Some men are mere21 machines. They are put in a go-cart of business, and are harnessed to a profession — yoked22 to Fortune’s wheels. They plod23 on, and succeed. Their affairs conduct them, not they their affairs. All they have to do is to let things take their course, and not go out of the beaten road. A man may carry on the business of farming on the same spot and principle that his ancestors have done for many generations before him without any extraordinary share of capacity: the proof is, it is done every day, in every county and parish in the kingdom. All that is necessary is that he should not pretend to be wiser than his neighbours. If he has a grain more wit or penetration24 than they, if his vanity gets the start of his avarice25 only half a neck, if he has ever thought or read anything upon the subject, it will most probably be the ruin of him. He will turn theoretical or experimental farmer, and no more need be said. Mr. Cobbett, who is a sufficiently shrewd and practical man, with an eye also to the main chance, had got some notions in his head (from Tull’s Husbandry) about the method of sowing turnips26, to which he would have sacrificed not only his estate at Botley, but his native county of Hampshire itself, sooner than give up an inch of his argument. ‘Tut! will you baulk a man in the career of his humour?’ Therefore, that a man may not be ruined by his humours, he should be too dull and phlegmatic27 to have any: he must have ‘no figures nor no fantasies which busy thought draws in the brains of men.’ The fact is, that the ingenuity28 or judgment29 of no one man is equal to that of the world at large, which is the fruit of the experience and ability of all mankind. Even where a man is right in a particular notion, he will be apt to overrate the importance of his discovery, to the detriment30 of his affairs. Action requires cooperation, but in general if you set your face against custom, people will set their faces against you. They cannot tell whether you are right or wrong, but they know that you are guilty of a pragmatical assumption of superiority over them which they do not like. There is no doubt that if a person two hundred years ago had foreseen and attempted to put in practice the most approved and successful methods of cultivation31 now in use, it would have been a death-blow to his credit and fortune. So that though the experiments and improvements of private individuals from time to time gradually go to enrich the public stock of information and reform the general practice, they are mostly the ruin of the person who makes them, because he takes a part for the whole, and lays more stress upon the single point in which he has found others in the wrong than on all the rest in which they are substantially and prescriptively in the right. The great requisite32, it should appear, then, for the prosperous management of ordinary business is the want of imagination, or of any ideas but those of custom and interest on the narrowest scale; and as the affairs of the world are necessarily carried on by the common run of its inhabitants, it seems a wise dispensation of Providence33 that it should be so. If no one could rent a piece of glebe-land without a genius for mechanical inventions, or stand behind a counter without a large benevolence34 of soul, what would become of the commercial and agricultural interests of this great (and once flourishing) country? — I would not be understood as saying that there is not what may be called a genius for business, an extraordinary capacity for affairs, quickness and comprehension united, an insight into character, an acquaintance with a number of particular circumstances, a variety of expedients35, a tact36 for finding out what will do: I grant all this (in Liverpool and Manchester they would persuade you that your merchant and manufacturer is your only gentleman and scholar)— but still, making every allowance for the difference between the liberal trader and the sneaking37 shopkeeper, I doubt whether the most surprising success is to be accounted for from any such unusual attainments38, or whether a man’s making half a million of money is a proof of his capacity for thought in general. It is much oftener owing to views and wishes bounded but constantly directed to one particular object. To succeed, a man should aim only at success. The child of Fortune should resign himself into the hands of Fortune. A plotting head frequently overreaches itself: a mind confident of its resources and calculating powers enters on critical speculations39, which in a game depending so much on chance and unforeseen events, and not entirely41 on intellectual skill, turn the odds42 greatly against any one in the long run. The rule of business is to take what you can get, and keep what you have got; or an eagerness in seizing every opportunity that offers for promoting your own interest, and a plodding43, persevering44 industry in making the most of the advantages you have already obtained, are the most effectual as well as the safest ingredients in the composition of the mercantile character. The world is a book in which the Chapter of Accidents is none of the least considerable; or it is a machine that must be left, in a great measure, to turn itself. The most that a worldly-minded man can do is to stand at the receipt of custom, and be constantly on the lookout45 for windfalls. The true devotee in this way waits for the revelations of Fortune as the poet waits for the inspiration of the Muse46, and does not rashly anticipate her favours. He must be neither capricious nor wilful47. I have known people untrammelled in the ways of business, but with so intense an apprehension48 of their own interest, that they would grasp at the slightest possibility of gain as a certainty, and were led into as many mistakes by an overgriping, usurious disposition49 as they could have been by the most thoughtless extravagance. — We hear a great outcry about the want of judgment in men of genius. It is not a want of judgment, but an excess of other things. They err16 knowingly, and are wilfully50 blind. The understanding is out of the question. The profound judgment which soberer people pique51 themselves upon is in truth a want of passion and imagination. Give them an interest in anything, a sudden fancy, a bait for their favourite foible, and who so besotted as they? Stir their feelings, and farewell to their prudence52! The understanding operates as a motive to action only in the silence of the passions. I have heard people of a sanguine53 temperament reproached with betting according to their wishes, instead of their opinion who should win; and I have seen those who reproached them do the very same thing the instant their own vanity or prejudices are concerned. The most mechanical people, once thrown off their balance, are the most extravagant54 and fantastical. What passion is there so unmeaning and irrational55 as avarice itself? The Dutch went mad for tulips, and ———— for love! To return to what was said a little way back, a question might be started, whether as thought relates to the whole circumference56 of things and interests, and business is confined to a very small part of them, viz. to a knowledge of a man’s own affairs and the making of his own fortune, whether a talent for the latter will not generally exist in proportion to the narrowness and grossness of his ideas, nothing drawing his attention out of his own sphere, or giving him an interest except in those things which he can realise and bring home to himself in the most undoubted shape? To the man of business all the world is a fable57 but the Stock Exchange: to the money-getter nothing has a real existence that he cannot convert into a tangible58 feeling, that he does not recognise as property, that he cannot ‘measure with a two-foot rule or count upon ten fingers.’ The want of thought, of imagination, drives the practical man upon immediate59 realities: to the poet or philosopher all is real and interesting that is true or possible, that can reach in its consequences to others, or be made a subject of curious speculation40 to himself!
But is it right, then, to judge of action by the quantity of thought implied in it, any more than it would be to condemn60 a life of contemplation for being inactive? Or has not everything a source and principle of its own, to which we should refer it, and not to the principles of other things? He who succeeds in any pursuit in which others fail may be presumed to have qualities of some sort or other which they are without. If he has not brilliant wit, he may have solid sense; if he has not subtlety61 of understanding, he may have energy and firmness of purpose; if he has only a few advantages, he may have modesty62 and prudence to make the most of what he possesses. Propriety63 is one great matter in the conduct of life; which, though, like a graceful64 carriage of the body, it is neither definable nor striking at first sight, is the result of finely balanced feelings, and lends a secret strength and charm to the whole character.
Quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia vertit,
Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor.
There are more ways than one in which the various faculties of the mind may unfold themselves. Neither words nor ideas reducible to words constitute the utmost limit of human capacity. Man is not a merely talking nor a merely reasoning animal. Let us then take him as he is, instead of ‘curtailing him of nature’s fair proportions’ to suit our previous notions. Doubtless, there are great characters both in active and contemplative life. There have been heroes as well as sages65, legislators and founders66 of religion, historians and able statesmen and generals, inventors of useful arts and instruments and explorers of undiscovered countries, as well as writers and readers of books. It will not do to set all these aside under any fastidious or pedantic69 distinction. Comparisons are odious70, because they are impertinent, and lead only to the discovery of defects by making one thing the standard of another which has no relation to it. If, as some one proposed, we were to institute an inquiry71, ‘Which was the greatest man, Milton or Cromwell, Buonaparte or Rubens?’ we should have all the authors and artists on one side, and all the military men and the whole diplomatic body on the other, who would set to work with all their might to pull in pieces the idol72 of the other party, and the longer the dispute continued, the more would each grow dissatisfied with his favourite, though determined73 to allow no merit to any one else. The mind is not well competent to take in the full impression of more than one style of excellence74 or one extraordinary character at once; contradictory75 claims puzzle and stupefy it; and however admirable any individual may be in himself and unrivalled in his particular way, yet if we try him by others in a totally opposite class, that is, if we consider not what he was but what he was not, he will be found to be nothing. We do not reckon up the excellences76 on either side, for then these would satisfy the mind and put an end to the comparison: we have no way of exclusively setting up our favourite but by running down his supposed rival; and for the gorgeous hues77 of Rubens, the lofty conceptions of Milton, the deep policy and cautious daring of Cromwell, or the dazzling exploits and fatal ambition of the modern chieftain, the poet is transformed into a pedant68, the artist sinks into a mechanic, the politician turns out no better than a knave78, and the hero is exalted79 into a madman. It is as easy to get the start of our antagonist80 in argument by frivolous81 and vexatious objections to one side of the question as it is difficult to do full and heaped justice to the other. If I am asked which is the greatest of those who have been the greatest in different ways, I answer, the one that we happen to be thinking of at the time; for while that is the case, we can conceive of nothing higher. If there is a propensity82 in the vulgar to admire the achievements of personal prowess or instances of fortunate enterprise too much, it cannot be denied that those who have to weigh out and dispense83 the meed of fame in books have been too much disposed, by a natural bias84, to confine all merit and talent to the productions of the pen, or at least to those works which, being artificial or abstract representations of things, are transmitted to posterity85, and cried up as models in their kind. This, though unavoidable, is hardly just. Actions pass away and are forgotten, or are only discernible in their effects; conquerors86, statesmen, and kings live but by their names stamped on the page of history. Hume says rightly that more people think about Virgil and Homer (and that continually) than ever trouble their heads about Caesar or Alexander. In fact, poets are a longer-lived race than heroes: they breathe more of the air of immortality88. They survive more entire in their thoughts and acts. We have all that Virgil or Homer did, as much as if we had lived at the same time with them: we can hold their works in our hands, or lay them on our pillows, or put them to our lips. Scarcely a trace of what the others did is left upon the earth, so as to be visible to common eyes. The one, the dead authors, are living men, still breathing and moving in their writings. The others, the conquerors of the world, are but the ashes in an urn10. The sympathy (so to speak) between thought and thought is more intimate and vital than that between thought and action. Though of admiration89 to the manes of departed heroism90 is like burning incense91 in a marble monument. Words, ideas, feelings, with the progress of time harden into substances: things, bodies, actions, moulder92 away, or melt into a sound, into thin air! — Yet though the Schoolmen in the Middle Ages disputed more about the texts of Aristotle than the battle of Arbela, perhaps Alexander’s Generals in his lifetime admired his pupil as much and liked him better. For not only a man’s actions are effaced93 and vanish with him; his virtues94 and generous qualities die with him also: his intellect only is immortal87 and bequeathed unimpaired to posterity. Words are the only things that last for ever.
If, however, the empire of words and general knowledge is more durable95 in proportion as it is abstracted and attenuated96, it is less immediate and dazzling: if authors are as good after they are dead as when they were living, while living they might as well be dead: and moreover with respect to actual ability, to write a book is not the only proof of taste, sense, or spirit, as pedants97 would have us suppose. To do anything well, to paint a picture, to fight a battle, to make a plough or a threshing-machine, requires, one would think, as much skill and judgment as to talk about or write a description of it when done. Words are universal, intelligible98 signs, but they are not the only real, existing things. Did not Julius Caesar show himself as much of a man in conducting his campaigns as in composing his Commentaries? Or was the Retreat of the Ten Thousand under Xenophon, or his work of that name, the most consummate99 performance? Or would not Lovelace, supposing him to have existed and to have conceived and executed all his fine stratagems100 on the spur of the occasion, have been as clever a fellow as Richardson, who invented them in cold blood? If to conceive and describe an heroic character is the height of a literary ambition, we can hardly make it out that to be and to do all that the wit of man can feign101 is nothing. To use means to ends; to set causes in motion; to wield102 the machine of society; to subject the wills of others to your own; to manage abler men than yourself by means of that which is stronger in them than their wisdom, viz. their weakness and their folly103; to calculate the resistance of ignorance and prejudice to your designs, and by obviating104, to turn them to account; to foresee a long, obscure, and complicated train of events, of chances and openings of success; to unwind the web of others’ policy and weave your own out of it; to judge of the effects of things, not in the abstract, but with reference to all their bearings, ramifications105, and impediments; to understand character thoroughly106; to see latent talent or lurking107 treachery; to know mankind for what they are, and use them as they deserve; to have a purpose steadily108 in view, and to effect it after removing every obstacle; to master others and be true to yourself — asks power and knowledge, both nerves and brain.
Such is the sort of talent that that may be shown and that has been possessed109 by the great leaders on the stage of the world. To accomplish great things argues, I imagine, great resolution: to design great things implies no common mind. Ambition is in some sort genius. Though I would rather wear out my life in arguing a broad speculative question than in caballing for the election to a wardmote, or canvassing110 for votes in a rotten borough111, yet I should think that the loftiest Epicurean philosopher might descend112 from his punctilio to identify himself with the support of a great principle, or to prop8 a falling state. This is what the legislators and founders of empire did of old; and the permanence of their institutions showed the depth of the principles from which they emanated113. A tragic114 poem is not the worse for acting115 well: if it will not bear this test it savours of effeminacy. Well-digested schemes will stand the touchstone of experience. Great thoughts reduced to practice become great acts. Again, great acts grow out of great occasions, and great occasions spring from great principles, working changes in society, and tearing it up by the roots. But I still conceive that a genius for actions depends essentially116 on the strength of the will rather than on that of the understanding; that the long-headed calculation of causes and consequences arises from the energy of the first cause, which is the will setting others in motion and prepared to anticipate the results; that its sagacity is activity delighting in meeting difficulties and adventures more than half-way, and its wisdom courage not to shrink from danger, but to redouble its efforts with opposition117. Its humanity, if it has much, is magnanimity to spare the vanquished118, exulting119 in power but not prone120 to mischief121, with good sense enough to be aware of the instability of fortune, and with some regard to reputation. What may serve as a criterion to try this question by is the following consideration, that we sometimes find as remarkable122 a deficiency of the speculative faculty123 coupled with great strength of will and consequent success in active life as we do a want of voluntary power and total incapacity for business frequently joined to the highest mental qualifications. In some cases it will happen that ‘to be wise is to be obstinate124.’ If you are deaf to reason but stick to your own purposes, you will tire others out, and bring them over to your way of thinking. Self-will and blind prejudice are the best defence of actual power and exclusive advantages. The forehead of the late king was not remarkable for the character of intellect, but the lower part of his face was expressive125 of strong passions and fixed126 resolution. Charles Fox had an animated127, intelligent eye, and brilliant, elastic128 forehead (with a nose indicating fine taste), but the lower features were weak, unsettled, fluctuating, and without purchase— it was in them the Whigs were defeated. What a fine iron binding129 Buonaparte had round his face, as if it bad been cased in steel! What sensibility about the mouth! What watchful130 penetration in the eye! What a smooth, unruffled forehead! Mr. Pitt, with little sunken eyes, had a high, retreating forehead, and a nose expressing pride and aspiring131 self-opinion: it was on that (with submission) that he suspended the decisions of the House of Commons and dangled132 the Opposition as he pleased. Lord Castlereagh is a man rather deficient133 than redundant134 in words and topics. He is not (any more than St. Augustine was, in the opinion of La Fontaine) so great a wit as Rabelais, nor is he so great a philosopher as Aristotle; but he has that in him which is not to be trifled with. He has a noble mask of a face (not well filled up in the expression, which is relaxed and dormant) with a fine person and manner. On the strength of these he hazards his speeches in the House. He has also a knowledge of mankind, and of the composition of the House. He takes a thrust which he cannot parry on his shield — is ‘all tranquillity135 and smiles’ under a volley of abuse, sees when to pay a compliment to a wavering antagonist, soothes136 the melting mood of his hearers, or gets up a speech full of indignation, and knows how to bestow137 his attentions on that great public body, whether he wheedles138 or bullies139, so as to bring it to compliance140. With a long reach of undefined purposes (the result of a temper too indolent for thought, too violent for repose) he has equal perseverance141 and pliancy142 in bringing his objects to pass. I would rather be Lord Castlereagh, as far as a sense of power is concerned (principle is out of the question), than such a man as Mr. Canning, who is a mere fluent sophist, and never knows the limit of discretion143, or the effect which will be produced by what he says, except as far as florid common-places may be depended on. Buonaparte is referred by Mr. Coleridge to the class of active rather than of intellectual characters; and Cowley has left an invidious but splendid eulogy144 on Oliver Cromwell, which sets out on much the same principle. ‘What,’ he says, ‘can be more extraordinary than that a person of mean birth, no fortune, no eminent145 qualities of body, which have sometimes, or of mind, which have often, raised men to the highest dignities, should have the courage to attempt, and the happiness to succeed in, so improbable a design as the destruction of one of the most ancient and most solidly-founded monarchies146 upon the earth? That he should have the power or boldness to put his prince and master to an open and infamous147 death; to banish148 that numerous and strongly-allied family; to do all this under the name and wages of a Parliament; to trample149 upon them too as he pleased, and spurn150 them out of doors when he grow weary of them; to raise up a new and unheard-of monster out of their ashes; to stifle151 that in the very infancy152, and set up himself above all things that ever were called sovereign in England; to oppress all his enemies by arms, and all his friends afterwards by artifice153; to serve all parties patiently for a while, and to command them victoriously154 at last; to overrun each corner of the three nations, and overcome with equal facility both the riches of the south and the poverty of the north; to be feared and courted by all foreign princes, and adopted a brother to the Gods of the earth; to call together Parliaments with a word of his pen, and scatter155 them again with the breath of his mouth; to be humbly156 and daily petitioned that he would please to be hired, at the rate of two millions a year, to be the master of those who had hired him before to be their servant; to have the estates and lives of three kingdoms as much at his disposal as was the little inheritance of his father, and to be as noble and liberal in the spending of them; and lastly (for there is no end of all the particulars of his glory), to bequeath all this with one word to his posterity; to die with peace at home, and triumph abroad; to be buried among kings, and with more than regal solemnity; and to leave a name behind him, not to be extinguished but with the whole world; which as it is now too little for his praises, so might have been too for his conquests, if the short line of his human life could have been stretched out to the extent of his immortal designs!’
Cromwell was a bad speaker and a worse writer. Milton wrote his despatches for him in elegant and erudite Latin; and the pen of the one, like the sword of the other, was ‘sharp and sweet.’ We have not that union in modern times of the heroic and literary character which was common among the ancients. Julius Caesar and Xenophon recorded their own acts with equal clearness of style and modesty of temper. The Duke of Wellington (worse off than Cromwell) is obliged to get Mr. Mudford to write the History of his Life. Sophocles, AEschylus, and Socrates were distinguished157 for their military prowess among their contemporaries, though now only remembered for what they did in poetry and philosophy. Cicero and Demosthenes, the two greatest orators158 of antiquity159, appear to have been cowards: nor does Horace seem to give a very favourable160 picture of his martial161 achievements. But in general there was not that division in the labours of the mind and body among the Greeks and Romans that has been introduced among us either by the progress of civilisation162 or by a greater slowness and inaptitude of parts. The French, for instance, appear to unite a number of accomplishments163, the literary character and the man of the world, better than we do. Among us, a scholar is almost another name for a pedant or a clown: it is not so with them. Their philosophers and wits went into the world and mingled164 in the society of the fair. Of this there needs no other proof than the spirited print of most of the great names in French literature, to whom Moliere is reading a comedy in the presence of the celebrated165 Ninon de l’Enclos. D’Alembert, one of the first mathematicians166 of his age, was a wit, a man of gallantry and letters. With us a learned man is absorbed in himself and some particular study, and minds nothing else. There is something ascetic167 and impracticable in his very constitution, and he answers to the description of the Monk168 in Spenser —
From every work he challenged essoin
For contemplation’s sake.
Perhaps the superior importance attached to the institutions of religion, as well as the more abstracted and visionary nature of its objects, has led (as a general result) to a wider separation between thought and action in modern times.
Ambition is of a higher and more heroic strain than avarice. Its objects are nobler, and the means by which it attains169 its ends less mechanical.
Better be lord of them that riches have,
Than riches have myself, and be their servile slave.
The incentive170 to ambition is the love of power; the spur to avarice is either the fear of poverty or a strong desire of self-indulgence. The amassers of fortunes seem divided into two opposite classes — lean, penurious-looking mortals, or jolly fellows who are determined to get possession of, because they want to enjoy, the good things of the wo others, in the fulness of their persons and the robustness171 of their constitutions, seem to bespeak172 the reversion of a landed estate, rich acres, fat beeves, a substantial mansion173, costly174 clothing, a chine and curkey, choice wines, and all other good things consonant175 to the wants and full-fed desires of their bodies. Such men charm fortune by the sleekness176 of their aspects and the goodly rotundity of their honest faces, as the others scare away poverty by their wan11, meagre looks. The last starve themselves into riches by care and carking; the first eat, drink, and sleep their way into the good things of this life. The greatest number of warm men in the city are good, jolly follows. Look at Sir William ———. Callipash and callipee are written in his face: he rolls about his unwieldy bulk in a sea of turtle-soup. How many haunches of venison does he carry on his back! He is larded with jobs and contracts: he is stuffed and swelled177 out with layers of bank-notes and invitations to dinner! His face hangs out a flag of defiance178 to mischance: the roguish twinkle in his eye with which he lures179 half the city and beats Alderman ——— hollow, is a smile reflected from heaps of unsunned gold! Nature and Fortune are not so much at variance180 as to differ about this fellow. To enjoy the good the Gods provide us is to deserve it. Nature meant him for a Knight181, Alderman, and City Member; and Fortune laughed to see the goodly person and prospects182 of the man!33 I am not, from certain early prejudices, much to admire the ostentatious marks of wealth (there are persons enough to admire them without me)— but I confess, there is something in the look of the old banking-houses in Lombard Street, the posterns covered with mud, the doors opening sullenly183 and silently, the absence of all pretence184, the darkness and the gloom within, the gleaming of lamps in the day-time,
Like a faint shadow of uncertain light,
that almost realises the poetical185 conception of the cave of Mammon in Spenser, where dust and cobwebs concealed186 the roofs and pillars of solid gold, and lifts the mind quite off its ordinary hinges. The account of the manner in which the founder67 of Guy’s Hospital accumulated his immense wealth has always to me something romantic in it, from the same force of contrast. He was a little shop-keeper, and out of his savings187 bought Bibles and purchased seamen’s tickets in Queen Anne’s wars, by which he left a fortune of two hundred thousand pounds. The story suggests the idea of a magician; nor is there anything in the Arabian Nights that looks more like a fiction.
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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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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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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26
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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27
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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28
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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29
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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30
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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31
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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32
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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33
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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34
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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35
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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36
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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37
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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38
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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39
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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40
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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41
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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42
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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43
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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44
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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45
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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46
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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47
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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48
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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49
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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50
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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51
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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52
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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53
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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54
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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55
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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56
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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57
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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58
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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59
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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60
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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61
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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62
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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63
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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64
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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65
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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66
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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67
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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68
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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69
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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70
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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71
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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72
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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73
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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74
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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75
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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76
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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77
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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78
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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79
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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80
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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81
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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82
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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83
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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84
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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85
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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86
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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87
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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88
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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89
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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90
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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91
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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92
moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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93
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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94
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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95
durable
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|
| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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96
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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97
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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98
intelligible
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|
| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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99
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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100
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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101
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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102
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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103
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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104
obviating
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的现在分词 ) | |
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105
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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108
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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109
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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110
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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111
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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112
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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113
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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114
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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115
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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116
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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117
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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118
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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119
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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120
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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121
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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122
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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123
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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124
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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125
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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126
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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127
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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128
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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129
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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130
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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131
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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132
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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133
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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134
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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135
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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136
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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137
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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138
wheedles
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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140
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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141
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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142
pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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143
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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144
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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145
eminent
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|
| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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146
monarchies
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| n. 君主政体, 君主国, 君主政治 | |
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147
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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148
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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149
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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150
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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151
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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152
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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153
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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154
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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155
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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156
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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157
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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158
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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159
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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160
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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161
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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163
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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164
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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165
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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166
mathematicians
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| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
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167
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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168
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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169
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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170
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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171
robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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172
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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173
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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174
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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175
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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176
sleekness
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| 油滑； 油光发亮； 时髦阔气； 线条明快 | |
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177
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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178
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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179
lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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180
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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181
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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182
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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183
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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184
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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185
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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186
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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187
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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