There is Major Cartwright: he has but one idea or subject of discourse1, Parliamentary Reform. Now Parliamentary Reform is (as far as I know) a very good subject to talk about; but why should it be the only one? To hear the worthy3 and gallant4 Major resume his favourite topic, is like law-business, or a person who has a suit in Chancery going on. Nothing can be attended to, nothing can be talked of but that. Now it is getting on, now again it is standing5 still; at one time the Master has promised to pass judgment6 by a certain day, at another he has put it off again and called for more papers, and both are equally reasons for speaking of it. Like the piece of packthread in the barrister’s hands, he turns and twists it all ways, and cannot proceed a step without it. Some schoolboys cannot read but in their own book; and the man of one idea cannot converse7 out of his own subject. Conversation it is not; but a sort of recital8 of the preamble9 of a bill, or a collection of grave arguments for a man’s being of opinion with himself. It would be well if there was anything of character, of eccentricity10 in all this; but that is not the case. It is a political homily personified, a walking common-place we have to encounter and listen to. It is just as if a man was to insist on your hearing him go through the fifth chapter of the Book of Judges every time you meet, or like the story of the Cosmogony in the Vicar of Wakefield. It is a tine played on a barrel-organ. It is a common vehicle of discourse into which they get and are set down when they please, without any pain or trouble to themselves. Neither is it professional pedantry11 or trading quackery13: it has no excuse. The man has no more to do with the question which he saddles on all his hearers than you have. This is what makes the matter hopeless. If a farmer talks to you about his pigs or his poultry14, or a physician about his patients, or a lawyer about his briefs, or a merchant about stock, or an author about himself, you know how to account for this, it is a common infirmity, you have a laugh at his expense and there is no more to be said. But here is a man who goes out of his way to be absurd, and is troublesome by a romantic effort of generosity15. You cannot say to him, ‘All this may be interesting to you, but I have no concern in it’: you cannot put him off in that way. He retorts the Latin adage16 upon you-Nihil humani a me alienum puto. He has got possession of a subject which is of universal and paramount17 interest (not ‘a fee-grief, due to some single breast’), and on that plea may hold you by the button as long as he chooses. His delight is to harangue18 on what nowise regards himself: how then can you refuse to listen to what as little amuses you? Time and tide wait for no man. The business of the state admits of no delay. The question of Universal Suffrage19 and Annual Parliaments stands first on the order of the day — takes precedence in its own right of every other question. Any other topic, grave or gay, is looked upon in the light of impertinence, and sent to Coventry. Business is an interruption; pleasure a digression from it. It is the question before every company where the Major comes, which immediately resolves itself into a committee of the whole upon it, is carried on by means of a perpetual virtual adjournment20, and it is presumed that no other is entertained while this is pending21 — a determination which gives its persevering22 advocate a fair prospect23 of expatiating24 on it to his dying day. As Cicero says of study, it follows him into the country, it stays with him at home: it sits with him at breakfast, and goes out with him to dinner. It is like a part of his dress, of the costume of his person, without which he would be at a loss what to do. If he meets you in the street, he accosts25 you with it as a form of salutation: if you see him at his own house, it is supposed you come upon that. If you happen to remark, ‘It is a fine day,’ or ‘The town is full,’ it is considered as a temporary compromise of the question; you are suspected of not going the whole length of the principle. As Sancho, when reprimanded for mentioning his homely26 favourite in the Duke’s kitchen, defended himself by saying, ‘There I thought of Dapple, and there I spoke27 of him,’ so the true stickler28 for Reform neglects no opportunity of introducing the subject wherever he is. Place its veteran champion under the frozen north, and he will celebrate sweet smiling Reform; place him under the mid-day Afric suns, and he will talk of nothing but Reform — Reform so sweetly smiling and so sweetly promising29 for the last forty years —
Dulce ridentem Lalagen,
Dulce loquentem!
A topic of this sort of which the person himself may be considered as almost sole proprietor30 and patentee is an estate for life, free from all encumbrance31 of wit, thought, or study, you live upon it as a settled income; and others might as well think to eject you out of a capital freehold house and estate as think to drive you out of it into the wide world of common sense and argument. Every man’s house is his castle; and every man’s common-place is his stronghold, from which he looks out and smiles at the dust and heat of controversy32, raised by a number of frivolous33 and vexatious questions —‘Rings the world with the vain stir!’ A cure for this and every other evil would be a Parliamentary Reform; and so we return in a perpetual circle to the point from which we set out. Is not this a species of sober madness more provoking than the real? Has not the theoretical enthusiast34 his mind as much warped35, as much enslaved by one idea as the acknowledged lunatic, only that the former has no lucid36 intervals37? If you see a visionary of this class going along the street, you can tell as well what he is thinking of and will say next as the man that fancies himself a teapot or the Czar of Muscovy. The one is as inaccessible38 to reason as the other: if the one raves39, the other dotes!
There are some who fancy the Corn Bill the root of all evil, and others who trace all the miseries40 of life to the practice of muffling41 up children in night-clothes when they sleep or travel. They will declaim by the hour together on the first, and argue themselves black in the face on the last. It is in vain that you give up the point. They persist in the debate, and begin again —‘But don’t you see —?’ These sort of partial obliquities, as they are more entertaining and original, are also by their nature intermittent42. They hold a man but for a season. He may have one a year or every two years; and though, while he is in the heat of any new discovery, he will let you hear of nothing else, he varies from himself, and is amusing undesignedly. He is not like the chimes at midnight.
People of the character here spoken of, that is, who tease you to death with some one idea, generally differ in their favourite notion from the rest of the world; and indeed it is the love of distinction which is mostly at the bottom of this peculiarity43. Thus one person is remarkable44 for living on a vegetable diet, and never fails to entertain you all dinner-time with an invective45 against animal food. One of this self-denying class, who adds to the primitive46 simplicity47 of this sort of food the recommendation of having it in a raw state, lamenting48 the death of a patient whom he had augured49 to be in a good way as a convert to his system, at last accounted for his disappointment in a whisper —‘But she ate meat privately50, depend upon it.’ It is not pleasant, though it is what one submits to willingly from some people, to be asked every time you meet, whether you have quite left off drinking wine, and to be complimented or condoled51 with on your looks according as you answer in the negative or affirmative. Abernethy thinks his pill an infallible cure for all disorders53. A person once complaining to his physician that he thought his mode of treatment had not answered, he assured him it was the best in the world — ‘and as a proof of it,’ says he, ‘I have had one gentleman, a patient with your disorder52, under the same regimen for the last sixteen years!’— l have known persons whose minds were entirely54 taken up at all times and on all occasions with such questions as the Abolition55 of the Slave Trade, the Restoration of the Jews, or the progress of Unitarianism. I myself at one period took a pretty strong turn to inveighing56 against the doctrine57 of Divine Right, and am not yet cured of my prejudice on that subject. How many projectors58 have gone mad in good earnest from incessantly60 harping61 on one idea: the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, the finding out the longitude62, or paying off the national debt! The disorder at length comes to a fatal crisis; but long before this, and while they were walking about and talking as usual, the derangement63 of the fancy, the loss of all voluntary power to control or alienate64 their ideas from the single subject that occupied them, was gradually taking place, and overturning the fabric65 of the understanding by wrenching66 it all on one side. Alderman Wood has, I should suppose, talked of nothing but the Queen in all companies for the last six months. Happy Alderman Wood! Some persons have got a definition of the verb, others a system of short-hand, others a cure for typhus fever, others a method for preventing the counterfeiting67 of bank-notes, which they think the best possible, and indeed the only one. Others in leaving you to add a fourth. A man who has been in Germany will sometimes talk of nothing but what is German: a Scotchman always leads the discourse to his own country. Some descant68 on the Kantean philosophy. There is a conceited69 fellow about town who talks always and everywhere on this subject. He wears the Categories round his neck like a pearl-chain: he plays off the names of the primary and transcendental qualities like rings on his fingers. He talks of the Kantean system while he dances; he talks of it while he dines; he talks of it to his children, to his apprentices70, to his customers. He called on me to convince me of it, and said I was only prevented from becoming a complete convert by one or two prejudices. He knows no more about it than a pikestaff. Why then does he make so much ridiculous fuss about it? It is not that he has got this one idea in his head, but that he has got no other. A dunce may talk on the subject of the Kantean philosophy with great impunity71: if he opened his lips on any other he might be found out. A French lady who had married an Englishman who said little, excused him by saying, ‘He is always thinking of Locke and Newton.’ This is one way of passing muster72 by following in the suite73 of great names! — A friend of mine, whom I met one day in the street, accosted74 me with more than usual vivacity75, and said, ‘Well, we’re selling, we’re selling!’ I thought he meant a house. ‘No,’ he said, ‘haven’t you seen the advertisement in the newspapers? I mean five and twenty copies of the Essay.’ This work, a comely76, capacious quarto on the most abstruse77 metaphysics, had occupied his sole thoughts for several years, and he concluded that I must be thinking of what he was. I believe, however, I may say I am nearly the only person that ever read, certainly that ever pretended to understand it. It is an original and most ingenious work, nearly as incomprehensible as it is original, and as quaint78 as it is ingenious. If the author is taken up with the ideas in his own head and no others, he has a right; for he has ideas there that are to be met with nowhere else, and which occasionally would not disgrace a Berkeley. A dextrous plagiarist79 might get himself an immense reputation by putting them in a popular dress. Oh! how little do they know, who have never done anything but repeat after others by rote80, the pangs81, the labour, the yearnings and misgivings82 of mind it costs to get at the germ of an original idea — to dig it out of the hidden recesses83 of thought and nature, and bring it half-ashamed, struggling, and deformed84 into the day — to give words and intelligible85 symbols to that which was never imagined or expressed before! It is as if the dumb should speak for the first time, as if things should stammer86 out their own meaning through the imperfect organs of mere87 sense. I wish that some of our fluent, plausible88 declaimers, who have such store of words to cover the want of ideas, could lend their art to this writer. If he, ‘poor, unfledged’ in this respect, ‘who has scarce winged from view o’ th’ nest,’ could find a language for his ideas, truth would find a language for some of her secrets. Mr. Fearn was buried in the woods of Indostan. In his leisure from business and from tiger-shooting, he took it into his head to look into his own mind. A whim89 or two, an odd fancy, like a film before the eye, now and then crossed it: it struck him as something curious, but the impression at first disappeared like breath upon glass. He thought no more of it; yet still the same conscious feelings returned, and what at first was chance or instinct became a habit. Several notions had taken possession of his brain relating to mental processes which he had never heard alluded90 to in conversation, but not being well versed91 in such matters, he did not know whether they were to be found in learned authors or not. He took a journey to the capital of the Peninsula on purpose, bout2 Locke, Reid, Stewart, and Berkeley, whom he consulted with eager curiosity when he got home, but did not find what he looked for. He set to work himself, and in a few weeks sketched93 out a rough draft of his thoughts and observations on bamboo paper. The eagerness of his new pursuit, together with the diseases of the climate, proved too much for his constitution, and he was forced to return to this country. He put his metaphysics, his bamboo manuscript, into the boat with him, and as he floated down the Ganges, said to himself, ‘If I live, this will live; if I die, it will not be heard of.’ What is fame to this feeling? The babbling94 of an idiot! He brought the work home with him and twice had it stereotyped95. The first sketch92 he allowed was obscure, but the improved copy he thought could not fail to strike. It did not succeed. The world, as Goldsmith said of himself, made a point of taking no notice of it. Ever since he has had nothing but disappointment and vexation — the greatest and most heart-breaking of all others — that of not being able to make yourself understood. Mr. Fearn tells me there is a sensible writer in the Monthly Review who sees the thing in its proper light, and says so. But I have heard of no other instance. There are, notwithstanding, ideas in this work, neglected and ill-treated as it has been, that lead to more curious and subtle speculations96 on some of the most disputed and difficult points of the philosophy of the human mind (such as relation, abstraction, etc.) than have been thrown out in any work for the last sixty years, I mean since Hume; for since his time there has been no metaphysician in this country worth the name. Yet his Treatise97 on Human Nature, he tells us, ‘fell still-born from the press.’ So it is that knowledge works its way, and reputation lingers far behind it. But truth is better than opinion, I maintain it; and as to the two stereotyped and unsold editions of the Essay on Consciousness, I say, Honi soit qui mal y pense!’24— My Uncle Toby had one idea in his head, that of his bowling-green, and another, that of the Widow Wadman. Oh, spare them both! I will only add one more anecdote98 in illustration of this theory of the mind’s being occupied with one idea, which is most frequently of a man’s self. A celebrated99 lyrical writer happened to drop into a small party where they had just got the novel of Rob Roy, by the author of Waverley. The motto in the title-page was taken from a poem of his. This was a hint sufficient, a word to the wise. He instantly went to the book-shelf in the next room, took down the volume of his own poems, read the whole of that in question aloud with manifest complacency, replaced it on the shelf, and walked away, taking no more notice of Rob Roy than if there had been no such person, nor of the new novel than if it had not been written by its renowned100 author. There was no reciprocity in this. But the writer in question does not admit of any merit second to his own.25
Mr. Owen is a man remarkable for one idea. It is that of himself and the Lanark cotton-mills. He carries this idea backwards101 and forwards with him from Glasgow to London, without allowing anything for attrition, and expects to find it in the same state of purity and perfection in the latter place as at the former. He acquires a wonderful velocity102 and impenetrability in his undaunted transit103. Resistance to him is vain, while the whirling motion of the mail-coach remains104 in his head.
Nor Alps nor Apennines can keep him out,
Nor fortified105 redoubt.
He even got possession, in the suddenness of his onset106, of the steam-engine of the Times newspaper, and struck off ten thousand woodcuts of the Projected Villages, which afforded an ocular demonstration107 to all who saw them of the practicability of Mr. Owen’s whole scheme. He comes into a room with one of these documents in his hand, with the air of a schoolmaster and a quack12 doctor mixed, asks very kindly108 how you do, and on hearing you are still in an indifferent state of health owing to bad digestion109, instantly turns round and observes that ‘All that will be remedied in his plan; that indeed he thinks too much attention has been paid to the mind, and not enough to the body; that in his system, which he has now perfected and which will shortly be generally adopted, he has provided effectually for both; that he has been long of opinion that the mind depends altogether on the physical organisation110, and where the latter is neglected or disordered the former must languish111 and want its due vigour112; that exercise is therefore a part of his system, with full liberty to develop every faculty113 of mind and body; that two Objections had been made to his New View of Society, viz. its want of relaxation114 from labour, and its want of variety; but the first of these, the too great restraint, he trusted he had already answered, for where the powers of mind and body were freely exercised and brought out, surely liberty must be allowed to exist in the highest degree; and as to the second, the monotony which would be produced by a regular and general plan of cooperation, he conceived he had proved in his New View and Addresses to the Higher Classes, that the cooperation he had recommended was necessarily conducive115 to the most extensive improvement of the ideas and faculties116, and where this was the case there must be the greatest possible variety instead of a want of it.’ And having said this, this expert and sweeping117 orator118 takes up his hat and walks downstairs after reading his lecture of truisms like a playbill or an apothecary’s advertisement; and should you stop him at the door to say, by way of putting in a word in common, that Mr. Southey seems somewhat favourable119 to his plan in his late Letter to Mr. William Smith, he looks at you with a smile of pity at the futility120 of all opposition121 and the idleness of all encouragement. People who thus swell122 out some vapid123 scheme of their own into undue124 importance seem to me to labour under water in the head — to exhibit a huge hydrocephalus! They may be very worthy people for all that, but they are bad companions and very indifferent reasoners. Tom Moore says of some one somewhere, ‘that he puts his hand in his breeches pocket like a crocodile.’ The phrase is hieroglyphical125; but Mr. Owen and others might be said to put their foot in the question of social improvement and reform much in the same unaccountable manner.
I hate to be surfeited126 with anything, however sweet. I do not want to be always tied to the same question, as if there were no other in the world. I like a mind more Catholic.
I love to talk with mariners127,
That come from a far countree.
I am not for ‘a collusion’ but ‘an exchange’ of ideas. It is well to hear what other people have to say on a number of subjects. I do not wish to be always respiring the same confined atmosphere, but to vary the scene, and get a little relief and fresh air out of doors. Do all we can to shake it off, there is always enough pedantry, egotism, and self-conceit left lurking128 behind; we need not seal ourselves up hermetically in these precious qualities, so as to think of nothing but our own wonderful discoveries, and hear nothing but the sound of our own voice. Scholars, like princes, may learn something by being incognito129. Yet we see those who cannot go into a bookseller’s shop, or bear to be five minutes in a stage-coach, without letting you know who they are. They carry their reputation about with them as the snail130 does its shell, and sit under its canopy131, like the lady in the lobster132. I cannot understand this at all. What is the use of a man’s always revolving133 round his own little circle? He must, one should think, be tired of it himself, as well as tire other people. A well-known writer says with much boldness, both in the thought and expression, that ‘a Lord is imprisoned134 in the Bastille of a name, and cannot enlarge himself into man’; and I have known men of genius in the same predicament. Why must a man be for ever mouthing out his own poetry, comparing himself with Milton, passage by passage, and weighing every line in a balance of posthumous135 fame which he holds in his own hands? It argues a want of imagination as well as common sense. Has he no ideas but what he has put into verse; or none in common with his hearers? Why should he think it the only scholar-like thing, the only ‘virtue extant,’ to see the merit of his writings, and that ‘men were brutes136 without them’? Why should he bear a grudge137 to all art, to all beauty, to all wisdom, that does not spring from his own brain? Or why should he fondly imagine that there is but one fine thing in the world, namely, poetry, and that he is the only poet in it? It will never do. Poetry is a very fine thing; but there are other things besides it. Everything must have its turn. Does a wise man think to enlarge his comprehension by turning his eyes only on himself, or hope to conciliate the admiration138 of others by scouting139, proscribing140, and loathing141 all that they delight in? He must either have a disproportionate idea of himself, or be ignorant of the world in which he lives. It is quite enough to have one class of people born to think the universe made for them! — It seems also to argue a want of repose142, of confidence, and firm faith in a man’s real pretensions143, to be always dragging them forward into the foreground, as if the proverb held here —Out of sight out of mind. Does he, for instance, conceive that no one would ever think of his poetry unless he forced it upon them by repeating it himself? Does he believe all competition, all allowance of another’s merit, fatal to him? Must he, like Moody144 in the Country Girl, lock up the faculties of his admirers in ignorance of all other fine things, painting, music, the antique, lest they should play truant145 to him? Methinks such a proceeding146 implies no good opinion of his own genius or their taste: it is deficient147 in dignity and in decorum. Surely if any one is convinced of the reality of an acquisition, he can bear not to have it spoken of every minute. If he knows he has an undoubted superiority in any respect, he will not be uneasy because every one he meets is not in the secret, nor staggered by the report of rival excellence148. One of the first mathematicians149 and classical scholars of the day was mentioning it as a compliment to himself that a cousin of his, a girl from school, had said to him, ‘You know (Manning) is a very plain good sort of a young man, but he is not anything at all out of the common.’ Leigh Hunt once said to me, ‘I wonder I never heard you speak upon this subject before, which you seem to have studied a good deal.’ I answered, ‘Why, we were not reduced to that, that I know of!’—
There are persons who, without being chargeable with the vice150 here spoken of, yet ‘stand accountant for as great a sin’; though not dull and monotonous151, they are vivacious152 mannerists in their conversation, and excessive egotists. Though they run over a thousand subjects in mere gaiety of heart, their delight still flows from one idea, namely, themselves. Open the book in what page you will, there is a frontispiece of themselves staring you in the face. They are a sort of Jacks153 o’ the Green, with a sprig of laurel, a little tinsel, and a little smut, but still playing antics and keeping in incessant59 motion, to attract attention and extort154 your pittance155 of approbation156. Whether they talk of the town or the country, poetry or politics, it comes to much the same thing. If they talk to you of the town, its diversions, ‘its palaces, its ladies, and its streets,’ they are the delight, the grace, and ornament157 of it. If they are describing the charms of the country, they give no account of any individual spot or object or source of pleasure but the circumstance of their being there. ‘With them conversing158, we forget all place, all seasons, and their change.’ They perhaps pluck a leaf or a flower, patronise it, and hand it you to admire, but select no one feature of beauty or grandeur159 to dispute the palm of perfection with their own persons. Their rural descriptions are mere landscape backgrounds with their own portraits in an engaging attitude in front. They are not observing or enjoying the scene, but doing the honours as masters of the ceremonies to nature, and arbiters160 of elegance161 to all humanity. If they tell a love-tale of enamoured princesses, it is plain they fancy themselves the hero of the piece. If they discuss poetry, their encomiums still turn on something genial162 and unsophisticated, meaning their own style. If they enter into politics, it is understood that a hint from them to the potentates163 of Europe is sufficient. In short, as a lover (talk of what you will) brings in his mistress at every turn, so these persons contrive164 to divert your attention to the same darling object — they are, in fact, in love with themselves, and, like lovers, should be left to keep their own company.
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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6
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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9
preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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10
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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14
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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15
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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20
adjournment
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| 休会； 延期； 休会期； 休庭期 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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accosts
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的第三人称单数 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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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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stickler
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| n.坚持细节之人 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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33
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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34
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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35
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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37
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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38
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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39
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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40
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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41
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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42
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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43
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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44
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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45
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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46
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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47
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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48
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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49
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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50
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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51
condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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53
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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56
inveighing
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的现在分词 ) | |
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57
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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58
projectors
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| 电影放映机，幻灯机( projector的名词复数 ) | |
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59
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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60
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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61
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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62
longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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63
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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64
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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65
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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66
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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67
counterfeiting
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| n.伪造v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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68
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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69
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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70
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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71
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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72
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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73
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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74
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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75
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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76
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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77
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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78
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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79
plagiarist
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| n.剽窃者，文抄公 | |
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80
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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81
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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82
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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83
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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84
deformed
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|
| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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85
intelligible
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|
| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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86
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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87
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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88
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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89
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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90
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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92
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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93
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
babbling
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|
| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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95
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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96
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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97
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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98
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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99
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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100
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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101
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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102
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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103
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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104
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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105
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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106
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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107
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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108
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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109
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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110
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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111
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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112
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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113
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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114
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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115
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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116
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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117
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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118
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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119
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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120
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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121
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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122
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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123
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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124
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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125
hieroglyphical
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| n.象形文字，象形文字的文章 | |
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126
surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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127
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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128
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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129
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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130
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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131
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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132
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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133
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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134
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
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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136
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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137
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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138
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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139
scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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140
proscribing
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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141
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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142
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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143
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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144
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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145
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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146
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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147
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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148
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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149
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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150
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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151
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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152
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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153
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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154
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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155
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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156
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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157
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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158
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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159
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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160
arbiters
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| 仲裁人，裁决者( arbiter的名词复数 ) | |
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161
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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162
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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163
potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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164
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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