His talent has but sprung the greater leak:
And, for the industry he has spent upon’t,
Must full as much some other way discount.
The Hebrew, Chaldee, and the Syriac
Do, like their letters, set men’s reason back,
And turn their wits that strive to understand It
(Like those that write the characters) left-handed.
Yet he that is but able to express
No sense at all in several languages
Will pass for learneder than he that’s known
To speak the strongest reason in his own.
— BUTLER.
The description of persons who have the fewest ideas of all others are mere1 authors and readers. It is better to be able neither to read nor write than to be able to do nothing else. A lounger who is ordinarily seen with a book in his hand is (we may be almost sure) equally without the power or inclination3 to attend either to what passes around him or in his own mind. Such a one may be said to carry his understanding about with him in his pocket, or to leave it at home on his library shelves. He is afraid of venturing on any train of reasoning, or of striking out any observation that is not mechanically suggested to him by parsing4 his eyes over certain legible characters; shrinks from the fatigue5 of thought, which, for want of practice, becomes insupportable to him; and sits down contented6 with an endless, wearisome succession of words and half-formed images, which fill the void of the mind, and continually efface7 one another. Learning is, in too many cases, but a foil to common sense; a substitute for true knowledge. Books are less often made use of as ‘spectacles’ to look at nature with, than as blinds to keep out its strong light and shifting scenery from weak eyes and indolent dispositions9. The book-worm wraps himself up in his web of verbal generalities, and sees only the glimmering10 shadows of things reflected from the minds of others. Nature puts him out. The impressions of real objects, stripped of the disguises of words and voluminous roundabout descriptions, are blows that stagger him; their variety distracts, their rapidity exhausts him; and he turns from the bustle12, the noise, and glare, and whirling motion of the world about him (which he has not an eye to follow in its fantastic changes, nor an understanding to reduce to fixed13 principles), to the quiet monotony of the dead languages, and the less startling and more intelligible14 combinations of the letters of the alphabet. It is well, it is perfectly15 well. ‘Leave me to my repose,’ is the motto of the sleeping and the dead. You might as well ask the paralytic16 to leap from his chair and throw away his crutch17, or, without a miracle, to ‘take up his bed and walk,’ as expect the learned reader to throw down his book and think for himself. He clings to it for his intellectual support; and his dread18 of being left to himself is like the horror of a vacuum. He can only breathe a learned atmosphere, as other men breathe common air. He is a borrower of sense. He has no ideas of his own, and must live on those of other people. The habit of supplying our ideas from foreign sources ‘enfeebles all internal strength of thought,’ as a course of dram-drinking destroys the tone of the stomach. The faculties19 of the mind, when not exerted, or when cramped20 by custom and authority, become listless, torpid21, and unfit for the purposes of thought or action. Can we wonder at the languor22 and lassitude which is thus produced by a life of learned sloth23 and ignorance; by poring over lines and syllables24 that excite little more idea or interest than if they were the characters of an unknown tongue, till the eye closes on vacancy25, and the book drops from the feeble hand! I would rather be a wood-cutter, or the meanest hind26, that all day ‘sweats in the eye of Phoebus, and at night sleeps in Elysium,’ than wear out my life so, ‘twixt dreaming and awake.’ The learned author differs from the learned student in this, that the one transcribes27 what the other reads. The learned are mere literary drudges28. If you set them upon original composition, their heads turn, they don’t know where they are. The indefatigable29 readers of books are like the everlasting30 copiers of pictures, who, when they attempt to do anything of their own, find they want an eye quick enough, a hand steady enough, and colours bright enough, to trace the living forms of nature.
Any one who has passed through the regular gradations of a classical education, and is not made a fool by it, may consider himself as having had a very narrow escape. It is an old remark, that boys who shine at school do not make the greatest figure when they grow up and come out into the world. The things, in fact, which a boy is set to learn at school, and on which his success depends, are things which do not require the exercise either of the highest or the most useful faculties of the mind. Memory (and that of the lowest kind) is the chief faculty31 called into play in conning32 over and repeating lessons by rote33 in grammar, in languages, in geography, arithmetic, etc., so that he who has the most of this technical memory, with the least turn for other things, which have a stronger and more natural claim upon his childish attention, will make the most forward school-boy. The jargon34 containing the definitions of the parts of speech, the rules for casting up an account, or the inflections of a Greek verb, can have no attraction to the tyro35 of ten years old, except as they are imposed as a task upon him by others, or from his feeling the want of sufficient relish36 of amusement in other things. A lad with a sickly constitution and no very active mind, who can just retain what is pointed37 out to him, and has neither sagacity to distinguish nor spirit to enjoy for himself, will generally be at the head of his form. An idler at school, on the other hand, is one who has high health and spirits, who has the free use of his limbs, with all his wits about him, who feels the circulation of his blood and the motion of his heart, who is ready to laugh and cry in a breath, and who had rather chase a ball or a butterfly, feel the open air in his face, look at the fields or the sky, follow a winding38 path, or enter with eagerness into all the little conflicts and interests of his acquaintances and friends, than doze39 over a musty spelling-book, repeat barbarous distichs after his master, sit so many hours pinioned40 to a writing-desk, and receive his reward for the loss of time and pleasure in paltry41 prize-medals at Christmas and Midsummer. There is indeed a degree of stupidity which prevents children from learning the usual lessons, or ever arriving at these puny42 academic honours. But what passes for stupidity is much oftener a want of interest, of a sufficient motive43 to fix the attention and force a reluctant application to the dry and unmeaning pursuits of school-learning. The best capacities are as much above this drudgery44 as the dullest are beneath it. Our men of the greatest genius have not been most distinguished45 for their acquirements at school or at the university.
Th’ enthusiast46 Fancy was a truant47 ever.
Gray and Collins were among the instances of this wayward disposition8. Such persons do not think so highly of the advantages, nor can they submit their imaginations so servilely to the trammels of strict scholastic48 discipline. There is a certain kind and degree of intellect in which words take root, but into which things have not power to penetrate49. A mediocrity of talent, with a certain slenderness of moral constitution, is the soil that produces the most brilliant specimens50 of successful prize-essayists and Greek epigrammatists. It should not be forgotten that the least respectable character among modern politicians was the cleverest boy at Eton.
Learning is the knowledge of that which is not generally known to others, and which we can only derive51 at second-hand52 from books or other artificial sources. The knowledge of that which is before us, or about us, which appeals to our experience, passions, and pursuits, to the bosoms53 and businesses of men, is not learning. Learning is the knowledge of that which none but the learned know. He is the most learned man who knows the most of what is farthest removed from common life and actual observation, that is of the least practical utility, and least liable to be brought to the test of experience, and that, having been handed down through the greatest number of intermediate stages, is the most full of uncertainty54, difficulties, and contradictions. It is seeing with the eyes of others, hearing with their ears, and pinning our faith on their understandings. The learned man prides himself in the knowledge of names and dates, not of men or things. He thinks and cares nothing about his next-door neighbours, but he is deeply read in the tribes and castes of the Hindoos and Calmue Tartars. He can hardly find his way into the next street, though he is acquainted with the exact dimensions of Constantinople and Pekin. He does not know whether his oldest acquaintance is a knave55 or a fool, but he can pronounce a pompous56 lecture on all the principal characters in history. He cannot tell whether an object is black or white, round or square, and yet he is a professed57 master of the laws of optics and the rules of perspective. He knows as much of what he talks about as a blind man does of colours. He cannot give a satisfactory answer to the plainest question, nor is he ever in the right in any one of his opinions upon any one matter of fact that really comes before him, and yet he gives himself out for an infallible judge on all these points, of which it is impossible that he or any other person living should know anything but by conjecture58. He is expert in all the dead and in most of the living languages; but he can neither speak his own fluently, nor write it correctly. A person of this class, the second Greek scholar of his day, undertook to point out several solecisms in Milton’s Latin style; and in his own performance there is hardly a sentence of common English. Such was Dr. ——. Such is Dr. ——. Such was not Porson. He was an exception that confirmed the general rule, a man that, by uniting talents and knowledge with learning, made the distinction between them more striking and palpable.
A mere scholar, who knows nothing but books, must be ignorant even of them. ‘Books do not teach the use of books.’ How should he know anything of a work who knows nothing of the subject of it? The learned pedant59 is conversant60 with books only as they are made of other books, and those again of others, without end. He parrots those who have parroted others. He can translate the same word into ten different languages, but he knows nothing of the thing which it means in any one of them. He stuffs his head with authorities built on authorities, with quotations61 quoted from quotations, while he locks up his senses, his understanding, and his heart. He is unacquainted with the maxims62 and manners of the world; he is to seek in the characters of individuals. He sees no beauty in the face of nature or of art. To him ‘the mighty63 world of eye and ear’ is hid; and ‘knowledge,’ except at one entrance, ‘quite shut out.’ His pride takes part with his ignorance; and his self-importance rises with the number of things of which he does not know the value, and which he therefore despises as unworthy of his notice. He knows nothing of pictures — ‘Of the colouring of Titian, the grace of Raphael, the purity of Domenichino, the corregioscity of Correggio, the learning of Poussin, the airs of Guido, the taste of the Caracci, or the grand contour of Michael Angelo,’— of all those glories of the Italian and miracles of the Flemish school, which have filled the eyes of mankind with delight, and to the study and imitation of which thousands have in vain devoted64 their lives. These are to him as if they had never been, a mere dead letter, a by-word; and no wonder, for he neither sees nor understands their prototypes in nature. A print of Rubens’ Watering-place or Claude’s Enchanted66 Castle may be hanging on the walls of his room for months without his once perceiving them; and if you point them out to him he will turn away from them. The language of nature, or of art (which is another nature), is one that he does not understand. He repeats indeed the names of Apelles and Phidias, because they are to be found in classic authors, and boasts of their works as prodigies67, because they no longer exist; or when he sees the finest remains68 of Grecian art actually before him in the Elgin Marbles, takes no other interest in them than as they lead to a learned dispute, and (which is the same thing) a quarrel about the meaning of a Greek particle. He is equally ignorant of music; he ‘knows no touch of it,’ from the strains of the all-accomplished Mozart to the shepherd’s pipe upon the mountain. His ears are nailed to his books; and deadened with the sound of the Greek and Latin tongues, and the din2 and smithery of school-learning. Does he know anything more of poetry? He knows the number of feet in a verse, and of acts in a play; but of the soul or spirit he knows nothing. He can turn a Greek ode into English, or a Latin epigram into Greek verse; but whether either is worth the trouble he leaves to the critics. Does he understand ‘the act and practique part of life’ better than ‘the theorique’? No. He knows no liberal or mechanic art, no trade or occupation, no game of skill or chance. Learning ‘has no skill in surgery,’ in agriculture, in building, in working in wood or in iron; it cannot make any instrument of labour, or use it when made; it cannot handle the plough or the spade, or the chisel69 or the hammer; it knows nothing of hunting or hawking70, fishing or shooting, of horses or dogs, of fencing or dancing, or cudgel-playing, or bowls, or cards, or tennis, or anything else. The learned professor of all arts and sciences cannot reduce any one of them to practice, though he may contribute an account of them to an Encyclopedia71. He has not the use of his hands nor of his feet; he can neither run, nor walk, nor swim; and he considers all those who actually understand and can exercise any of these arts of body or mind as vulgar and mechanical men — though to know almost any one of them in perfection requires long time and practice, with powers originally fitted, and a turn of mind particularly devoted to them. It does not require more than this to enable the learned candidate to arrive, by painful study, at a doctor’s degree and a fellowship, and to eat, drink, and sleep the rest of his life!
The thing is plain. All that men really understand is confined to a very small compass; to their daily affairs and experience; to what they have an opportunity to know, and motives72 to study or practise. The rest is affectation and imposture73. The common people have the use of their limbs; for they live by their labour or skill. They understand their own business and the characters of those they have to deal with; for it is necessary that they should. They have eloquence74 to express their passions, and wit at will to express their contempt and provoke laughter. Their natural use of speech is not hung up in monumental mockery, in an obsolete75 language; nor is their sense of what is ludicrous, or readiness at finding out allusions76 to express it, buried in collections of Anas. You will hear more good things on the outside of a stage-coach from London to Oxford77 than if you were to pass a twelvemonth with the undergraduates, or heads of colleges, of that famous university; and more home truths are to be learnt from listening to a noisy debate in an alehouse than from attending a formal one in the House of Commons. An elderly country gentlewoman will often know more of character, and be able to illustrate78 it by more amusing anecdotes79 taken from the history of what has been said, done, and gossiped in a country town for the last fifty years, than the best bluestocking of the age will be able to glean80 from that sort of learning which consists in an acquaintance with all the novels and satirical poems published in the same period. People in towns, indeed, are woefully deficient81 in a knowledge of character, which they see only in the bust11, not as a whole-length. People in the country not only know all that has happened to a man, but trace his virtues82 or vices84, as they do his features, in their descent through several generations, and solve some contradiction in his behaviour by a cross in the breed half a century ago. The learned know nothing of the matter, either in town or country. Above all, the mass of society have common sense, which the learned in all ages want. The vulgar are in the right when they judge for themselves; they are wrong when they trust to their blind guides. The celebrated86 nonconformist divine, Baxter, was almost stoned to death by the good women of Kidderminster, for asserting from the pulpit that ‘hell was paved with infants’ skulls’; but, by the force of argument, and of learned quotations from the Fathers, the reverend preacher at length prevailed over the scruples87 of his congregation, and over reason and humanity.
Such is the use which has been made of human learning. The labourers in this vineyard seem as if it was their object to confound all common sense, and the distinctions of good and evil, by means of traditional maxims and preconceived notions taken upon trust, and increasing in absurdity88 with increase of age. They pile hypothesis on hypothesis, mountain high, till it is impossible to come at the plain truth on any question. They see things, not as they are, but as they find them in books, and ‘wink and shut their apprehensions89 up,’ in order that they may discover nothing to interfere90 with their prejudices or convince them of their absurdity. It might be supposed that the height of human wisdom consisted in maintaining contradictions and rendering91 nonsense sacred. There is no dogma, however fierce or foolish, to which these persons have not set their seals, and tried to impose on the understandings of their followers92 as the will of Heaven, clothed with all the terrors and sanctions of religion. How little has the human understanding been directed to find out the true and useful! How much ingenuity93 has been thrown away in the defence of creeds94 and systems! How much time and talents have been wasted in theological controversy95, in law, in politics, in verbal criticism, in judicial96 astrology, and in finding out the art of making gold! What actual benefit do we reap from the writings of a Laud65 or a Whitgift, or of Bishop97 Bull or Bishop Waterland, or Prideaux’ Connections, or Beausobre, or Calmet, or St. Augustine, or Puffendord, or Vattel, or from the more literal but equally learned and unprofitable labours of Scaliger, Cardan, and Scioppius? How many grains of sense are there in their thousand folio or quarto volumes? What would the world lose if they were committed to the flames tomorrow? Or are they not already ‘gone to the vault98 of all the Capulets’? Yet all these were oracles99 in their time, and would have scoffed100 at you or me, at common sense and human nature, for differing with them. It is our turn to laugh now.
To conclude this subject. The most sensible people to be met with in society are men of business and of the world, who argue from what they see and know, instead of spinning cobweb distinctions of what things ought to be. Women have often more of what is called good sense than men. They have fewer pretensions101; are less implicated102 in theories; and judge of objects more from their immediate103 and involuntary impression on the mind, and, therefore, more truly and naturally. They cannot reason wrong; for they do not reason at all. They do not think or speak by rule; and they have in general more eloquence and wit, as well as sense, on that account. By their wit, sense, and eloquence together, they generally contrive104 to govern their husbands. Their style, when they write to their friends (not for the booksellers), is better than that of most authors. — Uneducated people have most exuberance105 of invention and the greatest freedom from prejudice. Shakespear’s was evidently an uneducated mind, both in the freshness of his imagination and in the variety of his views; as Milton’s was scholastic, in the texture106 both of his thoughts and feelings. Shakespear had not been accustomed to write themes at school in favour of virtue83 or against vice85. To this we owe the unaffected but healthy tone of his dramatic morality. If we wish to know the force of human genius we should read Shakespear. If we wish to see the insignificance107 of human learning we may study his commentators108.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
din
|
|
| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
inclination
|
|
| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
parsing
|
|
| n.分[剖]析，分解v.从语法上描述或分析（词句等）( parse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
efface
|
|
| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
dispositions
|
|
| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
glimmering
|
|
| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
bust
|
|
| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bustle
|
|
| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
intelligible
|
|
| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
paralytic
|
|
| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
crutch
|
|
| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
faculties
|
|
| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
cramped
|
|
| a.狭窄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
torpid
|
|
| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
languor
|
|
| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
sloth
|
|
| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
syllables
|
|
| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
vacancy
|
|
| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
hind
|
|
| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
transcribes
|
|
| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的第三人称单数 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
drudges
|
|
| n.做苦工的人，劳碌的人( drudge的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
indefatigable
|
|
| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
everlasting
|
|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
conning
|
|
| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
rote
|
|
| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
jargon
|
|
| n.术语，行话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
tyro
|
|
| n.初学者；生手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
relish
|
|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
doze
|
|
| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
pinioned
|
|
| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
paltry
|
|
| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
puny
|
|
| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
drudgery
|
|
| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
enthusiast
|
|
| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
truant
|
|
| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
scholastic
|
|
| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
penetrate
|
|
| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
specimens
|
|
| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
derive
|
|
| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
second-hand
|
|
| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
bosoms
|
|
| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
uncertainty
|
|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
knave
|
|
| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
pompous
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
conjecture
|
|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
pedant
|
|
| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
conversant
|
|
| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
quotations
|
|
| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
maxims
|
|
| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
laud
|
|
| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
enchanted
|
|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
prodigies
|
|
| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
chisel
|
|
| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
hawking
|
|
| 利用鹰行猎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
encyclopedia
|
|
| n.百科全书 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
imposture
|
|
| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
obsolete
|
|
| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
allusions
|
|
| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
illustrate
|
|
| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
anecdotes
|
|
| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
glean
|
|
| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
deficient
|
|
| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
vices
|
|
| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
scruples
|
|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
apprehensions
|
|
| 疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
rendering
|
|
| n.表现，描写 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
followers
|
|
| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
ingenuity
|
|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
creeds
|
|
| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
controversy
|
|
| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
judicial
|
|
| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
oracles
|
|
| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
scoffed
|
|
| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
pretensions
|
|
| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
implicated
|
|
| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
exuberance
|
|
| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
texture
|
|
| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
insignificance
|
|
| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
commentators
|
|
| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |