But miracle is not a word to use in writing of Gibbon. If miracle there was it lay in the inexplicable20 fact which Gibbon, who seldom stresses a word, himself thought worthy21 of italics: “. . . I KNOW by experience, that from my early youth I aspired22 to the character of an historian.” Once that seed was planted so mysteriously in the sickly boy whose erudition amazed his tutor there was more of the rational than of the miraculous23 in the process by which that gift was developed and brought to fruition. Nothing, in the first place, could have been more cautious, more deliberate and more far-sighted than Gibbon’s choice of a subject. A historian he had to be; but historian of what? The history of the Swiss was rejected; the history of Florence was rejected; for a long time he played with the idea of a life of Sir Walter Raleigh. Then that, too, was rejected and for reasons that are extremely illuminating24:. . . I should shrink with terror from the modern history of England, where every character is a problem, and every reader a friend or an enemy; where a writer is supposed to hoist25 a flag of party, and is devoted26 to damnation by the adverse27 faction28. . . . I must embrace a safer and more extensive theme.
But once found, how was he to treat the distant, the safe, the extensive theme? An attitude, a style had to be adopted; one presumably that generalized, since problems of character were to be avoided; that abolished the writer’s personality, since he was not dealing29 with his own times and contemporary questions; that was rhythmical30 and fluent, rather than abrupt31 and intense, since vast stretches of time had to be covered, and the reader carried smoothly32 through many folios of print.
At last the problem was solved; the fusion8 was complete; matter and manner became one; we forget the style, and are only aware that we are safe in the keeping of a great artist. He is able to make us see what he wants us to see and in the right proportions. Here he compresses; there he expands. He transposes, emphasizes, omits in the interests of order and drama. The features of the individual faces are singularly conventionalized. Here are none of those violent gestures and unmistakable voices that fill the pages of Carlyle and Macaulay with living human beings who are related to ourselves. There are no Whigs and Tories here; no eternal verities33 and implacable destinies. Time has cut off those quick reactions that make us love and hate. The innumerable figures are suffused34 in the equal blue of the far distance. They rise and fall and pass away without exciting our pity or our anger. But if the figures are small, they are innumerable; if the scene is dim it is vast. Armies wheel; hordes35 of barbarians36 are destroyed; forests are huge and dark; processions are splendid; altars rise and fall; one dynasty succeeds another. The richness, the variety of the scene absorb us. He is the most resourceful of entertainers. Without haste or effort he swings his lantern where he chooses. If sometimes the size of the whole is oppressive, and the unemphatic story monotonous37, suddenly in the flash of a phrase a detail is lit up: we see the monks38 “in the lazy gloom of their convents”; statues become unforgettably “that inanimate people”; the “gilt and variegated39 armour” shines out: the splendid names of kings and countries are sonorously40 intoned; or the narrative41 parts and a scene opens:By the order of Probus, a great quantity of large trees, torn up by the roots, were transplanted into the midst of the circus. The spacious42 and shady forest was immediately filled with a thousand ostriches43, a thousand stags, a thousand fallow deer, and a thousand wild boars; and all this variety of game was abandoned to the riotous45 impetuosity of the multitude. . . . The air was continually refreshed by the playing of fountains, and profusely46 impregnated by the grateful scent47 of aromatics48. In the centre of the edifice, the arena49, or stage, was strewed50 with the finest sand, and successively assumed the most different forms. At one moment it seemed to rise out of the earth, like the garden of Hesperides, and was afterwards broken into the rocks and caverns51 of Thrace. . . .
But it is only when we come to compress and dismember one of Gibbon’s pictures that we realize how carefully the parts have been chosen, how firmly the sentences, composed after a certain number of turns round the room and then tested by the ear and only then written down, adhere together.
But these are qualities, it might be said, that belong to the historical novelist — to Scott or to Flaubert. And Gibbon was an historian, so religiously devoted to the truth that he felt an aspersion52 upon his accuracy as an aspersion upon his character. Flights of notes at the bottom of the page check his pageants54 and verify his characters. Thus they have a different quality from scenes and characters composed from a thousand hints and suggestions in the freedom of the imagination. They are inferior, perhaps, in subtlety55 and in intensity56. On the other hand, as Gibbon pointed57 out, “The Cyropaedia is vague and languid; the Anabasis circumstantial and animated58. Such is the eternal difference between fiction and truth.”
The imagination of the novelist must often fail; but the historian can repose59 himself upon fact. And even if those facts are sometimes dubious60 and capable of more than one interpretation61, they bring the reason into play and widen our range of interest. The vanished generations, invisible separately, have collectively spun62 round them intricate laws, erected63 marvellous structures of ceremony and belief. These can be described, analysed, recorded. The interest with which we follow him in his patient and impartial64 examination has an excitement peculiar65 to itself. History may be, as he tells us, “little more than the register of the crimes, follies66, and misfortunes of mankind”; but we seem, at least, as we read him raised above the tumult67 and the chaos68 into a clear and rational air.
The victories and the civilization of Constantine no longer influence the state of Europe; but a considerable portion of the globe still retains the impression which it received from the conversion69 of that monarch70; and the ecclesiastical institutions of his reign71 are still connected, by an indissoluble chain, with the opinions, the passions, and the interests of the present generation.
He is not merely a master of the pageant53 and the story; he is also the critic and the historian of the mind.
It is here of course that we become conscious of the idiosyncrasy and of the limitations of the writer. Just as we know that Macaulay was a nineteenth-century Whig, and Carlyle a Scottish peasant with the gift of prophecy, so we know that Gibbon was rooted in the eighteenth century and indelibly stamped with its character and his own. Gradually, stealthily, with a phrase here, a gibe72 there, the whole solid mass is leavened73 with the peculiar quality of his temperament74. Shades of meaning reveal themselves; the pompous75 language becomes delicate and exact. Sometimes a phrase is turned edgewise, so that as it slips with the usual suavity76 into its place it leaves a scratch. “He was even destitute77 of a sense of honour, which so frequently supplies the sense of public virtue78.” Or the solemn rise and fall of the text above is neatly79 diminished by the demure80 particularity of a note. “The ostrich’s neck is three feet long, and composed of seventeen vertebrae. See Buffon. Hist. Naturelle.” The infallibility of historians is gravely mocked. “. . . their knowledge will appear gradually to increase, as their means of information must have diminished, a circumstance which frequently occurs in historical disquisitions.” Or we are urbanely81 asked to reflect how,in our present state of existence, the body is so inseparably connected with the soul, that it seems to be to our interest to taste, with innocence82 and moderation, the enjoyments83 of which that faithful companion is susceptible84.
The infirmities of that faithful companion provide him with a fund of perpetual amusement. Sex, for some reason connected, perhaps, with his private life, always excites a demure smile:Twenty-two acknowledged concubines, and a library of sixty-two thousand volumes, attested85 the variety of his inclinations86; and from the productions which he left behind him, it appears that the former as well as the latter were designed for use rather than for ostentation87.
The change upon such phrases is rung again and again. Few virgins88 or matrons, nuns89 or monks leave his pages with their honour entirely90 unscathed. But his most insidious91 raillery, his most relentless92 reason, are directed, of course, against the Christian93 religion.
Fanaticism94, asceticism95, superstition96 were naturally antipathetic to him. Wherever he found them, in life or in religion, they roused his contempt and derision. The two famous chapters in which he examined “the HUMAN causes of the progress and establishment of Christianity,” though inspired by the same love of truth which in other connections excited the admiration97 of scholars, roused great scandal at the time. Even the eighteenth century, that “age of light and liberty,” was not entirely open to the voice of reason. “How many souls have his writings polluted!” Hannah More exclaimed when she heard of his death. “Lord preserve others from their contagion98!” In such circumstances irony99 was the obvious weapon; the pressure of public opinion forced him to be covert100, not open. And irony is a dangerous weapon; it easily becomes sidelong and furtive101; the ironist seems to be darting102 a poisoned tongue from a place of concealment103. However grave and temperate104 Gibbon’s irony at its best, however searching his logic105 and robust106 his contempt for the cruelty and intolerance of superstition, we sometimes feel, as he pursues his victim with incessant107 scorn, that he is a little limited, a little superficial, a little earthy, a little too positively108 and imperturbably109 a man of the eighteenth century and not of our own.
But then he is Gibbon; and even historians, as Professor Bury reminds us, have to be themselves. History “is in the last resort somebody’s image of the past, and the image is conditioned by the mind and experience of the person who forms it.” Without his satire110, his irreverence111, his mixture of sedateness112 and slyness, of majesty113 and mobility114, and above all that belief in reason which pervades115 the whole book and gives it unity116, an implicit117 if unspoken message, the DECLINE AND FALL would be the work of another man. It would be the work indeed of two other men. For as we read we are perpetually creating another book, perceiving another figure. The sublime118 person of “the historian” as the Sheffields called him is attended by a companion whom they called, as if he were the solitary119 specimen120 of some extinct race, “the Gibbon.” The Historian and the Gibbon go hand in hand. But it is not easy to draw even a thumbnail sketch121 of this strange being because the autobiography122, or rather the six autobiographies123, compose a portrait of such masterly completeness and authority that it defies our attempts to add to it. And yet no autobiography is ever final; there is always something for the reader to add from another angle.
There is the body, in the first place — the body with all those little physical peculiarities124 that the outsider sees and uses to interpret what lies within. The body in Gibbon’s case was ridiculous — prodigiously125 fat, enormously top-heavy, precariously126 balanced upon little feet upon which he spun round with astonishing alacrity127. Like Goldsmith he over-dressed, and for the same reason perhaps — to supply the dignity which nature denied him. But unlike Goldsmith, his ugliness caused him no embarrassment128 or, if so, he had mastered it completely. He talked incessantly129, and in sentences composed as carefully as his writing. To the sharp and irreverent eyes of contemporaries his vanity was perceptible and ridiculous; but it was only on the surface. There was something hard and muscular in the obese130 little body which turned aside the sneers131 of the fine gentlemen. He had roughed it, not only in the Hampshire Militia132, but among his equals. He had supped “at little tables covered with a napkin, in the middle of a coffee room, upon a bit of cold meat or a Sandwich,” with twenty or thirty of the first men in the kingdom, before he retired133 to rule supreme134 over the first families of Lausanne. It was in London, among the distractions135 of society and politics, that he achieved that perfect poise136, that perfect balance between work, society and the pleasures of the senses which composed his wholly satisfactory existence. And the balance had not been arrived at without a struggle. He was sickly; he had a spendthrift for a father; he was expelled from Oxford137; his love affair was thwarted138; he was short of money and had none of the advantages of birth. But he turned everything to profit. From his lack of health he learnt the love of books; from the barrack and the guardroom he learnt to understand the common people; from his exile he learnt the smallness of the English cloister139; and from poverty and obscurity how to cultivate the amenities140 of human intercourse141.
At last it seemed as if life itself were powerless to unseat this perfect master of her uncertain paces. The final buffet142 — the loss of his sinecure143 — was turned to supreme advantage; a perfect house, a perfect friend, a perfect society at once placed themselves at his service, and without loss of time or temper Gibbon entered a post-chaise with Caplin his valet and Muff his dog and bowled over Westminster Bridge to finish his history and enjoy his maturity144 in circumstances that were ideal.
But as we run over the familiar picture there is something that eludes145 us. It may be that we have not been able to find out anything for ourselves. Gibbon has always been before us. His self-knowledge was consummate146; he had no illusions either about himself or about his work. He had chosen his part and he played it to perfection. Even that characteristic attitude, with his snuff-box in his hand and his body stretched out, he had noted147 himself, and perhaps he had adopted it as consciously as he observed it. But it is his silence that is most baffling. Even in the letters, where he drops the Historian and shortens himself now and then to “the Gib,” there are long pauses when nothing is heard even at Sheffield Place of what is going on in the study at Lausanne.
The artist after all is a solitary being. Twenty years spent in the society of the DECLINE AND FALL are twenty years spent in solitary communion with distant events, with intricate problems of arrangement, with the minds and bodies of the dead. Much that is important to other people loses its importance; the perspective is changed when the eyes are fixed148 not upon the foreground but upon the mountains, not upon a living woman but upon “my other wife, the DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE.” And it is difficult, after casting firm sentences that will withstand the tread of time. to say “in three words, I am alone.” It is only now and then that we catch a phrase that has not been stylized, or see a little picture that he has not been able to include in the majestic149 design. For example, when Lord Sheffield bursts out in his downright way, “You are a right good friend . . .,” we see the obese little man impetuously and impulsively150 hoisting151 himself into a post-chaise and crossing a Europe ravaged152 by revolution to comfort a widower153. And again when the old stepmother at Bath takes up her pen and quavers out a few uncomposed and unliterary sentences we see him:I truely rejoice, & congratulate you on your being once more safely arrived in your native Country. I wish’d to tell you so yesterday, but the joy your letter gave would not suffer my hand to be steady enough to write. . . . Many has been the disappointments I have borne with fortitude154, but the fear of having my last and only friend torn from me was very near overseting my reason. . . . Madame Ely and Mrs. Bonfoy are here. Mrs. Holroyd has probably told you that Miss Gould is now Mrs. Horneck. I wish she had been Mrs. Gibbon . . .
so the old lady rambles155 on, and for a moment we see him as in a cracked mirror held in a trembling hand. For a moment, a cloud crosses that august countenance156. It was true. He had sometimes on returning home in the evening, sighed for a companion. He had sometimes felt that “domestic solitude157 . . . is a comfortless state.” He had conceived the romantic idea of adopting and educating a young female relative called Charlotte. But there were difficulties; the idea was abandoned. Then the cloud drifts away; common sense, indomitable cheerfulness return; once more the serene158 figure of the historian emerges triumphant159. He had every reason to be content. The great building was complete; the mountain was off his breast; the slave was freed from the toil160 of the oar44.
And he was by no means exhausted161. Other tasks less laborious162, perhaps more delightful163, lay before him. His love of literature was unsated; his love of life — of the young, of the innocent, of the gay — was unblunted. It was the faithful companion, the body, unfortunately, that failed him. But his composure was unshaken. He faced death with an equanimity164 that speaks well for “the profane165 virtues166 of sincerity167 and moderation.” And as he sank into a sleep that was probably eternal, he could remember with satisfaction the view across the plain to the stupendous mountains beyond; the white acacia that grew beside the study window, and the great work which, he was not wrong in thinking, will immortalize his name.
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1
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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Partisanship
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| n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
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fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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verities
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| n.真实( verity的名词复数 )；事实；真理；真实的陈述 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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ostriches
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| n.鸵鸟( ostrich的名词复数 )；逃避现实的人，不愿正视现实者 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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aromatics
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| n.芳香植物( aromatic的名词复数 )；芳香剂，芳香药物 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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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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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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67
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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68
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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69
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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70
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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71
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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72
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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73
leavened
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| adj.加酵母的v.使（面团）发酵( leaven的过去式和过去分词 )；在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
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74
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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75
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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76
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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77
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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78
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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79
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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80
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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81
urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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82
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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83
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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84
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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85
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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86
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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87
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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88
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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89
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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90
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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91
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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92
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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93
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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94
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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95
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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96
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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97
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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98
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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99
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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100
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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101
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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102
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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103
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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104
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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105
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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106
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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107
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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108
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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109
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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110
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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111
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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112
sedateness
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| n.安详，镇静 | |
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113
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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114
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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115
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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117
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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118
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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119
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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120
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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121
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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122
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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123
autobiographies
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| n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 )；自传文学 | |
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124
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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125
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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126
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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127
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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128
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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129
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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130
obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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131
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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132
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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133
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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134
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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135
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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136
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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137
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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138
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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139
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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140
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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141
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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142
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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143
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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144
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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145
eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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146
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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147
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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148
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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149
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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150
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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151
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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152
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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153
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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154
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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155
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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156
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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157
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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158
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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159
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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160
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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161
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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162
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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163
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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164
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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165
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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166
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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167
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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