell was no other than a daughter of the venerable clergyman of Haworth; the village itself caught up the excitement.
"Mr. ——, having finished 'Jane Eyre,' is now crying out for the 'other book;' he is to have it next week. . . . Mr. R —— has finished 'Shirley;' he is delighted with it. John ——'s wife seriously thought him gone wrong in the head, as she heard him giving vent2 to roars of laughter as he sat alone, clapping and stamping on the floor. He would read all the scenes about the curates aloud to papa." . . . "Martha came in yesterday, puffing19 and blowing, and much excited. 'I've heard sich news!' she began. 'What about?' 'Please, ma'am, you've been and written two books—the grandest books that ever was seen. My father has heard it at Halifax, and Mr. G—— T—— and Mr. G—— and Mr. M—— at Bradford; and they are going to have a meeting at the Mechanics' Institute, and to settle about ordering them.' 'Hold your tongue, Martha, and be off.' I fell into a cold sweat. "Jane Eyre" will be read by J—— B——, by Mrs. T——, and B——. Heaven help, keep, and deliver me!" . . . "The Haworth people have been making great fools of themselves about Shirley; they have taken it in an enthusiastic light. When they got the volumes at the Mechanics' Institute, all the members wanted them. They cast lots for the whole three, and whoever got a volume was only allowed to keep it two days, and was to be fined a shilling per diem for longer detention20. It would be mere21 nonsense and vanity to tell you what they say."
The tone of these extracts is thoroughly22 consonant23 with the spirit of Yorkshire and Lancashire people, who try as long as they can to conceal18 their emotions of pleasure under a bantering24 exterior25, almost as if making fun of themselves. Miss Brontë was extremely touched in the secret places of her warm heart by the way in which those who had known her from her childhood were proud and glad of her success. All round about the news had spread; strangers came "from beyond Burnley" to see her, as she went quietly and unconsciously into church and the sexton "gained many a half-crown" for pointing her out.
But there were drawbacks to this hearty26 and kindly27 appreciation28 which was so much more valuable than fame. The January number of the Edinburgh Review had contained the article on Shirley, of which her correspondent, Mr. Lewes, was the writer. I have said that Miss Brontë was especially anxious to be criticised as a writer, without relation to her sex as a woman. Whether right or wrong, her feeling was strong on this point. Now in this review of Shirley, the heading of the first two pages ran thus: "Mental Equality of the Sexes?" "Female Literature," and through the whole article the fact of the author's sex is never forgotten.
A few days after the review appeared, Mr. Lewes received the following note,—rather in the style of Anne Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and Montgomery.
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"I can be on my guard against my enemies, but God deliver me from my friends!
CURRER BELL."
In some explanatory notes on her letters to him, with which Mr. Lewes has favoured me, he says:—
"Seeing that she was unreasonable29 because angry, I wrote to remonstrate30 with her on quarrelling with the severity or frankness of a review, which certainly was dictated31 by real admiration32 and real friendship; even under its objections the friend's voice could be heard."
The following letter is her reply:—
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Jan. 19th, 1850.
"My dear Sir,—I will tell you why I was so hurt by that review in the Edinburgh; not because its criticism was keen or its blame sometimes severe; not because its praise was stinted33 (for, indeed, I think you give me quite as much praise as I deserve), but because after I had said earnestly that I wished critics would judge me as an AUTHOR, not as a woman, you so roughly—I even thought so cruelly—handled the question of sex. I dare say you meant no harm, and perhaps you will not now be able to understand why I was so grieved at what you will probably deem such a trifle; but grieved I was, and indignant too.
"There was a passage or two which you did quite wrong to write.
"However, I will not bear malice34 against you for it; I know what your nature is: it is not a bad or unkind one, though you would often jar terribly on some feelings with whose recoil35 and quiver you could not possibly sympathise. I imagine you are both enthusiastic and implacable, as you are at once sagacious and careless; you know much and discover much, but you are in such a hurry to tell it all you never give yourself time to think how your reckless eloquence36 may affect others; and, what is more, if you knew how it did affect them, you would not much care.
"However, I shake hands with you: you have excellent points; you can be generous. I still feel angry, and think I do well to be angry; but it is the anger one experiences for rough play rather than for foul37 play.—I am yours, with a certain respect, and more chagrin38,
CURRER BELL."
As Mr. Lewes says, "the tone of this letter is cavalier." But I thank him for having allowed me to publish what is so characteristic of one phase of Miss Brontë's mind. Her health, too, was suffering at this time. "I don't know what heaviness of spirit has beset39 me of late" (she writes, in pathetic words, wrung40 out of the sadness of her heart), "made my faculties41 dull, made rest weariness, and occupation burdensome. Now and then, the silence of the house, the solitude42 of the room, has pressed on me with a weight I found it difficult to bear, and recollection has not failed to be as alert, poignant43, obtrusive44, as other feelings were languid. I attribute this state of things partly to the weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms and high winds, and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturbance45 in the atmosphere by a sense of bodily weakness, and deep, heavy mental sadness, such as some would call PRESENTIMENT,—presentiment indeed it is, but not at all super-natural. . . . I cannot help feeling something of the excitement of expectation till the post hour comes, and when, day after day, it brings nothing, I get low. This is a stupid, disgraceful, unmeaning state of things. I feel bitterly vexed46 at my own dependence47 and folly48; but it is so bad for the mind to be quite alone, and to have none with whom to talk over little crosses and disappointments, and to laugh them away. If I could write, I dare say I should be better, but I cannot write a line. However (by God's help), I will contend against this folly.
"I had rather a foolish letter the other day from ——. Some things in it nettled49 me, especially an unnecessarily earnest assurance that, in spite of all I had done in the writing line, I still retained a place in her esteem50. My answer took strong and high ground at once. I said I had been troubled by no doubts on the subject; that I neither did her nor myself the injustice51 to suppose there was anything in what I had written to incur52 the just forfeiture53 of esteem. . . .
"A few days since, a little incident happened which curiously54 touched me. Papa put into my hands a little packet of letters and papers,—telling me that they were mamma's, and that I might read them. I did read them, in a frame of mind I cannot describe. The papers were yellow with time, all having been written before I was born it was strange now to peruse55, for the first time, the records of a mind whence my own sprang; and most strange, and at once sad and sweet, to find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order. They were written to papa before they were married. There is a rectitude, a refinement56 a constancy, a modesty57, a sense, a gentleness about them indescribable. I wished that she had lived, and that I had known her. . . . All through this month of February, I have had a crushing time of it. I could not escape from or rise above certain most mournful recollections,—the last days, the sufferings, the remembered words—most sorrowful to me, of those who, Faith assures me, are now happy. At evening and bed-time, such thoughts would haunt me, bringing a weary heartache."
The reader may remember the strange prophetic vision, which dictated a few words, written on the occasion of the death of a pupil of hers in January, 1840:
"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."
to wear, with slow dropping but perpetual pain, upon their spirits, the nerves and appetite will give way in solitude. How much more must it have been so with Miss Brontë, delicate and frail62 in constitution, tried by much anxiety and sorrow in early life, and now left to face her life alone. Owing to Mr. Brontë's great age, and long-formed habits of solitary63 occupation when in the house, his daughter was left to herself for the greater part of the day. Ever since his serious attacks of illness, he had dined alone; a portion of her dinner, regulated by strict attention to the diet most suitable for him, being taken into his room by herself. After dinner she read to him for an hour or so, as his sight was too weak to allow of his reading long to himself. He was out of doors among his parishioners for a good part of each day; often for a longer time than his strength would permit. Yet he always liked to go alone, and consequently her affectionate care could be no check upon the length of his walks to the more distant hamlets which were in his cure. He would come back occasionally utterly64 fatigued65; and be obliged to go to bed, questioning himself sadly as to where all his former strength of body had gone to. His strength of will was the same as ever. That which he resolved to do he did, at whatever cost of weariness; but his daughter was all the more anxious from seeing him so regardless of himself and his health. The hours of retiring for the night had always been early in the Parsonage; now family prayers were at eight o'clock; directly after which Mr. Brontë and old Tabby went to bed, and Martha was not long in following. But Charlotte could not have slept if she had gone,—could not have rested on her desolate couch. She stopped up,—it was very tempting,—late and later, striving to beguile67 the lonely night with some employment, till her weak eyes failed to read or to sew, and could only weep in solitude over the dead that were not. No one on earth can even imagine what those hours were to her. All the grim superstitions68 of the North had been implanted in her during her childhood by the servants, who believed in them. They recurred69 to her now,—with no shrinking from the spirits of the Dead, but with such an intense longing70 once more to stand face to face with the souls of her sisters, as no one but she could have felt. It seemed as if the very strength of her yearning71 should have compelled them to appear. On windy nights, cries, and sobs72, and wailings seemed to go round the house, as of the dearly-beloved striving to force their way to her. Some one conversing73 with her once objected, in my presence, to that part of "Jane Eyre" in which she hears Rochester's voice crying out to her in a great crisis of her life, he being many, many miles distant at the time. I do not know what incident was in Miss Brontë's recollection when she replied, in a low voice, drawing in her breath, "But it is a true thing; it really happened."
The reader, who has even faintly pictured to himself her life at this time,—the solitary days,—the waking, watching nights,—may imagine to what a sensitive pitch her nerves were strung, and how such a state was sure to affect her health.
It was no bad thing for her that about this time various people began to go over to Haworth, curious to see the scenery described in "Shirley," if a sympathy with the writer, of a more generous kind than to be called mere curiosity, did not make them wish to know whether they could not in some way serve or cheer one who had suffered so deeply.
Among this number were Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth. Their house lies over the crest74 of the moors which rise above Haworth, at about a dozen miles' distance as the crow flies, though much further by the road. But, according to the acceptation of the word in that uninhabited district, they were neighbours, if they so willed it. Accordingly, Sir James and his wife drove over one morning, at the beginning of March, to call upon Miss Brontë and her father. Before taking leave, they pressed her to visit them at Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders of East Lancashire. After some hesitation75, and at the urgency of her father, who was extremely anxious to procure76 for her any change of scene and society that was offered, she consented to go. On the whole, she enjoyed her visit very much, in spite of her shyness, and the difficulty she always experienced in meeting the advances of those strangers whose kindness she did not feel herself in a position to repay.
She took great pleasure in the "quiet drives to old ruins and old halls, situated77 among older hills and woods; the dialogues by the old fireside in the antique oak-panneled drawing-room, while they suited him, did not too much oppress and exhaust me. The house, too, is much to my taste; near three centuries old, grey, stately, and picturesque78. On the whole, now that the visit is over, I do not regret having paid it. The worst of it is, that there is now some menace hanging over my head of an invitation to go to them in London during the season. This, which would be a great enjoyment79 to some people, is a perfect terror to me. I should highly prize the advantages to be gained in an extended range of observation; but I tremble at the thought of the price I must necessarily pay in mental distress80 and physical wear and tear."
On the same day on which she wrote the above, she sent the following letter to Mr. Smith.
"March 16th, 1850.
"I return Mr. H——'s note, after reading it carefully. I tried very hard to understand all he says about art; but, to speak truth, my efforts were crowned with incomplete success. There is a certain jargon81 in use amongst critics on this point through which it is physically82 and morally impossible to me to see daylight. One thing however, I see plainly enough, and that is, Mr. Currer Bell needs improvement, and ought to strive after it; and this (D. V.) he honestly intends to do—taking his time, however, and following as his guides Nature and Truth. If these lead to what the critics call art, it is all very well; but if not, that grand desideratum has no chance of being run after or caught. The puzzle is, that while the people of the South object to my delineation83 of Northern life and manners, the people of Yorkshire and Lancashire approve. They say it is precisely84 the contrast of rough nature with highly artificial cultivation85 which forms one of their main characteristics. Such, or something very similar, has been the observation made to me lately, whilst I have been from home, by members of some of the ancient East Lancashire families, whose mansions86 lie on the hilly border-land between the two counties. The question arises, whether do the London critics, or the old Northern squires87, understand the matter best?
"Any promise you require respecting the books shall be willingly given, provided only I am allowed the Jesuit's principle of a mental reservation, giving licence to forget and promise whenever oblivion shall appear expedient88. The last two or three numbers of Pendennis will not, I dare say, be generally thought sufficiently89 exciting, yet I like them. Though the story lingers, (for me) the interest does not flag. Here and there we feel that the pen has been guided by a tired hand, that the mind of the writer has been somewhat chafed90 and depressed by his recent illness, or by some other cause; but Thackeray still proves himself greater when he is weary than other writers are when they are fresh. The public, of course, will have no compassion91 for his fatigue66, and make no allowance for the ebb92 of inspiration; but some true-hearted readers here and there, while grieving that such a man should be obliged to write when he is not in the mood, will wonder that, under such circumstances, he should write so well. The parcel of books will come, I doubt not, at such time as it shall suit the good pleasure of the railway officials to send it on,—or rather to yield it up to the repeated and humble93 solicitations of Haworth carriers;—till when I wait in all reasonable patience and resignation, looking with docility94 to that model of active self-helpfulness Punch friendly offers the 'Women of England,' in his 'Unprotected Female.'"
The books lent her by her publishers were, as I have before said, a great solace and pleasure to her. There was much interest in opening the Cornhill parcel. But there was pain too; for, as she untied95 the cords, and took out the volumes one by one, she could scarcely fail to be reminded of those who once, on similar occasions, looked on so eagerly. "I miss familiar voices, commenting mirthfully and pleasantly; the room seems very still—very empty; but yet there is consolation96 in remembering that Papa will take pleasure in some of the books. Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste." She goes on to make remarks upon the kind of books sent.
"I wonder how you can choose so well; on no account would I forestall97 the choice. I am sure any selection I might make for myself would be less satisfactory than the selection others so kindly and judiciously98 make for me; besides, if I knew all that was coming, it would be comparatively flat. I would much rather not know.
"Amongst the especially welcome works are 'Southey's Life', the 'Women of France,' Hazlitt's 'Essays,' Emerson's 'Representative Men;' but it seems invidious to particularise when all are good. . . . I took up a second small book, Scott's 'Suggestions on Female Education;' that, too, I read, and with unalloyed pleasure. It is very good; justly thought, and clearly and felicitously99 expressed. The girls of this generation have great advantages; it seems to me that they receive much encouragement in the acquisition of knowledge, and the cultivation of their minds; in these days, women may be thoughtful and well read, without being universally stigmatised as 'Blues100' and 'Pedants101.' Men begin to approve and aid, instead of ridiculing102 or checking them in their efforts to be wise. I must say that, for my own part, whenever I have been so happy as to share the conversation of a really intellectual man, my feeling has been, not that the little I knew was accounted a superfluity and impertinence, but that I did not know enough to satisfy just expectation. I have always to explain, 'In me you must not look for great attainments103: what seems to you the result of reading and study is chiefly spontaneous and intuitive.' . . . Against the teaching of some (even clever) men, one instinctively104 revolts. They may possess attainments, they may boast varied1 knowledge of life and of the world; but if of the finer perceptions, of the more delicate phases of feeling, they be destitute105 and incapable106, of what avail is the rest? Believe me, while hints well worth consideration may come from unpretending sources, from minds not highly cultured, but naturally fine and delicate, from hearts kindly, feeling, and unenvious, learned dictums delivered with pomp and sound may be perfectly107 empty, stupid, and contemptible108. No man ever yet 'by aid of Greek climbed Parnassus,' or taught others to climb it. . . . I enclose for your perusal a scrap109 of paper which came into my hands without the knowledge of the writer. He is a poor working man of this village—a thoughtful, reading, feeling being, whose mind is too keen for his frame, and wears it out. I have not spoken to him above thrice in my life, for he is a Dissenter110, and has rarely come in my way. The document is a sort of record of his feelings, after the perusal of "Jane Eyre;" it is artless and earnest; genuine and generous. You must return it to me, for I value it more than testimonies111 from higher sources. He said, 'Miss Brontë, if she knew he had written it, would scorn him;' but, indeed, Miss Brontë does not scorn him; she only grieves that a mind of which this is the emanation, should be kept crushed by the leaden hand of poverty—by the trials of uncertain health, and the claims of a large family.
"As to the Times, as you say, the acrimony of its critique has proved, in some measure, its own antidote112; to have been more effective, it should have been juster. I think it has had little weight up here in the North it may be that annoying remarks, if made, are not suffered to reach my ear; but certainly, while I have heard little condemnatory113 of Shirley, more than once have I been deeply moved by manifestations114 of even enthusiastic approbation115. I deem it unwise to dwell much on these matters; but for once I must permit myself to remark, that the generous pride many of the Yorkshire people have taken in the matter, has been such as to awake and claim my gratitude—especially since it has afforded a source of reviving pleasure to my father in his old age. The very curates, poor fellows! show no resentment116 each characteristically finds solace for his own wounds in crowing over his brethren. Mr. Donne was at first a little disturbed; for a week or two he was in disquietude, but he is now soothed117 down; only yesterday I had the pleasure of making him a comfortable cup of tea, and seeing him sip118 it with revived complacency. It is a curious fact that, since he read 'Shirley,' he has come to the house oftener than ever, and been remarkably119 meek120 and assiduous to please. Some people's natures are veritable enigmas121 I quite expected to have had one good scene at least with him; but as yet nothing of the sort has occurred."
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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exhausted
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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ostrich
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moors
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concealment
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conceal
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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detention
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mere
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thoroughly
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consonant
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bantering
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exterior
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hearty
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kindly
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appreciation
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unreasonable
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remonstrate
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dictated
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admiration
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stinted
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| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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malice
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recoil
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eloquence
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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41
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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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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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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44
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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45
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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47
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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49
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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51
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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52
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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53
forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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54
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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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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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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68
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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82
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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84
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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85
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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86
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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88
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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90
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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92
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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95
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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96
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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97
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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98
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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99
felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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100
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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101
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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102
ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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103
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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104
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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105
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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106
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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107
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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108
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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109
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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110
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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111
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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112
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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113
condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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114
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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115
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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116
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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117
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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118
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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119
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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120
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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121
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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