Petrarch complains that ‘Nature had made him different from other people’—singular’ d’ altri genti. The great happiness of life is, to be neither better nor worse than the general run of those you meet with, you soon find a mortifying4 level in their difference to what you particularly pique5 yourself upon. What is the use of being moral in a night-cellar, or wise in Bedlam6? ‘To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.’ So says Shakespear; and the commentators7 have not added that, under these circumstances, a man is more likely to become the butt8 of slander9 than the mark of admiration10 for being so. ‘How now, thou particular fellow?’83 is the common answer to all such out-of-the-way pretensions11. By not doing as those at Rome do, we cut ourselves off from good-fellowship and society. We speak another language, have notions of our own, and are treated as of a different species. Nothing can be more awkward than to intrude13 with any such far-fetched ideas among the common herd14, who will be sure to
Stand all astonished, like a sort of steers15,
‘Mongst whom some beast of strange and foreign race
Unwares is chanced, far straying from his peers:
So will their ghastly gaze betray their hidden fears.
Ignorance of another’s meaning is a sufficient cause of fear, and fear produces hatred16: hence the suspicion and rancour entertained against all those who set up for greater refinement17 and wisdom than their neighbours. It is in vain to think of softening18 down this spirit of hostility19 by simplicity20 of manners, or by condescending21 to persons of low estate. The more you condescend22, the more they will presume upon it; they will fear you less, but hate you more; and will be the more determined24 to take their revenge on you for a superiority as to which they are entirely25 in the dark, and of which you yourself seem to entertain considerable doubt. All the humility26 in the world will only pass for weakness and folly27. They have no notion of such a thing. They always put their best foot forward; and argue that you would do the same if you had any such wonderful talents as people say. You had better, therefore, play off the great man at once — hector, swagger, talk big, and ride the high horse over them: you may by this means extort28 outward respect or common civility; but you will get nothing (with low people) by forbearance and good-nature but open insult or silent contempt. Coleridge always talks to people about what they don’t understand: I, for one, endeavour to talk to them about what they do understand, and find I only get the more ill-will by it. They conceive I do not think them capable of anything better; that I do not think it worth while, as the vulgar saying is, to throw a word to a dog. I once complained of this to Coleridge, thinking it hard I should be sent to Coventry for not making a prodigious30 display. He said: ‘As you assume a certain character, you ought to produce your credentials31. It is a tax upon people’s good-nature to admit superiority of any kind, even where there is the most evident proof of it; but it is too hard a task for the imagination to admit it without any apparent ground at all.’
There is not a greater error than to suppose that you avoid the envy, malice32, and uncharitableness, so common in the world, by going among people without pretensions. There are no people who have no pretensions; or the fewer their pretensions, the less they can afford to acknowledge yours without some sort of value received. The more information individuals possess, or the more they have refined upon any subject, the more readily can they conceive and admit the same kind of superiority to themselves that they feel over others. But from the low, dull, level sink of ignorance and vulgarity, no idea or love of excellence33 can arise. You think you are doing mighty34 well with them; that you are laying aside the buckram of pedantry35 and pretence36, and getting the character of a plain, unassuming, good sort of fellow. It will not do. All the while that you are making these familiar advances, and wanting to be at your ease, they are trying to recover the wind of you. You may forget that you are an author, an artist, or what not — they do not forget that they are nothing, nor bate37 one jot38 of their desire to prove you in the same predicament. They take hold of some circumstance in your dress; your manner of entering a room is different from that of other people; you do not eat vegetables — that’s odd; you have a particular phrase, which they repeat, and this becomes a sort of standing39 joke; you look grave, or ill; you talk, or are more silent than usual; you are in or out of pocket: all these petty, inconsiderable circumstances, in which you resemble, or are unlike other people, form so many counts in the indictment40 which is going on in their imaginations against you, and are so many contradictions in your character. In any one else they would pass unnoticed, but in a person of whom they had heard so much they cannot make them out at all. Meanwhile, those things in which you may really excel go for nothing, because they cannot judge of them. They speak highly of some book which you do not like, and therefore you make no answer. You recommend them to go and see some Picture in which they do not find much to admire. How are you to convince them that you are right? Can you make them perceive that the fault is in them, and not in the picture, unless you could give them your knowledge? They hardly distinguish the difference between a Correggio and a common daub. Does this bring you any nearer to an understanding? The more you know of the difference, the more deeply you feel it, or the more earnestly you wish to convey it, the farther do you find yourself removed to an immeasurable distance from the possibility of making them enter into views and feelings of which they have not even the first rudiments41. You cannot make them see with your eyes, and they must judge for themselves.
Intellectual is not like bodily strength. You have no hold of the understanding of others but by their sympathy. Your knowing, in fact, so much more about a subject does not give you a superiority, that is, a power over them, but only renders it the more impossible for you to make the least impression on them. Is it, then, an advantage to you? It may be, as it relates to your own private satisfaction, but it places a greater gulf43 between you and society. It throws stumbling-blocks in your way at every turn. All that you take most pride and pleasure in is lost upon the vulgar eye. What they are pleased with is a matter of indifference44 or of distaste to you. In seeing a number of persons turn over a portfolio45 of prints from different masters, what a trial it is to the patience, how it jars the nerves to hear them fall into raptures46 at some common-place flimsy thing, and pass over some divine expression of countenance47 without notice, or with a remark that it is very singular-looking? How useless it is in such cases to fret48 or argue, or remonstrate49? Is it not quite as well to be without all this hypercritical, fastidious knowledge, and to be pleased or displeased50 as it happens, or struck with the first fault or beauty that is pointed51 out by others? I would be glad almost to change my acquaintance with pictures, with books, and, certainly, what I know of mankind, for anybody’s ignorance of them!
It is recorded in the life of some worthy52 (whose name I forget) that he was one of those ‘who loved hospitality and respect’: and I profess53 to belong to the same classification of mankind. Civility is with me a jewel. I like a little comfortable cheer, and careless, indolent chat, I hate to be always wise, or aiming at wisdom. I have enough to do with literary cabals54, questions, critics, actors, essay-writing, without taking them out with me for recreation, and into all companies. I wish at these times to pass for a good-humoured fellow; and good-will is all I ask in return to make good company. I do not desire to be always posing myself or others with the questions of fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute, etc. I must unbend sometimes. I must occasionally lie fallow. The kind of conversation that I affect most is what sort of a day it is, and whether it is likely to rain or hold up fine for tomorrow. This I consider as enjoying the otium cum dignitate, as the end and privilege of a life of study. I would resign myself to this state of easy indifference, but I find I cannot. I must maintain a certain pretension12, which is far enough from my wish. I must he put on my defence, I must take up the gauntlet continually, or I find I lose ground. ‘I am nothing, if not critical.’ While I am thinking what o’clock it is, or how I came to blunder in quoting a well-known passage, as if I had done it on purpose, others are thinking whether I am not really as dull a fellow as I am sometimes said to be. If a drizzling55 shower patters against the windows, it puts me in mind of a mild spring rain, from which I retired56 twenty years ago, into a little public-house near Wem in Shropshire, and while I saw the plants and shrubs57 before the door imbibe58 the dewy moisture, quaffed59 a glass of sparkling ale, and walked home in the dusk of evening, brighter to me than noonday suns at present are! Would I indulge this feeling? In vain. They ask me what news there is, and stare if I say I don’t know. If a new actress has come out, why must I have seen her? If a new novel has appeared, why must I have read it? I, at one time, used to go and take a hand at cribbage with a friend, and afterwards discuss a cold sirloin of beef, and throw out a few lackadaisical60 remarks, in a way to please myself, but it would not do long. I set up little pretension, and therefore the little that I did set up was taken from me. As I said nothing on that subject myself, it was continually thrown in my teeth that I was an author. From having me at this disadvantage, my friend wanted to peg61 on a hole or two in the game, and was displeased if I would not let him. If I won off him, it was hard he should be beat by an author. If he won, it would be strange if he did not understand the game better than I did. If I mentioned my favourite game of rackets, there was a general silence, as if this was my weak point. If I complained of being ill, it was asked why I made myself so. If I said such an actor had played a part well, the answer was, there was a different account in one of the newspapers. If any allusion62 was made to men of letters, there was a suppressed smile. If I told a humorous story, it was difficult to say whether the laugh was at me or at the narrative63. The wife hated me for my ugly face; the servants, because I could not always get them tickets for the play, and because they could not tell exactly what an author meant. If a paragraph appeared against anything I had written, I found it was ready there before me, and I was to undergo a regular roasting. I submitted to all this till I was tired, and then I gave it up.
One of the miseries64 of intellectual pretensions is, that nine-tenths of those you come in contact with do not know whether you are an impostor or not. I dread65 that certain anonymous66 criticisms should get into the hands of servants where I go, or that my hatter or shoemaker should happen to read them, who cannot possibly tell whether they are well or ill founded. The ignorance of the world leaves one at the mercy of its malice. There are people whose good opinion or good-will you want, setting aside all literary pretensions; and it is hard to lose by an ill report (which you have no means of rectifying) what you cannot gain by a good one. After a diatribe67 in the Quarterly (which is taken in by a gentleman who occupies my old apartments on the first floor), my landlord brings me up his bill (of some standing), and on my offering to give him so much in money and a note of hand for the rest, shakes his head, and says he is afraid he could make no use of it. Soon after, the daughter comes in, and, on my mentioning the circumstance carelessly to her, replies gravely, ‘that indeed her father has been almost ruined by bills.’ This is the unkindest cut of all. It is in vain for me to endeavour to explain that the publication in which I am abused is a mere68 government engine — an organ of a political faction42. They know nothing about that. They only know such and such imputations are thrown out; and the more I try to remove them, the more they think there is some truth in them. Perhaps the people of the house are strong Tories — government agents of some sort. Is it for me to enlighten their ignorance? If I say, I once wrote a thing called Prince Maurice’s Parrot, and an Essay on the Regal Character, in the former of which allusion is made to a noble marquis, and in the latter to a great personage (so at least, I am told, it has been construed), and that Mr. Croker has peremptory69 instructions to retaliate70, they cannot conceive what connection there can be between me and such distinguished71 characters. I can get no farther. Such is the misery72 of pretensions beyond your situation, and which are not backed by any external symbols of wealth or rank, intelligible73 to all mankind!
The impertinence of admiration is scarcely more tolerable than the demonstrations74 of contempt. I have known a person whom I had never seen before besiege75 me all dinner-time with asking what articles I had written in the Edinburgh Review? I was at last ashamed to answer to my splendid sins in that way. Others will pick out something not yours, and say they are sure no one else could write it. By the first sentence they can always tell your style. Now I hate my style to be known, as I hate all idiosyncrasy. These obsequious76 flatterers could not pay me a worse compliment. Then there are those who make a point of reading everything you write (which is fulsome); while others, more provoking, regularly lend your works to a friend as soon as they receive them. They pretty well know your notions on the different subjects, from having heard you talk about them. Besides, they have a greater value for your personal character than they have for your writings. You explain things better in a common way, when you are not aiming at effect. Others tell you of the faults they have heard found with your last book, and that they defend your style in general from a charge of obscurity. A friend once told me of a quarrel he had had with a near relation, who denied that I knew how to spell the commonest words. These are comfortable confidential77 communications to which authors who have their friends and excusers are subject. A gentleman told me that a lady had objected to my use of the word learneder as bad grammar. He said he thought it a pity that I did not take more care, but that the lady was perhaps prejudiced, as her husband held a government office. I looked for the word, and found it in a motto from Butler. I was piqued78, and desired him to tell the fair critic that the fault was not in me, but in one who had far more wit, more learning, and loyalty79 than I could pretend to. Then, again, some will pick out the flattest thing of yours they can find to load it with panegyrics80; and others tell you (by way of letting you see how high they rank your capacity) that your best passages are failures. Lamb has a knack81 of tasting (or as he would say, palating) the insipid82. Leigh Hunt has a trick of turning away from the relishing83 morsels84 you put on his plate. There is no getting the start of some people. Do what you will, they can do it better; meet with what success you may, their own good opinion stands them in better stead, and runs before the applause of the world. I once showed a person of this overweening turn (with no small triumph, I confess) a letter of a very flattering description I had received from the celebrated85 Count Stendhal, dated Rome. He returned it with a smile of indifference, and said, he had had a letter from Rome himself the day before, from his friend S——! I did not think this ‘germane to the matter.’ Godwin pretends I never wrote anything worth a farthing but my ‘Answers to Vetus,’ and that I fail altogether when I attempt to write an essay, or anything in a short compass.
What can one do in such cases? Shall I confess a weakness? The only set-off I know to these rebuffs and mortifications is sometimes in an accidental notice or involuntary mark of distinction from a stranger. I feel the force of Horace’s digito monstrari— I like to be pointed out in the street, or to hear people ask in Mr. Powell’s court, Which is Mr. Hazlitt? This is to me a pleasing extension of one’s personal identity. Your name so repeated leaves an echo like music on the ear: it stirs the blood like the sound of a trumpet86. It shows that other people are curious to see you; that they think of you, and feel an interest in you without your knowing it. This is a bolster87 to lean upon; a lining88 to your poor, shivering, threadbare opinion of yourself. You want some such cordial to exhausted89 spirits, and relief to the dreariness90 of abstract speculation91. You are something; and, from occupying a place in the thoughts of others, think less contemptuously of yourself. You are the better able to run the gauntlet of prejudice and vulgar abuse. It is pleasant in this way to have your opinion quoted against yourself, and your own sayings repeated to you as good things. I was once talking to an intelligent man in the pit, and criticising Mr. Knight’s performance of Filch92. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘little Simmons was the fellow to play that character.’ He added, ‘There was a most excellent remark made upon his acting93 it in the Examiner (I think it was)—That he looked as if he had the gallows94 in one eye and a pretty girl in the other.’ I said nothing, but was in remarkably95 good humour the rest of the evening. I have seldom been in a company where fives-playing has been talked of but some one has asked in the course of it, ‘Pray, did any one ever see an account of one Cavanagh that appeared some time back in most of the papers? Is it known who wrote it?’ These are trying moments. I had a triumph over a person, whose name I will not mention, on the following occasion. I happened to be saying something about Burke, and was expressing my opinion of his talents in no measured terms, when this gentleman interrupted me by saying he thought, for his part, that Burke had been greatly overrated, and then added, in a careless way, ‘Pray, did you read a character of him in the last number of the ———?’ ‘I wrote it!’— I could not resist the antithesis96, but was afterwards ashamed of my momentary97 petulance98. Yet no one that I find ever spares me.
Some persons seek out and obtrude99 themselves on public characters in order, as it might seem, to pick out their failings, and afterwards betray them. Appearances are for it, but truth and a better knowledge of nature are against this interpretation100 of the matter. Sycophants101 and flatterers are undesignedly treacherous102 and fickle103. They are prone104 to admire inordinately105 at first, and not finding a constant supply of food for this kind of sickly appetite, take a distaste to the object of their idolatry. To be even with themselves for their credulity, they sharpen their wits to spy out faults, and are delighted to find that this answers better than their first employment. It is a course of study, ‘lively, audible, and full of vent29.’ They have the organ of wonder and the organ of fear in a prominent degree. The first requires new objects of admiration to satisfy its uneasy cravings: the second makes them crouch106 to power wherever its shifting standard appears, and willing to curry107 favour with all parties, and ready to betray any out of sheer weakness and servility. I do not think they mean any harm: at least, I can look at this obliquity108 with indifference in my own particular case. I have been more disposed to resent it as I have seen it practised upon others, where I have been better able to judge of the extent of the mischief109, and the heartlessness and idiot folly it discovered.
I do not think great intellectual attainments110 are any recommendation to the women. They puzzle them, and are a diversion to the main question. If scholars talk to ladies of what they understand, their hearers are none the wiser: if they talk of other things, they prove themselves fools. The conversation between Angelica and Foresight111 in Love for Love is a receipt in full for all such overstrained nonsense: while he is wandering among the signs of the zodiac, she is standing a-tiptoe on the earth. It has been remarked that poets do not choose mistresses very wisely. I believe it is not choice, but necessity. If they could throw the handkerchief like the Grand Turk, I imagine we should see scarce mortals, but rather goddesses, surrounding their steps, and each exclaiming, with Lord Byron’s own Ionian maid —
So shalt thou find me ever at thy side,
Here and hereafter, if the last may be!
Ah! no, these are bespoke112, carried of by men of mortal, not of ethereal mould, and thenceforth the poet from whose mind the ideas of love and beauty are inseparable as dreams from sleep, goes on the forlorn hope of the passion, and dresses up the first Dulcinea that will take compassion113 on him in all the colours of fancy. What boots it to complain if the delusion114 lasts for life, and the rainbow still paints its form in the cloud?
There is one mistake I would wish, if possible, to correct. Men of letters, artists, and others not succeeding with women in a certain rank of life, think the objection is to their want of fortune, and that they shall stand a better chance by descending23 lower, where only their good qualities or talents will be thought of. Oh! worse and worse. The objection is to themselves, not to their fortune — to their abstraction, to their absence of mind, to their unintelligible115 and romantic notions. Women of education may have a glimpse of their meaning, may get a clue to their character, but to all others they are thick darkness. If the mistress smiles at their ideal advances, the maid will laugh outright116; she will throw water over you, get her sister to listen, send her sweetheart to ask you what you mean, will set the village or the house upon your back; it will be a farce117, a comedy, a standing jest for a year, and then the murder will out. Scholars should be sworn at Highgate. They are no match for chambermaids, or wenches at lodging-houses. They had better try their hands on heiresses or ladies of quality. These last have high notions of themselves that may fit some of your epithets118! They are above mortality; so are your thoughts! But with low life, trick, ignorance, and cunning, you have nothing in common. Whoever you are, that think you can make a compromise or a conquest there by good nature or good sense, be warned b a friendly voice, and retreat in time from the unequal contest.
If, as I have said above, scholars are no match for chambermaids, on the other hand gentlemen are no match for blackguards. The former are on their honour, act on the square; the latter take all advantages, and have no idea of any other principle. It is astonishing how soon a fellow without education will learn to cheat. He is impervious119 to any ray of liberal knowledge; his understanding is
Not pierceable by power of any star —
but it is porous120 to all sorts of tricks, chicanery121, stratagems122, and knavery123, by which anything is to be got. Mrs. Peachum, indeed, says, that to succeed at the gaming-table, the candidate should have the education of a nobleman. I do not know how far this example contradicts my theory. I think it is a rule that men in business should not be taught other things. Any one will be almost sure to make money who has no other idea in his head. A college education, or intense study of abstract truth, will not enable a man to drive a bargain, to overreach another, or even to guard himself from being overreached. As Shakespear says, that ‘to have a good face is the effect of study, but reading and writing come by nature’; so it might be argued, that to be a knave124 is the gift of fortune, but to play the fool to advantage it is necessary to be a learned man. The best politicians are not those who are deeply grounded in mathematical or in ethical125 science. Rules stand in the way of expediency126. Many a man has been hindered from pushing his fortune in the world by an early cultivation127 of his moral sense, and has repented128 of it at leisure during the rest of his life. A shrewd man said of my father, that he would not send a son of his to school to him on any account, for that by teaching him to speak the truth he would disqualify him from getting his living in the world!
It is hardly necessary to add any illustration to prove that the most original and profound thinkers are not always the most successful or popular writers. This is not merely a temporary disadvantage; but many great philosophers have not only been scouted129 while they were living, but forgotten as soon as they were dead. The name of Hobbes is perhaps sufficient to explain this assertion. But I do not wish to go farther into this part of the subject, which is obvious in itself. I have said, I believe, enough to take off the air of paradox2 which hangs over the title of this Essay.
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1
paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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36
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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37
bate
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| v.压制；减弱；n.（制革用的）软化剂 | |
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38
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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39
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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40
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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41
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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42
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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43
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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44
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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45
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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46
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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49
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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50
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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54
cabals
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| n.（政治）阴谋小集团，（尤指政治上的）阴谋( cabal的名词复数 ) | |
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55
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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56
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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57
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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58
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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59
quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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60
lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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61
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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62
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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63
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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64
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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65
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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67
diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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70
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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71
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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72
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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73
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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74
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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75
besiege
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| vt.包围，围攻，拥在...周围 | |
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76
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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77
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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78
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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79
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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80
panegyrics
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| n.赞美( panegyric的名词复数 )；称颂；颂词；颂扬的演讲或文章 | |
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81
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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82
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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83
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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84
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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85
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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86
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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87
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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88
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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89
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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90
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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91
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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92
filch
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| v.偷窃 | |
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93
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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94
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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95
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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96
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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97
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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98
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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99
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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100
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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101
sycophants
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| n.谄媚者，拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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102
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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103
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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104
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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105
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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106
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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107
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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108
obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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109
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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110
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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111
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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112
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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113
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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114
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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115
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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116
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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117
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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118
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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119
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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120
porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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121
chicanery
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| n.欺诈，欺骗 | |
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122
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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123
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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124
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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125
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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126
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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127
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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128
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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