I remember the late James Payn telling the anecdote7 that he and two literary friends agreed to write down what scene in fiction they thought the most dramatic, and that on examining the papers it was found that all three had chosen the same. It was the moment when the unknown knight8, at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, riding past the pavilions of the lesser9 men, strikes with the sharp end of his lance, in a challenge to mortal combat, the shield of the formidable Templar. It was, indeed, a splendid moment! What matter that no Templar was allowed by the rules of his Order to take part in so secular10 and frivolous11 an affair as a tournament? It is the privilege of great masters to make things so, and it is a churlish thing to gainsay12 it. Was it not Wendell Holmes who described the prosaic13 man, who enters a drawing-room with a couple of facts, like ill-conditioned bull-dogs at his heels, ready to let them loose on any play of fancy? The great writer can never go wrong. If Shakespeare gives a sea-coast to Bohemia, or if Victor Hugo calls an English prize-fighter Mr. Jim-John-Jack—well, it was so, and that's an end of it. "There is no second line of rails at that point," said an editor to a minor14 author. "I make a second line," said the author; and he was within his rights, if he can carry his readers' conviction with him.
But this is a digression from "Ivanhoe." What a book it is! The second greatest historical novel in our language, I think. Every successive reading has deepened my admiration15 for it. Scott's soldiers are always as good as his women (with exceptions) are weak; but here, while the soldiers are at their very best, the romantic figure of Rebecca redeems16 the female side of the story from the usual commonplace routine. Scott drew manly17 men because he was a manly man himself, and found the task a sympathetic one.
He drew young heroines because a convention demanded it, which he had never the hardihood to break. It is only when we get him for a dozen chapters on end with a minimum of petticoat—in the long stretch, for example, from the beginning of the Tournament to the end of the Friar Tuck incident—that we realize the height of continued romantic narrative18 to which he could attain19. I don't think in the whole range of our literature we have a finer sustained flight than that.
There is, I admit, an intolerable amount of redundant20 verbiage21 in Scott's novels. Those endless and unnecessary introductions make the shell very thick before you come to the oyster22. They are often admirable in themselves, learned, witty23, picturesque24, but with no relation or proportion to the story which they are supposed to introduce. Like so much of our English fiction, they are very good matter in a very bad place. Digression and want of method and order are traditional national sins. Fancy introducing an essay on how to live on nothing a year as Thackeray did in "Vanity Fair," or sandwiching in a ghost story as Dickens has dared to do. As well might a dramatic author rush up to the footlights and begin telling anecdotes25 while his play was suspending its action and his characters waiting wearily behind him. It is all wrong, though every great name can be quoted in support of it. Our sense of form is lamentably26 lacking, and Sir Walter sinned with the rest. But get past all that to a crisis in the real story, and who finds the terse27 phrase, the short fire-word, so surely as he? Do you remember when the reckless Sergeant28 of Dragoons stands at last before the grim Puritan, upon whose head a price has been set: "A thousand marks or a bed of heather!" says he, as he draws. The Puritan draws also: "The Sword of the Lord and of Gideon!" says he. No verbiage there! But the very spirit of either man and of either party, in the few stern words, which haunt your mind. "Bows and Bills!" cry the Saxon Varangians, as the Moslem29 horse charges home. You feel it is just what they must have cried. Even more terse and businesslike was the actual battle-cry of the fathers of the same men on that long-drawn30 day when they fought under the "Red Dragon of Wessex" on the low ridge31 at Hastings. "Out! Out!" they roared, as the Norman chivalry32 broke upon them. Terse, strong, prosaic—the very genius of the race was in the cry.
Is it that the higher emotions are not there? Or is it that they are damped down and covered over as too precious to be exhibited? Something of each, perhaps. I once met the widow of the man who, as a young signal midshipman, had taken Nelson's famous message from the Signal Yeoman and communicated it to the ship's company. The officers were impressed. The men were not. "Duty!" they muttered. "We've always done it. Why not?" Anything in the least highfalutin' would depress, not exalt33, a British company. It is the under statement which delights them. German troops can march to battle singing Luther's hymns34. Frenchmen will work themselves into a frenzy35 by a song of glory and of Fatherland. Our martial36 poets need not trouble to imitate—or at least need not imagine that if they do so they will ever supply a want to the British soldier. Our sailors working the heavy guns in South Africa sang: "Here's another lump of sugar for the Bird." I saw a regiment37 go into action to the refrain of "A little bit off the top." The martial poet aforesaid, unless he had the genius and the insight of a Kipling, would have wasted a good deal of ink before he had got down to such chants as these. The Russians are not unlike us in this respect. I remember reading of some column ascending38 a breach39 and singing lustily from start to finish, until a few survivors40 were left victorious41 upon the crest42 with the song still going. A spectator inquired what wondrous43 chant it was which had warmed them to such a deed of valour, and he found that the exact meaning of the words, endlessly repeated, was "Ivan is in the garden picking cabbages." The fact is, I suppose, that a mere44 monotonous45 sound may take the place of the tom-tom of savage46 warfare47, and hypnotize the soldier into valour.
Our cousins across the Atlantic have the same blending of the comic with their most serious work. Take the songs which they sang during the most bloody48 war which the Anglo-Celtic race has ever waged—the only war in which it could have been said that they were stretched to their uttermost and showed their true form—"Tramp, tramp, tramp," "John Brown's Body," "Marching through Georgia"—all had a playful humour running through them. Only one exception do I know, and that is the most tremendous war-song I can recall. Even an outsider in time of peace can hardly read it without emotion. I mean, of course, Julia Ward3 Howe's "War-Song of the Republic," with the choral opening line: "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." If that were ever sung upon a battle-field the effect must have been terrific.
A long digression, is it not? But that is the worst of the thoughts at the other side of the Magic Door. You can't pull one out without a dozen being entangled49 with it. But it was Scott's soldiers that I was talking of, and I was saying that there is nothing theatrical50, no posing, no heroics (the thing of all others which the hero abominates), but just the short bluff51 word and the simple manly ways, with every expression and metaphor52 drawn from within his natural range of thought. What a pity it is that he, with his keen appreciation53 of the soldier, gave us so little of those soldiers who were his own contemporaries—the finest, perhaps, that the world has ever seen! It is true that he wrote a life of the great Soldier Emperor, but that was the one piece of hackwork of his career. How could a Tory patriot54, whose whole training had been to look upon Napoleon as a malignant55 Demon56, do justice to such a theme? But the Europe of those days was full of material which he of all men could have drawn with a sympathetic hand. What would we not give for a portrait of one of Murat's light-cavalrymen, or of a Grenadier of the Old Guard, drawn with the same bold strokes as the Rittmeister of Gustavus or the archers57 of the French King's Guard in "Quentin Durward"?
In his visit to Paris Scott must have seen many of those iron men who during the preceding twenty years had been the scourge58 and also the redemption of Europe. To us the soldiers who scowled59 at him from the sidewalks in 1814 would have been as interesting and as much romantic figures of the past as the mail-clad knights60 or ruffling61 cavaliers of his novels. A picture from the life of a Peninsular veteran, with his views upon the Duke, would be as striking as Dugald Dalgetty from the German wars. But then no man ever does realize the true interest of the age in which he happens to live. All sense of proportion is lost, and the little thing hard-by obscures the great thing at a distance. It is easy in the dark to confuse the fire-fly and the star. Fancy, for example, the Old Masters seeking their subjects in inn parlours, or St. Sebastians, while Columbus was discovering America before their very faces.
I have said that I think "Ivanhoe" the best of Scott's novels. I suppose most people would subscribe62 to that. But how about the second best? It speaks well for their general average that there is hardly one among them which might not find some admirers who would vote it to a place of honour. To the Scottish-born man those novels which deal with Scottish life and character have a quality of raciness which gives them a place apart. There is a rich humour of the soil in such books as "Old Mortality," "The Antiquary," and "Rob Roy," which puts them in a different class from the others. His old Scottish women are, next to his soldiers, the best series of types that he has drawn. At the same time it must be admitted that merit which is associated with dialect has such limitations that it can never take the same place as work which makes an equal appeal to all the world. On the whole, perhaps, "Quentin Durward," on account of its wider interests, its strong character-drawing, and the European importance of the events and people described, would have my vote for the second place. It is the father of all those sword-and-cape novels which have formed so numerous an addition to the light literature of the last century. The pictures of Charles the Bold and of the unspeakable Louis are extraordinarily64 vivid. I can see those two deadly enemies watching the hounds chasing the herald65, and clinging to each other in the convulsion of their cruel mirth, more clearly than most things which my eyes have actually rested upon.
The portrait of Louis with his astuteness66, his cruelty, his superstition67 and his cowardice68 is followed closely from Comines, and is the more effective when set up against his bluff and war-like rival. It is not often that historical characters work out in their actual physique exactly as one would picture them to be, but in the High Church of Innsbruck I have seen effigies69 of Louis and Charles which might have walked from the very pages of Scott-Louis, thin, ascetic70, varminty; and Charles with the head of a prize-fighter. It is hard on us when a portrait upsets all our preconceived ideas, when, for example, we see in the National Portrait Gallery a man with a noble, olive-tinted, poetic71 face, and with a start read beneath it that it is the wicked Judge Jeffreys. Occasionally, however, as at Innsbruck, we are absolutely satisfied. I have before me on the mantelpiece yonder a portrait of a painting which represents Queen Mary's Bothwell. Take it down and look at it. Mark the big head, fit to conceive large schemes; the strong animal face, made to captivate a sensitive, feminine woman; the brutally72 forceful features—the mouth with a suggestion of wild boars' tusks73 behind it, the beard which could bristle74 with fury: the whole man and his life-history are revealed in that picture. I wonder if Scott had ever seen the original which hangs at the Hepburn family seat?
Personally, I have always had a very high opinion of a novel which the critics have used somewhat harshly, and which came almost the last from his tired pen. I mean "Count Robert of Paris." I am convinced that if it had been the first, instead of the last, of the series it would have attracted as much attention as "Waverley." I can understand the state of mind of the expert, who cried out in mingled75 admiration and despair: "I have studied the conditions of Byzantine Society all my life, and here comes a Scotch76 lawyer who makes the whole thing clear to me in a flash!" Many men could draw with more or less success Norman England, or mediaeval France, but to reconstruct a whole dead civilization in so plausible77 a way, with such dignity and such minuteness of detail, is, I should think, a most wonderful tour de force. His failing health showed itself before the end of the novel, but had the latter half equalled the first, and contained scenes of such humour as Anna Comnena reading aloud her father's exploits, or of such majesty78 as the account of the muster79 of the Crusaders upon the shores of the Bosphorus, then the book could not have been gainsaid80 its rightful place in the very front rank of the novels.
I would that he had carried on his narrative, and given us a glimpse of the actual progress of the First Crusade. What an incident! Was ever anything in the world's history like it? It had what historical incidents seldom have, a definite beginning, middle and end, from the half-crazed preaching of Peter down to the Fall of Jerusalem. Those leaders! It would take a second Homer to do them justice. Godfrey the perfect soldier and leader, Bohemund the unscrupulous and formidable, Tancred the ideal knight errant, Robert of Normandy the half-mad hero! Here is material so rich that one feels one is not worthy to handle it. What richest imagination could ever evolve anything more marvellous and thrilling than the actual historical facts?
But what a glorious brotherhood81 the novels are! Think of the pure romance of "The Talisman"; the exquisite82 picture of Hebridean life in "The Pirate"; the splendid reproduction of Elizabethan England in "Kenilworth"; the rich humour of the "Legend of Montrose"; above all, bear in mind that in all that splendid series, written in a coarse age, there is not one word to offend the most sensitive car, and it is borne in upon one how great and noble a man was Walter Scott, and how high the service which he did for literature and for humanity.
For that reason his life is good reading, and there it is on the same shelf as the novels. Lockhart was, of course, his son-in-law and his admiring friend. The ideal biographer should be a perfectly83 impartial84 man, with a sympathetic mind, but a stern determination to tell the absolute truth. One would like the frail85, human side of a man as well as the other. I cannot believe that anyone in the world was ever quite so good as the subject of most of our biographies. Surely these worthy people swore a little sometimes, or had a keen eye for a pretty face, or opened the second bottle when they would have done better to stop at the first, or did something to make us feel that they were men and brothers. They need not go the length of the lady who began a biography of her deceased husband with the words—"D—- was a dirty man," but the books certainly would be more readable, and the subjects more lovable too, if we had greater light and shade in the picture.
But I am sure that the more one knew of Scott the more one would have admired him. He lived in a drinking age, and in a drinking country, and I have not a doubt that he took an allowance of toddy occasionally of an evening which would have laid his feeble successors under the table. His last years, at least, poor fellow, were abstemious86 enough, when he sipped87 his barley-water, while the others passed the decanter. But what a high-souled chivalrous88 gentleman he was, with how fine a sense of honour, translating itself not into empty phrases, but into years of labour and denial! You remember how he became sleeping partner in a printing house, and so involved himself in its failure. There was a legal, but very little moral, claim against him, and no one could have blamed him had he cleared the account by a bankruptcy89, which would have enabled him to become a rich man again within a few years. Yet he took the whole burden upon himself and bore it for the rest of his life, spending his work, his time, and his health in the one long effort to save his honour from the shadow of a stain. It was nearly a hundred thousand pounds, I think, which he passed on to the creditors—a great record, a hundred thousand pounds, with his life thrown in.
And what a power of work he had! It was superhuman. Only the man who has tried to write fiction himself knows what it means when it is recorded that Scott produced two of his long novels in one single year. I remember reading in some book of reminiscences—on second thoughts it was in Lockhart himself—how the writer had lodged90 in some rooms in Castle Street, Edinburgh, and how he had seen all evening the silhouette91 of a man outlined on the blind of the opposite house. All evening the man wrote, and the observer could see the shadow hand conveying the sheets of paper from the desk to the pile at the side. He went to a party and returned, but still the hand was moving the sheets. Next morning he was told that the rooms opposite were occupied by Walter Scott.
A curious glimpse into the psychology92 of the writer of fiction is shown by the fact that he wrote two of his books—good ones, too—at a time when his health was such that he could not afterwards remember one word of them, and listened to them when they were read to him as if he were hearing the work of another man. Apparently93 the simplest processes of the brain, such as ordinary memory, were in complete abeyance94, and yet the very highest and most complex faculty95—imagination in its supreme96 form—was absolutely unimpaired. It is an extraordinary fact, and one to be pondered over. It gives some support to the feeling which every writer of imaginative work must have, that his supreme work comes to him in some strange way from without, and that he is only the medium for placing it upon the paper. The creative thought—the germ thought from which a larger growth is to come, flies through his brain like a bullet. He is surprised at his own idea, with no conscious sense of having originated it. And here we have a man, with all other brain functions paralyzed, producing this magnificent work. Is it possible that we are indeed but conduit pipes from the infinite reservoir of the unknown? Certainly it is always our best work which leaves the least sense of personal effort.
And to pursue this line of thought, is it possible that frail physical powers and an unstable97 nervous system, by keeping a man's materialism98 at its lowest, render him a more fitting agent for these spiritual uses? It is an old tag that
And thin partitions do those rooms divide."
But, apart from genius, even a moderate faculty for imaginative work seems to me to weaken seriously the ties between the soul and the body.
Look at the British poets of a century ago: Chatterton, Burns, Shelley, Keats, Byron. Burns was the oldest of that brilliant band, yet Burns was only thirty-eight when he passed away, "burned out," as his brother terribly expressed it. Shelley, it is true, died by accident, and Chatterton by poison, but suicide is in itself a sign of a morbid100 state. It is true that Rogers lived to be almost a centenarian, but he was banker first and poet afterwards. Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Browning have all raised the average age of the poets, but for some reason the novelists, especially of late years, have a deplorable record. They will end by being scheduled with the white-lead workers and other dangerous trades. Look at the really shocking case of the young Americans, for example. What a band of promising101 young writers have in a few years been swept away! There was the author of that admirable book, "David Harum"; there was Frank Norris, a man who had in him, I think, the seeds of greatness more than almost any living writer. His "Pit" seemed to me one of the finest American novels. He also died a premature102 death. Then there was Stephen Crane—a man who had also done most brilliant work, and there was Harold Frederic, another master-craftsman. Is there any profession in the world which in proportion to its numbers could show such losses as that? In the meantime, out of our own men Robert Louis Stevenson is gone, and Henry Seton Merriman, and many another.
Even those great men who are usually spoken of as if they had rounded off their career were really premature in their end. Thackeray, for example, in spite of his snowy head, was only 52; Dickens attained103 the age of 58; on the whole, Sir Walter, with his 61 years of life, although he never wrote a novel until he was over 40, had, fortunately for the world, a longer working career than most of his brethren.
He employed his creative faculty for about twenty years, which is as much, I suppose, as Shakespeare did. The bard104 of Avon is another example of the limited tenure105 which Genius has of life, though I believe that he outlived the greater part of his own family, who were not a healthy stock. He died, I should judge, of some nervous disease; that is shown by the progressive degeneration of his signature. Probably it was locomotor ataxy, which is the special scourge of the imaginative man. Heine, Daudet, and how many more, were its victims. As to the tradition, first mentioned long after his death, that he died of a fever contracted from a drinking bout63, it is absurd on the face of it, since no such fever is known to science. But a very moderate drinking bout would be extremely likely to bring a chronic106 nervous complaint to a disastrous107 end.
One other remark upon Scott before I pass on from that line of green volumes which has made me so digressive108 and so garrulous109. No account of his character is complete which does not deal with the strange, secretive vein110 which ran through his nature. Not only did he stretch the truth on many occasions in order to conceal111 the fact that he was the author of the famous novels, but even intimate friends who met him day by day were not aware that he was the man about whom the whole of Europe was talking. Even his wife was ignorant of his pecuniary112 liabilities until the crash of the Ballantyne firm told her for the first time that they were sharers in the ruin. A psychologist might trace this strange twist of his mind in the numerous elfish Fenella-like characters who flit about and keep their irritating secret through the long chapters of so many of his novels.
It's a sad book, Lockhart's "Life." It leaves gloom in the mind. The sight of this weary giant, staggering along, burdened with debt, overladen with work, his wife dead, his nerves broken, and nothing intact but his honour, is one of the most moving in the history of literature. But they pass, these clouds, and all that is left is the memory of the supremely113 noble man, who would not be bent114, but faced Fate to the last, and died in his tracks without a whimper. He sampled every human emotion. Great was his joy and great his success, great was his downfall and bitter his grief. But of all the sons of men I don't think there are many greater than he who lies under the great slab115 at Dryburgh.
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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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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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decomposed
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| 已分解的，已腐烂的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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redeems
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| 补偿( redeem的第三人称单数 )； 实践； 解救； 使…免受责难 | |
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manly
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narrative
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attain
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redundant
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verbiage
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oyster
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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picturesque
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anecdotes
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lamentably
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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sergeant
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Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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drawn
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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hymns
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frenzy
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martial
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regiment
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ascending
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breach
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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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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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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47
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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48
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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51
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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52
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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53
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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54
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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55
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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56
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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57
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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58
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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59
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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61
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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62
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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63
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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66
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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67
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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68
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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69
effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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73
tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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74
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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76
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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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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82
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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83
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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84
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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85
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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86
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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87
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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89
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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90
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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91
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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92
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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93
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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94
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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95
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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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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97
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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98
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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99
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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100
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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101
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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102
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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103
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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104
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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105
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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106
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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107
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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108
digressive
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| adj.枝节的，离题的 | |
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109
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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110
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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111
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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112
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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113
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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114
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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115
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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