It would do no honor to Thomas Davidson’s memory not to be frank about him. He handled people without gloves, himself, and one has no right to retouch his photograph until its features are softened3 into insipidity4. He had defects and excesses which he wore upon his sleeve, so that everyone could see them. They made him many enemies, and if one liked quarrelling he was an easy man to quarrel with. But his heart and mind held treasures of the rarest. He had a genius for friendship. Money, place, fashion, fame, and other vulgar idols6 of the tribe had no hold on his imagination. He led his own life absolutely, in whatever company he found himself, and the intense individualism which he taught by word and deed, is the lesson of which our generation is perhaps most in need.
All sorts of contrary adjectives come up as I think of him. To begin with, there was something physically7 rustic8 which suggested to the end his farm-boy origin. His voice was sweet and its Scottish cadences9 most musical, and the extraordinary sociability10 of his nature made friends for him as much among women as among men; he had, moreover, a sort of physical dignity; but neither in dress nor in manner did he ever grow quite “gentlemanly” or Salonf?hig in the conventional and obliterated11 sense of the terms. He was too cordial and emphatic12 for that. His broad brow, his big chest, his bright blue eyes, his volubility in talk and laughter told a tale of vitality13 far beyond the common; but his fine and nervous hands, and the vivacity14 of all his reactions suggested a degree of sensibility that one rarely finds conjoined with so robustly15 animal a frame. The great peculiarity16 of Davidson did indeed consist in this combination of the acutest sensibilities with massive faculties17 of thought and action, a combination which, when the thought and actions are important, gives to the world its greatest men.
Davidson’s native mood was happy. He took optimistic views of life and of his own share in it. A sort of permanent satisfaction radiated from his face; and this expression of inward glory (which in reality was to a large extent structural18 and not “expressive” at all) was displeasing19 to many new acquaintances on whom it made an impression of too much conceit20. The impression of conceit was not diminished in their eyes by the freedom with which Davidson contradicted, corrected and reprehended21 other people. A longer acquaintance invariably diminished the impression. But it must be confessed that T. D. never was exactly humble-minded, and that the solidity of his self-consciousness withstood strains under which that of weaker men would have crumbled22. The malady23 which finally killed him was one of the most exhausting to the nervous tone to which our flesh is subject, and it wore him out before it ended him. He told me of the paroxysms of motiveless24 nervous dread25 which used to beset26 him in the night-watches. Yet these never subdued27 his stalwartness, nor made him a “sick-soul” in the theological sense of that appelation. “God is afraid of me,” was the phrase by which he described his well-being29 to me one morning when his night had been a good one, and he was feeling so cannibalistic that he thought he might get well.
There are men whose attitude is always that of seeking for truth, and men who on the contrary always believe that they have the root of it already in them. Davidson was of the latter class. Like his countrymen, Carlyle and Ruskin, he felt himself to be in the possession of something, whether articulate or as yet articulated by himself, that authorized30 him (and authorized him with uncommon31 openness and frequency) to condemn32 the errors of others. I think that to the last he never fully33 extricated34 this philosophy. It was a tendency, a faith in a direction, which gave him an active persuasion35 that other directions were false, but of which the central insight never got fully formulated36, but remained in a state which Frederic Myers would have called subliminal37. He varied38 to a certain extent his watchwords and his heroes. When I first knew him all was Aristotle. Later all was Rosmini. Later still Rosmini seemed forgotten. He knew so many writers that he grew fond of very various ones and had a strange tolerance39 for systematizers and dogmatizers whom, as the consistent individualist that he was, he should have disliked. Hegel, it is true, he detested40; but he always spoke41 with reverence42 of Kant. Of Mill and Spencer he had a low opinion; and when I lent him Paulsen’s Introduction to Philosophy (then just out), as an example of a kind of eclectic thought that seemed to be growing, and with which I largely sympathized, he returned it with richer expressions of disdain43 than often fell even from his lips: “It’s the shabbiest, seediest pretence44 at a philosophy I ever dreamed of as possible. It’s like a man dressed in a black coat so threadbare as to be all shiny. The most poverty-stricken, out-at-elbows thing I ever read. A perfect monument of seediness and shabbiness,” etc.
The truth is that Davidson, brought up on the older classical traditions, never outgrew45 those habits of judging the world by purely46 aesthetic47 criteria48 which men fed on the sciences of nature are so willing to abandon. Even if a philosophy were true, he could easily fail to relish49 it unless it showed a certain formal nobility and dogmatic pretension50 to finality. But I must not describe him so much from my own professional point of view — it is as a vessel51 of life at large that one ought to keep him in remembrance.
He came to Boston from St. Louis, where he had been teaching, about the year 1873. He was ruddy and radiant, and I soon saw much of him, though at first it was without the thoroughness of sympathy which we afterwards acquired and which made us overflow52, on meeting after long absences, into such laughing greetings as: “Ha! you old thief! Ha! you old blackguard!”— pure “contrast-effects” of affection and familiarity passing beyond their bounds. At that time I saw most of him at a little philosophical53 club which used to meet every fortnight at his rooms in Temple Street in Boston. Of the other members, J. Elliot Cabot and C. C. Everett, are now dead — I will not name the survivors54. We never worked out harmonious55 conclusions. Davidson used to crack the whip of Aristotle over us; and I remember that, whatever topic was formally appointed for the day, we invariably wound up with a quarrel about Space and Space-perception. The Club had existed before Davidson’s advent56. The previous year we had gone over a good part of Hegel’s larger Logic28, under the self-constituted leadership of two young business men from Illinois, who had become enthusiastic Hegelians and, knowing almost no German, had actually possessed57 themselves of a manuscript translation of the entire three volumes of Logic, made by an extraordinary Pomeranian immigrant, named Brockmeyer. These disciples58 were leaving business for the law and studying at the Harvard law-school; but they saw the whole universe through Hegelian spectacles, and a more admirable homo unius libri than one of them, with his three big folios of Hegelian manuscript, I have never had the good fortune to know.
I forget how Davidson was earning his subsistence at this time. He did some lecturing and private teaching, but I do not think they were great in amount. In the springs and summers he frequented the coast, and indulged in long swimming bouts60 and salt-water immersions, which seemed to agree with him greatly. His sociability was boundless61, and his time seemed to belong to anyone who asked for it.
I soon conceived that such a man would be invaluable62 in Harvard University — a kind of Socrates, a devotee of truth and lover of youth, ready to sit up to any hour, and drink beer and talk with anyone, lavish63 of learning and counsel, a contagious64 example of how lightly and humanly a burden of erudition might be borne upon a pair of shoulders. In faculty65-business he might not run well in harness, but as an inspiration and ferment66 of character, as an example of the ranges of combination of scholarship with manhood that are possible, his influence on the students would be priceless.
I do not know whether this scheme of mine could under any circumstances have been carried out. In point of fact it was nipped in the bud by T. D. himself. A natural chair for him would have been Greek philosophy. Unfortunately, just at the decisive hour, he offended our Greek department by a savage67 onslaught on its methods, which, without taking anyone’s counsel, he sent to the Atlantic Monthly, whose editor printed it. This, with his other unconventionalisms, made advocating his cause more difficult, and the university authorities, never, I believe, seriously thought of an appointment for him.
I believe that in this case, as in one or two others like it, which I might mention, Harvard University lost a great opportunity. Organization and method mean much, but contagious human characters mean more in a university, where a few undisciplinables like T. D. may be infinitely68 more precious than a faculty-full of orderly routinists. As to what Davidson might have become under the conventionalizing influences of an official position, it would be idle to speculate.
As things fell out, he became more and more unconventional and even developed a sort of antipathy69 to all regular academic life. It subdued individuality, he thought, and made for Philistinism. He earnestly dissuaded70 his young friend Bakewell from accepting a professorship; and I well remember one dark night in the Adirondacks, after a good dinner at a neighbor’s, the eloquence71 with which, as we trudged72 down-hill to his own quarters with a lantern, he denounced me for the musty and mouldy and generally ignoble73 academicism of my character. Never before or since, I fancy, has the air of the Adirondack wilderness74 vibrated more repugnantly to a vocable than it did that night to the word “academicism.”
Yet Davidson himself was always essentially75 a teacher. He must give forth76, inspire, and have the young about him. After leaving Boston for Europe and Africa, founding the Fellowship of the New Life in London and New York (the present Fabian Society in England is its offshoot), he hit upon the plan which pleased him best of all when, in 1882 or thereabouts, he bought a couple of hundred acres on East Hill, which closes the beautiful Keene Valley in the Adirondacks, on the north, and founded there, at the foot of Hurricane Mountain, his place “Glenmore” and its “Summer School of the Culture Sciences.” Although the primeval forest has departed from its immediate77 vicinity, the region is still sylvan78, the air is sweet and strong and almost alpine79 in quality, and the mountain panorama80 spread before one is superlative. Davidson showed a business faculty which I should hardly have expected from him, in organizing his settlement. He built a number of cottages pretty in design and of the simplest construction, and disposed them well for effect. He turned a couple of farm buildings which were on the grounds into a lecturing place and a refectory; and there, arriving in early April and not leaving till late in November, he spent the happiest part of all his later years, surrounded during the summer months by colleagues, friends, and listeners to lectures, and in the spring and fall by a few independent women who were his faithful friends, and who had found East Hill a congenial residence.
Twice I went up with T. D. to open the place in April. I remember leaving his fireside one night with three ladies who were also early comers, and finding the thermometer at 8 degrees Fahrenheit81 and a tremendous gale82 blowing the snow about us. Davidson loved these blustering83 vicissitudes84 of climate. In the early years the brook85 was never too cold for him to bathe in, and he spent days in rambling86 over the hills and up the glens and through the forest.
His own cottage was full of books whose use was free to all who visited the settlement. It stood high on a hill in a grove87 of silver-birches and looked upon the Western Mountains; and it always seemed to me an ideal dwelling88 for such a bachelor-scholar. Here in May and June he became almost one with the resurgent vegetation. Here, in October, he was a witness of the jewelled pageant89 of the dying foliage90, and saw the hillsides reeking91, as it were, and aflame with ruby92 and gold and emerald and topaz. One September day in 1900, at the “Kurhaus” at Nauheim, I took up a copy of the Paris New York Herald93, and read in capitals: “Death of Professor Thomas Davidson.” I had well known how ill he was, yet such was his vitality that the shock was wholly unexpected. I did not realize till that moment how much that free companionship with him every spring and autumn, surrounded by that beautiful nature, had signified to me, or how big a piece would be subtracted from my life by its cessation.
Davidson’s capacity for imparting information seemed endless. There were few subjects, especially “humanistic” subjects, in which at some time or other he had not taken an interest; and as everything that had ever touched him was instantaneously in reach of his omnipotent94 memory, he easily became a living dictionary of reference. As such all his friends were wont95 to use him. He was, for example, never at a loss to supply a quotation96. He loved poetry passionately97, and the sympathetic voice with which he would recall page after page of it — English, French, German, or Italian — is a thing always to be remembered. But notwithstanding the instructive part he played in every conceivable conversation, he was never prolix98, and he never “lectured.”
From Davidson I learned what immunities99 a perfect memory bestows100 upon one. I never could discover when he amassed101 his learning for he never seemed “occupied.” The secret of it was that any odd time would do, for he never had to acquire a thing twice over. He avoided stated hours of work on principle. Reprehending102 (mildly) a certain chapter of my own on “Habit,” he said that it was a fixed103 rule with him to form no regular habits. When he found himself in danger of settling into even a good one, he made a point of interrupting it. Habits and methods make a prisoner of a man, destroy his readiness, keep him from answering the call of the fresh moment. Individualist à outrance, Davidson felt that every hour was an unique entity104, to whose claims one should lie open. Thus he was never abstracted or preoccupied105, but always seemed, when with you, as if you were the one person whom it was then right to attend to.
It was this individualistic religion that made T. D., democrat106 as he nevertheless was, so hostile to all socialisms and administrative107 panaceas108. Life must be flexible. You ask for a free man, and these Utopias give you an “interchangeable part,” with a fixed number, in a rule-bound organism. The real thing to aim at is liberation of the inner interests. Give man possession of a soul, and he will work out his own happiness under any set of conditions. Accordingly, when, in the penultimate year of his life, he proposed his night-school to a meeting of young East–Side workingmen in New York, he told them that he had no sympathy whatever with the griefs of “labor,” that outward circumstances meant nothing in his eyes; that through their individual wills and intellects they could share, just as they were, in the highest spiritual life of humanity, and that he was there to help them severally to that privilege.
The enthusiasm with which they responded speaks volumes, both for his genius as a teacher and for the sanity109 of his position. A small posthumous110 book of articles by Davidson and of letters written from Glenmore to his class, just published, with an introduction by his disciple59 Professor Bakewell,7 gives a full account of the experiment, and ought to stand as a model and inspirer to similar attempts the world over. Davidson’s idea of the universe was that of a republic of immortal111 spirits, the chief business of whom in their several grades of existence, should be to know and love and help one another. “Creeds are nothing, life is everything. . . . You can do far more by presenting to the world the example of noble social relations than by enumerating112 any set of principles. Know all you can, love all you can, do all you can — that is the whole duty of man. . . . Be friends, in the truest sense, each to the other. There is nothing in all the world like friendship, when it is deep and real. . . . The divine . . . is a republic of self-existent spirits, each seeking the realization113 of its ideas through love, through intimacy114 with all the rest, and finding its heaven in such intimacy.”
We all say and think that we believe this sort of thing; but Davidson believed it really and actively115, and that made all the difference. When the young wage-earners whom he addressed found that here was a man of measureless learning ready to give his soul to them as if he had nothing else to do with it, life’s ideal possibilities widened to their view. When he was taken from them, they founded in New York the Thomas Davidson Society, for study and neighborhood work, which will probably become perpetual, and of which his epistles from Glenmore will be the rule, and keep the standards set by him from degenerating116 — unless, indeed, the Society should some day grow too rich, of which there is no danger at present, and from which may Heaven long preserve it. In one of his letters to the Class, Davidson sums up the results of his own experience of life in twenty maxims117, as follows:
1. Rely upon your own energies, and do not wait for, or depend on other people.
2. Cling with all your might to your own highest ideals, and do not be led astray by such vulgar aims as wealth, position, popularity. Be yourself.
3. Your worth consists in what you are, and not in what you have. What you are will show in what you do.
4. Never fret118, repine, or envy. Do not make yourself unhappy by comparing your circumstances with those of more fortunate people; but make the most of the opportunities you have. Employ profitably every moment.
5. Associate with the noblest people you can find; read the best books; live with the mighty119. But learn to be happy alone.
6. Do not believe that all greatness and heroism120 are in the past. Learn to discover princes, prophets, heroes, and saints among the people about you. Be assured they are there.
7. Be on earth what good people hope to be in heaven.
8. Cultivate ideal friendships, and gather into an intimate circle all your acquaintances who are hungering for truth and right. Remember that heaven itself can be nothing but the intimacy of pure and noble souls.
9. Do not shrink from any useful or kindly121 act, however hard or repellent it may be. The worth of acts is measured by the spirit in which they are performed.
10. If the world despise you because you do not follow its ways, pay no heed122 to it. But be sure your way is right.
11. If a thousand plans fail, be not disheartened. As long as your purposes are right, you have not failed.
12. Examine yourself every night, and see whether you have progressed in knowledge, sympathy, and helpfulness during the day. Count every day a loss in which no progress has been made.
13. Seek enjoyment123 in energy, not in dalliance. Our worth is measured solely124 by what we do.
14. Let not your goodness be professional; let it be the simple, natural outcome of your character. Therefore cultivate character.
15. If you do wrong, say so, and make what atonement you can. That is true nobleness. Have no moral debts.
16. When in doubt how to act, ask yourself, What does nobility command? Be on good terms with yourself.
17. Look for no reward for goodness but goodness itself. Remember heaven and hell are utterly125 immoral126 institutions, if they are meant as reward and punishment.
18. Give whatever countenance127 and help you can to every movement and institution that is working for good. Be not sectarian.
19. Wear no placards, within or without. Be human fully.
20. Never be satisfied until you have understood the meaning of the world, and the purpose of our own life, and have reduced your world to a rational cosmos128.
One of the “placards” Davidson tried hardest to keep his Society from wearing was that of “Socialism.” Yet no one felt more deeply than he the evils of rapacious129 individual competition. Spontaneously and flexibly organized social settlements or communities, with individual leaders as their centres, seem to have been his ideal, each with its own religious or ethical130 elements of discipline. The present isolation131 of the family is too inhuman132. The ideal type of future life, he thought, will be something like the monastery133, with the family instead of the individual, for its unit.
Leveller upwards134 of men as Davidson was, upon the intellectual and moral level, he seemed wholly without that sort of religion which makes so many of our contemporary anarchists135 think that they ought to dip, at least, into some manual occupation, in order to share the common burden of humanity I never saw T. D. work with his hands in any way. He accepted material services of all kinds without apology, as if he were a patrician136, evidently feeling that if he played his own more intellectual part rightly, society could make no further claim upon him.
This confidence that the life of the spirit is the absolutely highest, made Davidson serene137 about his outward fortunes. Pecuniary138 worry would not tally139 with his program. He had a very small provision against a rainy day, but he did little to increase it. He used to write as many articles and give as many “lectures,” “talks,” or “readings” every winter as would suffice to pay the year’s expenses, and thereafter he refused additional invitations, and repaired to Glenmore as early in the spring as possible. I could but admire the temper he showed when the principal building there was one night burned to ashes. There was no insurance on it, and it would cost a couple of thousand dollars to replace it. Excitable as Davidson was about small contrarieties, he watched this fire without a syllable140 of impatience141. Plaie d’argent n’est pas mortelle, he seemed to say, and if he felt sharp regrets, he disdained142 to express them.
No more did care about his literary reputation trouble him. In the ordinary greedy sense, he seemed quite free from ambition. During his last years he had prepared a large amount of material for that history of the interaction of Greek, Christian143, Hebrew, and Arabic thought upon one another before the revival144 of learning, which was to be his magnum opus. It was a territory to which, in its totality, few living minds had access, and in which a certain proprietary145 feeling was natural. Knowing how short his life might be, I once asked him whether he felt no concern lest the work already done by him should be frustrate146, from the lack of its necessary complement147, in case he were suddenly cut off. His answer surprised me by its indifference148. He would work as long as he lived, he said, but not allow himself to worry, and look serenely149 at whatever might be the outcome. This seemed to me uncommonly150 high-minded. I think that Davidson’s conviction of immortality151 had much to do with such a superiority to accidents. On the surface, and towards small things, he was irritable152 enough, but the undertone of his character was remarkable153 for equanimity154. He showed it in his final illness, of which the misery155 was really atrocious. There were no general complaints or lamentations about the personal situation or the arrest to his career. It was the human lot and he must even bear it; so he kept his mind upon objective matters.
But, as I said at the outset, the paramount156 thing in Davidson in my eyes was his capacity for friendship. His friends were innumerable — boys and girls and old boys and old girls, Papists and Protestants, Jews and Gentiles, married and single; and he cared deeply for each one of them, admiring them often too extravagantly157. What term can name those recurrent waves of delighted laughter that expressed his greeting, beginning from the moment he saw you and accompanying his words continuously, as if his pleasure in you were interminable? His hand too, stretched out when yards away, so that a country neighbor said it reached farther than any hand he ever met with. The odd thing was that friendship in Davidson seemed so little to interfere158 with criticism. Persons with whom intercourse159 was one long contradiction on his part, and who appeared to annoy him to extermination160, he none the less loved tenderly, and enjoyed living with them. “He’s the most utterly selfish, illiberal161 and narrow-hearted human being I ever knew,” I heard him once say of someone, “and yet he’s the dearest, nicest fellow living.” His enthusiastic belief in any young person who gave a promise of genius was touching162. Naturally a man who is willing, as he was, to be a prophet, always finds some women who are willing to be disciples. I never heard of any sentimental163 weakness in Davidson in this relation, save possibly in one case. They harmed themselves at the fire of his soul, and he told them truths without accommodation. “You ‘re farther off from God than any woman I ever heard of.” “Nay, if you believe in a protective tariff164, you ‘re in hell already, though you may not know it.” “You had a fine hysterical165 time last night, didn’t you, when Miss B was brought up from the ravine with her dislocated shoulder.” To Miss B he said: “I don’t pity you. It served you right for being so ignorant as to go there at that hour.” Seldom, strange to say, did the recipients166 of these deliverances seem to resent them.
What with Davidson’s warmth of heart and sociability, I used to wonder at his never marrying. Two years before his death he told me the reason — an unhappy youthful love-affair in Scotland. Twice in later life, he said, temptation had come to him, and he had had to make his decision. When he had come to the point, he had felt each time that the tie with the dead girl was prohibitive. “When two persons have known each other as we did,” he said, “neither can ever fully belong to a stranger. So it would n’t do.” “It would n’t do, it would n’t do!” he repeated, as we lay on the hillside, in a tone so musically tender that it chimes in my ear now as I write down his confession167. It can surely be no breach168 of confidence to publish it — it is too creditable to the profundity169 of Davidson’s affections. As I knew him, he was one of the purest of human beings.
If one asks, now, what the value of Thomas Davidson was, what was the general significance of his life, apart from his particular books and articles, I have to say that it lay in the example he set to us all of how, even in the midst of this intensely worldly social system of ours, in which each human interest is organized so collectively and so commercially, a single man may still be a knight-errant of the intellectual life, and preserve full freedom in the midst of sociability. Extreme as was his need of friends, and faithful as he was to them, he yet lived mainly in reliance on his private inspiration. Asking no man’s permission, bowing the knee to no tribal170 idol5, renouncing171 the conventional channels of recognition, he showed us how a life devoted172 to purely intellectual ends could be beautifully wholesome173 outwardly, and overflow with inner contentment. Fortunately this type of man is recurrent, and from generation to generation, literary history preserves examples. But it is infrequent enough for few of us to have known more than one example — I count myself happy in knowing two and a half! The memory of Davidson will always strengthen my faith in personal freedom and its spontaneities, and make me less unqualifiedly respectful than ever of “Civilization,” with its herding174 and branding, licensing175 and degree-giving, authorizing176 and appointing, and in general regulating and administering by system the lives human beings. Surely the individual, the person in the singular number, is the more fundamental phenomenon, and the social institution, of whatever grade, is but secondary and ministerial. Many as are the interests which social systems satisfy, always unsatisfied interests remain over, and among them are interests to which system, as such, does violence whenever it lays its hand upon us. The best Commonwealth177 will always be the one that most cherishes the men who represent the residual178 interests, the one that leaves the largest scope to their peculiarities179.
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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robustly
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peculiarity
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faculties
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structural
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displeasing
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conceit
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reprehended
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| v.斥责，指摘，责备( reprehend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumbled
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malady
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motiveless
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| adj.无动机的，无目的的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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27
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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28
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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29
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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30
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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31
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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32
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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33
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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34
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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36
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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37
subliminal
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| adj.下意识的，潜意识的；太弱或太快以至于难以觉察的 | |
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38
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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39
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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40
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
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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42
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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43
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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44
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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45
outgrew
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去式 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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46
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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47
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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48
criteria
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| n.标准 | |
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49
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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50
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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51
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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52
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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53
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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54
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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55
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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56
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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57
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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58
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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59
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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60
bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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61
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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62
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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63
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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64
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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65
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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66
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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67
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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68
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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69
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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70
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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72
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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73
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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74
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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75
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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76
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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77
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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78
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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79
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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80
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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81
Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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82
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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83
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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84
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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85
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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86
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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87
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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88
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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89
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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90
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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91
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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92
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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93
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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94
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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95
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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96
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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97
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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98
prolix
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| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
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99
immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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100
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
reprehending
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| v.斥责，指摘，责备( reprehend的现在分词 ) | |
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103
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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104
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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105
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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106
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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107
administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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108
panaceas
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| n.治百病的药，万灵药( panacea的名词复数 ) | |
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109
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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110
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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111
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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112
enumerating
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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113
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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114
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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115
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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116
degenerating
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的现在分词 ) | |
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117
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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118
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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119
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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120
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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121
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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122
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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123
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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124
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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125
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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126
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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127
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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128
cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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129
rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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130
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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131
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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132
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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133
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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134
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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135
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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136
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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137
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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138
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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139
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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140
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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141
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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142
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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143
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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144
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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145
proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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146
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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147
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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148
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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149
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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150
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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151
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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152
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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153
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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155
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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156
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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157
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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158
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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160
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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161
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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162
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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163
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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164
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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165
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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166
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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167
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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168
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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169
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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170
tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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171
renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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172
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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174
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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licensing
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| v.批准，许可，颁发执照( license的现在分词 ) | |
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authorizing
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| 授权，批准，委托( authorize的现在分词 ) | |
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177
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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residual
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| adj.复播复映追加时间；存留下来的，剩余的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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