You who have sat with me before upon the green settee are familiar with the upper shelf, with the tattered6 Macaulay, the dapper Gibbon, the drab Boswell, the olive-green Scott, the pied Borrow, and all the goodly company who rub shoulders yonder. By the way, how one wishes that one's dear friends would only be friends also with each other. Why should Borrow snarl7 so churlishly at Scott? One would have thought that noble spirit and romantic fancy would have charmed the huge vagrant8, and yet there is no word too bitter for the younger man to use towards the elder. The fact is that Borrow had one dangerous virus in him—a poison which distorts the whole vision—for he was a bigoted9 sectarian in religion, seeing no virtue10 outside his own interpretation11 of the great riddle12. Downright heathendom, the blood-stained Berserk or the chaunting Druid, appealed to his mind through his imagination, but the man of his own creed13 and time who differed from him in minutiae14 of ritual, or in the interpretation of mystic passages, was at once evil to the bone, and he had no charity of any sort for such a person. Scott therefore, with his reverent15 regard for old usages, became at once hateful in his eyes. In any case he was a disappointed man, the big Borrow, and I cannot remember that he ever had much to say that was good of any brother author. Only in the bards16 of Wales and in the Scalds of the Sagas17 did he seem to find his kindred spirits, though it has been suggested that his complex nature took this means of informing the world that he could read both Cymric and Norse. But we must not be unkind behind the magic door—and yet to be charitable to the uncharitable is surely the crown of virtue.
So much for the top line, concerning which I have already gossipped for six sittings, but there is no surcease for you, reader, for as you see there is a second line, and yet a third, all equally dear to my heart, and all appealing in the same degree to my emotions and to my memory. Be as patient as you may, while I talk of these old friends, and tell you why I love them, and all that they have meant to me in the past. If you picked any book from that line you would be picking a little fibre also from my mind, very small, no doubt, and yet an intimate and essential part of what is now myself. Hereditary18 impulses, personal experiences, books—those are the three forces which go to the making of man. These are the books.
This second line consists, as you see, of novelists of the eighteenth century, or those of them whom I regard as essential. After all, putting aside single books, such as Sterne's "Tristram Shandy," Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," and Miss Burney's "Evelina," there are only three authors who count, and they in turn wrote only three books each, of first-rate importance, so that by the mastery of nine books one might claim to have a fairly broad view of this most important and distinctive19 branch of English literature. The three men are, of course, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett. The books are: Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," "Pamela," and "Sir Charles Grandison"; Fielding's "Tom Jones", "Joseph Andrews," and "Amelia"; Smollett's "Peregrine Pickle," "Humphrey Clinker," and "Roderick Random20." There we have the real work of the three great contemporaries who illuminated21 the middle of the eighteenth century—only nine volumes in all. Let us walk round these nine volumes, therefore, and see whether we cannot discriminate22 and throw a little light, after this interval23 of a hundred and fifty years, upon their comparative aims, and how far they have justified24 them by the permanent value of their work. A fat little bookseller in the City, a rakehell wit of noble blood, and a rugged25 Scotch26 surgeon from the navy—those are the three strange immortals27 who now challenge a comparison—the three men who dominate the fiction of their century, and to whom we owe it that the life and the types of that century are familiar to us, their fifth generation.
It is not a subject to be dogmatic upon, for I can imagine that these three writers would appeal quite differently to every temperament29, and that whichever one might desire to champion one could find arguments to sustain one's choice. Yet I cannot think that any large section of the critical public could maintain that Smollett was on the same level as the other two. Ethically30 he is gross, though his grossness is accompanied by a full-blooded humour which is more mirth-compelling than the more polished wit of his rivals. I can remember in callow boyhood—puris omnia pura—reading "Peregrine Pickle," and laughing until I cried over the Banquet in the Fashion of the Ancients. I read it again in my manhood with the same effect, though with a greater appreciation31 of its inherent bestiality. That merit, a gross primitive32 merit, he has in a high degree, but in no other respect can he challenge comparison with either Fielding or Richardson. His view of life is far more limited, his characters less varied33, his incidents less distinctive, and his thoughts less deep. Assuredly I, for one, should award him the third place in the trio.
But how about Richardson and Fielding? There is indeed a competition of giants. Let us take the points of each in turn, and then compare them with each other.
There is one characteristic, the rarest and subtlest of all, which each of them had in a supreme35 degree. Each could draw the most delightful36 women—the most perfect women, I think, in the whole range of our literature. If the eighteenth-century women were like that, then the eighteenth-century men got a great deal more than they ever deserved. They had such a charming little dignity of their own, such good sense, and yet such dear, pretty, dainty ways, so human and so charming, that even now they become our ideals. One cannot come to know them without a double emotion, one of respectful devotion towards themselves, and the other of abhorrence37 for the herd38 of swine who surrounded them. Pamela, Harriet Byron, Clarissa, Amelia, and Sophia Western were all equally delightful, and it was not the negative charm of the innocent and colourless woman, the amiable39 doll of the nineteenth century, but it was a beauty of nature depending upon an alert mind, clear and strong principles, true womanly feelings, and complete feminine charm. In this respect our rival authors may claim a tie, for I could not give a preference to one set of these perfect creatures over another. The plump little printer and the worn-out man-about-town had each a supreme woman in his mind.
But their men! Alas40, what a drop is there! To say that we are all capable of doing what Tom Jones did—as I have seen stated—is the worst form of inverted41 cant42, the cant which makes us out worse than we are. It is a libel on mankind to say that a man who truly loves a woman is usually false to her, and, above all, a libel that he should be false in the vile43 fashion which aroused good Tom Newcome's indignation. Tom Jones was no more fit to touch the hem2 of Sophia's dress than Captain Booth was to be the mate of Amelia. Never once has Fielding drawn44 a gentleman, save perhaps Squire45 Alworthy. A lusty, brawling47, good-hearted, material creature was the best that he could fashion. Where, in his heroes, is there one touch of distinction, of spirituality, of nobility? Here I think that the plebeian48 printer has done very much better than the aristocrat49. Sir Charles Grandison is a very noble type—spoiled a little by over-coddling on the part of his creator, perhaps, but a very high-souled and exquisite50 gentleman all the same. Had he married Sophia or Amelia I should not have forbidden the banns. Even the persevering51 Mr. B—- and the too amorous52 Lovelace were, in spite of their aberrations53, men of gentle nature, and had possibilities of greatness and tenderness within them. Yes, I cannot doubt that Richardson drew the higher type of man—and that in Grandison he has done what has seldom or never been bettered.
Richardson was also the subtler and deeper writer, in my opinion. He concerns himself with fine consistent character-drawing, and with a very searching analysis of the human heart, which is done so easily, and in such simple English, that the depth and truth of it only come upon reflection. He condescends54 to none of those scuffles and buffetings and pantomime rallies which enliven, but cheapen, many of Fielding's pages. The latter has, it may be granted, a broader view of life. He had personal acquaintance of circles far above, and also far below, any which the douce citizen, who was his rival, had ever been able or willing to explore. His pictures of low London life, the prison scenes in "Amelia," the thieves' kitchens in "Jonathan Wild," the sponging houses and the slums, are as vivid and as complete as those of his friend Hogarth—the most British of artists, even as Fielding was the most British of writers. But the greatest and most permanent facts of life are to be found in the smallest circles. Two men and a woman may furnish either the tragedian or the comedian55 with the most satisfying theme. And so, although his range was limited, Richardson knew very clearly and very thoroughly56 just that knowledge which was essential for his purpose. Pamela, the perfect woman of humble57 life, Clarissa, the perfect lady, Grandison the ideal gentleman—these were the three figures on which he lavished58 his most loving art. And now, after one hundred and fifty years, I do not know where we may find more satisfying types.
He was prolix59, it may be admitted, but who could bear to have him cut? He loved to sit down and tell you just all about it. His use of letters for his narratives60 made this gossipy style more easy. First he writes and he tells all that passed. You have his letter. She at the same time writes to her friend, and also states her views. This also you see. The friends in each case reply, and you have the advantage of their comments and advice. You really do know all about it before you finish. It may be a little wearisome at first, if you have been accustomed to a more hustling63 style with fireworks in every chapter. But gradually it creates an atmosphere in which you live, and you come to know these people, with their characters and their troubles, as you know no others of the dream-folk of fiction. Three times as long as an ordinary book, no doubt, but why grudge64 the time? What is the hurry? Surely it is better to read one masterpiece than three books which will leave no permanent impression on the mind.
It was all attuned65 to the sedate67 life of that, the last of the quiet centuries. In the lonely country-house, with few letters and fewer papers, do you suppose that the readers ever complained of the length of a book, or could have too much of the happy Pamela or of the unhappy Clarissa? It is only under extraordinary circumstances that one can now get into that receptive frame of mind which was normal then. Such an occasion is recorded by Macaulay, when he tells how in some Indian hill station, where books were rare, he let loose a copy of "Clarissa." The effect was what might have been expected. Richardson in a suitable environment went through the community like a mild fever. They lived him, and dreamed him, until the whole episode passed into literary history, never to be forgotten by those who experienced it. It is tuned66, for every ear. That beautiful style is so correct and yet so simple that there is no page which a scholar may not applaud nor a servant-maid understand.
Of course, there are obvious disadvantages to the tale which is told in letters. Scott reverted68 to it in "Guy Mannering," and there are other conspicuous69 successes, but vividness is always gained at the expense of a strain upon the reader's good-nature and credulity. One feels that these constant details, these long conversations, could not possibly have been recorded in such a fashion. The indignant and dishevelled heroine could not sit down and record her escape with such cool minuteness of description. Richardson does it as well as it could be done, but it remains70 intrinsically faulty. Fielding, using the third person, broke all the fetters71 which bound his rival, and gave a freedom and personal authority to the novel which it had never before enjoyed. There at least he is the master.
And yet, on the whole, my balance inclines towards Richardson, though I dare say I am one in a hundred in thinking so. First of all, beyond anything I may have already urged, he had the supreme credit of having been the first. Surely the originator should have a higher place than the imitator, even if in imitating he should also improve and amplify72. It is Richardson and not Fielding who is the father of the English novel, the man who first saw that without romantic gallantry, and without bizarre imaginings, enthralling73 stories may be made from everyday life, told in everyday language. This was his great new departure. So entirely74 was Fielding his imitator, or rather perhaps his parodist75, that with supreme audacity76 (some would say brazen77 impudence) he used poor Richardson's own characters, taken from "Pamela," in his own first novel, "Joseph Andrews," and used them too for the unkind purpose of ridiculing78 them. As a matter of literary ethics79, it is as if Thackeray wrote a novel bringing in Pickwick and Sam Weller in order to show what faulty characters these were. It is no wonder that even the gentle little printer grew wroth, and alluded80 to his rival as a somewhat unscrupulous man.
And then there is the vexed81 question of morals. Surely in talking of this also there is a good deal of inverted cant among a certain class of critics. The inference appears to be that there is some subtle connection between immorality82 and art, as if the handling of the lewd83, or the depicting85 of it, were in some sort the hallmark of the true artist. It is not difficult to handle or depict84. On the contrary, it is so easy, and so essentially86 dramatic in many of its forms, that the temptation to employ it is ever present. It is the easiest and cheapest of all methods of creating a spurious effect. The difficulty does not lie in doing it. The difficulty lies in avoiding it. But one tries to avoid it because on the face of it there is no reason why a writer should cease to be a gentleman, or that he should write for a woman's eyes that which he would be justly knocked down for having said in a woman's ears. But "you must draw the world as it is." Why must you? Surely it is just in selection and restraint that the artist is shown. It is true that in a coarser age great writers heeded87 no restrictions88, but life itself had fewer restrictions then. We are of our own age, and must live up to it.
But must these sides of life be absolutely excluded? By no means. Our decency89 need not weaken into prudery. It all lies in the spirit in which it is done. No one who wished to lecture on these various spirits could preach on a better text than these three great rivals, Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett. It is possible to draw vice62 with some freedom for the purpose of condemning90 it. Such a writer is a moralist, and there is no better example than Richardson. Again, it is possible to draw vice with neither sympathy nor disapprobation, but simply as a fact which is there. Such a writer is a realist, and such was Fielding. Once more, it is possible to draw vice in order to extract amusement from it. Such a man is a coarse humorist, and such was Smollett. Lastly, it is possible to draw vice in order to show sympathy with it. Such a man is a wicked man, and there were many among the writers of the Restoration. But of all reasons that exist for treating this side of life, Richardson's were the best, and nowhere do we find it more deftly91 done.
Apart from his writings, there must have been something very noble about Fielding as a man. He was a better hero than any that he drew. Alone he accepted the task of cleansing92 London, at that time the most dangerous and lawless of European capitals. Hogarth's pictures give some notion of it in the pre-Fielding days, the low roughs, the high-born bullies93, the drunkenness, the villainies, the thieves' kitchens with their riverside trapdoors, down which the body is thrust. This was the Augean stable which had to be cleaned, and poor Hercules was weak and frail94 and physically95 more fitted for a sick-room than for such a task. It cost him his life, for he died at 47, worn out with his own exertions96. It might well have cost him his life in more dramatic fashion, for he had become a marked man to the criminal classes, and he headed his own search-parties when, on the information of some bribed97 rascal98, a new den34 of villainy was exposed. But he carried his point. In little more than a year the thing was done, and London turned from the most rowdy to what it has ever since remained, the most law-abiding of European capitals. Has any man ever left a finer monument behind him?
If you want the real human Fielding you will find him not in the novels, where his real kindliness99 is too often veiled by a mock cynicism, but in his "Diary of his Voyage to Lisbon." He knew that his health was irretrievably ruined and that his years were numbered. Those are the days when one sees a man as he is, when he has no longer a motive100 for affectation or pretence101 in the immediate102 presence of the most tremendous of all realities. Yet, sitting in the shadow of death, Fielding displayed a quiet, gentle courage and constancy of mind, which show how splendid a nature had been shrouded103 by his earlier frailties104.
Just one word upon another eighteenth-century novel before I finish this somewhat didactic chat. You will admit that I have never prosed so much before, but the period and the subject seem to encourage it. I skip Sterne, for I have no great sympathy with his finicky methods. And I skip Miss Burney's novels, as being feminine reflections of the great masters who had just preceded her. But Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield" surely deserves one paragraph to itself. There is a book which is tinged105 throughout, as was all Goldsmith's work, with a beautiful nature. No one who had not a fine heart could have written it, just as no one without a fine heart could have written "The Deserted106 Village." How strange it is to think of old Johnson patronizing or snubbing the shrinking Irishman, when both in poetry, in fiction, and in the drama the latter has proved himself far the greater man. But here is an object-lesson of how the facts of life may be treated without offence. Nothing is shirked. It is all faced and duly recorded. Yet if I wished to set before the sensitive mind of a young girl a book which would prepare her for life without in any way contaminating her delicacy107 of feeling, there is no book which I should choose so readily as "The Vicar of Wakefield."
So much for the eighteenth-century novelists. They have a shelf of their own in the case, and a corner of their own in my brain. For years you may never think of them, and then suddenly some stray word or train of thought leads straight to them, and you look at them and love them, and rejoice that you know them. But let us pass to something which may interest you more.
If statistics could be taken in the various free libraries of the kingdom to prove the comparative popularity of different novelists with the public, I think that it is quite certain that Mr. George Meredith would come out very low indeed. If, on the other hand, a number of authors were convened109 to determine which of their fellow-craftsmen they considered the greatest and the most stimulating110 to their own minds, I am equally confident that Mr. Meredith would have a vast preponderance of votes. Indeed, his only conceivable rival would be Mr. Hardy111. It becomes an interesting study, therefore, why there should be such a divergence112 of opinion as to his merits, and what the qualities are which have repelled113 so many readers, and yet have attracted those whose opinion must be allowed to have a special weight.
The most obvious reason is his complete unconventionality. The public read to be amused. The novelist reads to have new light thrown upon his art. To read Meredith is not a mere108 amusement; it is an intellectual exercise, a kind of mental dumb-bell with which you develop your thinking powers. Your mind is in a state of tension the whole time that you are reading him.
If you will follow my nose as the sportsman follows that of his pointer, you will observe that these remarks are excited by the presence of my beloved "Richard Feverel," which lurks114 in yonder corner. What a great book it is, how wise and how witty115! Others of the master's novels may be more characteristic or more profound, but for my own part it is the one which I would always present to the new-comer who had not yet come under the influence. I think that I should put it third after "Vanity Fair" and "The Cloister116 and the Hearth117" if I had to name the three novels which I admire most in the Victorian era. The book was published, I believe, in 1859, and it is almost incredible, and says little for the discrimination of critics or public, that it was nearly twenty years before a second edition was needed.
But there are never effects without causes, however inadequate118 the cause may be. What was it that stood in the way of the book's success? Undoubtedly119 it was the style. And yet it is subdued120 and tempered here with little of the luxuriance and exuberance121 which it attained122 in the later works. But it was an innovation, and it stalled off both the public and the critics. They regarded it, no doubt, as an affectation, as Carlyle's had been considered twenty years before, forgetting that in the case of an original genius style is an organic thing, part of the man as much as the colour of his eyes. It is not, to quote Carlyle, a shirt to be taken on and off at pleasure, but a skin, eternally fixed123. And this strange, powerful style, how is it to be described? Best, perhaps, in his own strong words, when he spoke124 of Carlyle with perhaps the arriere pensee that the words would apply as strongly to himself.
"His favourite author," says he, "was one writing on heroes in a style resembling either early architecture or utter dilapidation125, so loose and rough it seemed. A wind-in-the-orchard style that tumbled down here and there an appreciable126 fruit with uncouth127 bluster128, sentences without commencements running to abrupt129 endings and smoke, like waves against a sea-wall, learned dictionary words giving a hand to street slang, and accents falling on them haphazard130, like slant131 rays from driving clouds; all the pages in a breeze, the whole book producing a kind of electrical agitation132 in the mind and joints133."
What a wonderful description and example of style! And how vivid is the impression left by such expressions as "all the pages in a breeze." As a comment on Carlyle, and as a sample of Meredith, the passage is equally perfect.
Well, "Richard Feverel" has come into its own at last. I confess to having a strong belief in the critical discernment of the public. I do not think good work is often overlooked. Literature, like water, finds its true level. Opinion is slow to form, but it sets true at last. I am sure that if the critics were to unite to praise a bad book or to damn a good one they could (and continually do) have a five-year influence, but it would in no wise affect the final result. Sheridan said that if all the fleas134 in his bed had been unanimous, they could have pushed him out of it. I do not think that any unanimity135 of critics has ever pushed a good book out of literature.
Among the minor136 excellences137 of "Richard Feverel"—excuse the prolixity138 of an enthusiast—are the scattered139 aphorisms140 which are worthy46 of a place among our British proverbs. What could be more exquisite than this, "Who rises from prayer a better man his prayer is answered"; or this, "Expediency141 is man's wisdom. Doing right is God's"; or, "All great thoughts come from the heart"? Good are the words "The coward amongst us is he who sneers142 at the failings of humanity," and a healthy optimism rings in the phrase "There is for the mind but one grasp of happiness; from that uppermost pinnacle143 of wisdom whence we see that this world is well designed." In more playful mood is "Woman is the last thing which will be civilized144 by man." Let us hurry away abruptly145, for he who starts quotation146 from "Richard Feverel" is lost.
He has, as you see, a goodly line of his brothers beside him. There are the Italian ones, "Sandra Belloni," and "Vittoria"; there is "Rhoda Fleming," which carried Stevenson off his critical feet; "Beauchamp's Career," too, dealing147 with obsolete148 politics. No great writer should spend himself upon a temporary theme. It is like the beauty who is painted in some passing fashion of gown. She tends to become obsolete along with her frame. Here also is the dainty "Diana," the egoist with immortal28 Willoughby Pattern, eternal type of masculine selfishness, and "Harry149 Richmond," the first chapters of which are, in my opinion, among the finest pieces of narrative61 prose in the language. That great mind would have worked in any form which his age had favoured. He is a novelist by accident. As an Elizabethan he would have been a great dramatist; under Queen Anne a great essayist. But whatever medium he worked in, he must equally have thrown the image of a great brain and a great soul.
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《巴斯克维尔的猎犬 The Hound of Baskervilles》
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该作者的其它作品
《福尔摩斯历险记The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes》
《巴斯克维尔的猎犬 The Hound of Baskervilles》
《福尔摩斯归来记 THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES》
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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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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anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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minutiae
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| n.微小的细节，细枝末节；（常复数）细节，小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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sagas
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| n.萨迦（尤指古代挪威或冰岛讲述冒险经历和英雄业绩的长篇故事）( saga的名词复数 )；（讲述许多年间发生的事情的）长篇故事；一连串的事件（或经历）；一连串经历的讲述（或记述） | |
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hereditary
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distinctive
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scotch
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temperament
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ethically
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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32
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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37
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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38
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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40
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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41
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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45
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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46
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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47
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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48
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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49
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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50
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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51
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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52
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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53
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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54
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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55
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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57
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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58
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
prolix
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| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
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60
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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61
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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62
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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63
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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64
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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65
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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66
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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67
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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68
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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69
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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70
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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71
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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73
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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74
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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75
parodist
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| n.打油诗作者，诙谐文作者 | |
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76
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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77
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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78
ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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79
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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80
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
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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82
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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83
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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84
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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85
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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86
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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87
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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89
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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90
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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91
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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92
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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93
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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94
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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95
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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96
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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97
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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98
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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99
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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100
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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101
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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102
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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103
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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104
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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105
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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107
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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108
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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109
convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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110
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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111
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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112
divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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113
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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114
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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115
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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116
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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117
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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118
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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119
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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120
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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121
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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122
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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123
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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124
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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125
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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126
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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127
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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128
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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129
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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130
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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131
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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132
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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133
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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134
fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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135
unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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136
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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137
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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138
prolixity
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| n.冗长，罗嗦 | |
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139
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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140
aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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141
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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142
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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143
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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144
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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145
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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146
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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147
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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148
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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149
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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