I. Phrase Translation

1. reciprocal banquet

2. pop concert

3. black tea

4. Red-hot news

5. sanitary ware

6. talk show

7. Illegal assembly

8. WHO

9. Business loan

10. liberal education

11. Monetary restraint

12. Triple crown

13. Byzantine Empire

14. CNN

15. Net speak

16. 中央情报局

17. 餐馆勤杂工

18. 军事法庭

19. 新手

20. 核裁军

21. 杀人未遂

22. 主题公园

23. 习惯法

24. 破产申请

25. 经济指标

26. 学费减免

27. 半决赛

28. 百老汇大街

29. 病毒清除程序

30. 桂冠诗人

II. Passage translation

SECTION A CHINESE TO ENGLISH [ 60MIN ]

西洋的大诗人很多，第一个介绍到中国来的偏偏是郎费罗。郎费罗的好诗或较好的诗也不少，第一首译为中文的偏偏是《人生颂》。那可算是文学交流史对文学教授和评论家们的小小嘲讽或挑衅了!历史上很多——现在就也不少——这种不很合理的事例，更确切地说，很不合学者们的理想和理论的事例。这些都显示休谟所指出的，“是这样”(is)和“应该怎样”(Ought)两者合不拢。在历史过程中，事物的发生和发展往往跟我们闹别扭，恶作剧，推翻了我们定下的铁案，涂抹了我们画出的蓝图，给我们的不透风、不漏水严密理论系统搠上大大小小的窟窿。”通常说“历史的教训”，仿佛历史只是严厉正经的上级领导老师;其实历史也像淘气捣乱的小孩子，爱开玩笑，捉弄人。

SECTION B ENGLISH TO CHINESE [ 60 MIN ]

One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse in my sister Emily’s handwriting. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse: I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me–a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music–wild, melancholy, and elevating.

My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed; it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication. I knew, however, that a mind like hers could not be without some latent spark of honourable ambition, and refused to be discouraged in my attempts to fan that spark to flame.

Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that, since Emily’s had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could not but be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses, too, had a sweet, sincere pathos of their own.

We had very early cherished the dream of one day becoming authors. This dream, never relinquished even when distance divided and absorbing tasks occupied us, now suddenly acquired strength and consistency: it took the character of a resolve. We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible, to get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because–without at that time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called ‘feminine’–we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice.