In my education, as in that of everyone, the moral influences, which are so much more important than all others, are also the most complicated, and the most difficult to specify1 with any approach to completeness. Without attempting the hopeless task of detailing the circumstances by which, in this respect, my early character may have been shaped, I shall confine myself to a few leading points, which form an indispensable part of any true account of my education.
I was brought up from the first without any religious belief, in the ordinary acceptation of the term. My father, educated in the creed2 of Scotch3 presbyterianism, had by his own studies and reflections been early led to reject not only the belief in revelation, but the foundations of what is commonly called Natural Religion. I have heard him say, that the turning point of his mind on the subject was reading Butler's Analogy. That work, of which he always continued to speak with respect, kept him, as he said, for some considerable time, a believer in the divine authority of Christianity; by proving to him, that whatever are the difficulties in believing that the Old and New Testaments5 proceed from, or record the acts of, a perfectly6 wise and good being, the same and still greater difficulties stand in the way of the belief, that a being of such a character can have been the Maker7 of the universe. He considered Butler's argument as conclusive8 against the only opponents for whom it was intended. Those who admit an omnipotent9 as well as perfectly just and benevolent10 maker and ruler of such a world as this, can say little against Christianity but what can, with at least equal force, be retorted against themselves. Finding, therefore, no halting place in Deism, he remained in a state of perplexity, until, doubtless after many struggles, he yielded to the conviction, that, concerning the origin of things nothing whatever can be known. This is the only correct statement of his opinion; for dogmatic atheism11 he looked upon as absurd; as most of those, whom the world has considered Atheists, have always done. These particulars are important, because they show that my father's rejection12 of all that is called religious belief, was not, as many might suppose, primarily a matter of logic13 and evidence: the grounds of it were moral, still more than intellectual. He found it impossible to believe that a world so full of evil was the work of an Author combining infinite power with perfect goodness and righteousness. His intellect spurned14 the subtleties15 by which men attempt to blind themselves to this open contradiction. The Sabaean, or Manichaean theory of a Good and Evil Principle, struggling against each other for the government of the universe, he would not have equally condemned16; and I have heard him express surprise, that no one revived it in our time. He would have regarded it as a mere17 hypothesis; but he would have ascribed to it no depraving influence. As it was, his aversion to religion, in the sense usually attached to the term, was of the same kind with that of Lucretius: he regarded it with the feelings due not to a mere mental delusion18, but to a great moral evil. He looked upon it as the greatest enemy of morality: first, by setting up factitious excellencies, — belief in creeds19, devotional feelings, and ceremonies, not connected with the good of human kind, — and causing these to be accepted as substitutes for genuine virtues20: but above all, by radically22 vitiating the standard of morals; making it consist in doing the will of a being, on whom it lavishes23 indeed all the phrases of adulation, but whom in sober truth it depicts24 as eminently25 hateful. I have a hundred times heard him say, that all ages and nations have represented their gods as wicked, in a constantly increasing progression, that mankind have gone on adding trait after trait till they reached the most perfect conception of wickedness which the human mind can devise, and have called this God, and prostrated27 themselves before it. This ne plus ultra of wickedness he considered to be embodied28 in what is commonly presented to mankind as the creed of Christianity. Think (he used to say) of a being who would make a Hell — who would create the human race with the infallible foreknowledge, and therefore with the intention, that the great majority of them were to be consigned29 to horrible and everlasting30 torment31. The time, I believe, is drawing near when this dreadful conception of an object of worship will be no longer identified with Christianity; and when all persons, with any sense of moral good and evil, will look upon it with the same indignation with which my father regarded it. My father was as well aware as anyone that Christians32 do not, in general, undergo the demoralizing consequences which seem inherent in such a creed, in the manner or to the extent which might have been expected from it. The same slovenliness33 of thought, and subjection of the reason to fears, wishes, and affections, which enable them to accept a theory involving a contradiction in terms, prevents them from perceiving the logical consequences of the theory. Such is the facility with which mankind believe at one and the same time things inconsistent with one another, and so few are those who draw from what they receive as truths, any consequences but those recommended to them by their feelings, that multitudes have held the undoubting belief in an Omnipotent Author of Hell, and have nevertheless identified that being with the best conception they were able to form of perfect goodness. Their worship was not paid to the demon34 which such a being as they imagined would really be, but to their own idea of excellence35. The evil is, that such a belief keeps the ideal wretchedly low; and opposes the most obstinate36 resistance to all thought which has a tendency to raise it higher. Believers shrink from every train of ideas which would lead the mind to a clear conception and an elevated standard of excellence, because they feel (even when they do not distinctly see) that such a standard would conflict with many of the dispensations of nature, and with much of what they are accustomed to consider as the Christian4 creed. And thus morality continues a matter of blind tradition, with no consistent principle, nor even any consistent feeling, to guide it.
It would have been wholly inconsistent with my father's ideas of duty, to allow me to acquire impressions contrary to his convictions and feelings respecting religion: and he impressed upon me from the first, that the manner in which the world came into existence was a subject on which nothing was known: that the question, "Who made me?" cannot be answered, because we have no experience or authentic37 information from which to answer it; and that any answer only throws the difficulty a step further back, since the question immediately presents itself, Who made God? He, at the same time, took care that I should be acquainted with what had been thought by mankind on these impenetrable problems. I have mentioned at how early an age he made me a reader of ecclesiastical history; and he taught me to take the strongest interest in the Reformation, as the great and decisive contest against priestly tyranny for liberty of thought.
I am thus one of the very few examples, in this country, of one who has, not thrown off religious belief, but never had it: I grew up in a negative state with regard to it. I looked upon the modern exactly as I did upon the ancient religion, as something which in no way concerned me. It did not seem to me more strange that English people should believe what I did not, than that the men I read of in Herodotus should have done so. History had made the variety of opinions among mankind a fact familiar to me, and this was but a prolongation of that fact. This point in my early education had, however, incidentally One bad consequence deserving notice. In giving me an opinion contrary to that of the world, my father thought it necessary to give it as one which could not prudently38 be avowed39 to the world. This lesson of keeping my thoughts to myself, at that early age, was attended with some moral disadvantages; though my limited intercourse40 with strangers, especially such as were likely to speak to me on religion, prevented me from being placed in the alternative of avowal41 or hypocrisy42. I remember two occasions in my boyhood, on which I felt myself in this alternative, and in both cases I avowed my disbelief and defended it. My opponents were boys, considerably43 older than myself: one of them I certainly staggered at the time, but the subject was never renewed between us: the other who was surprised, and somewhat shocked, did his best to convince me for some time, without effect.
The great advance in liberty of discussion, which is one of the most important differences between the present time and that of my childhood, has greatly altered the moralities of this question; and I think that few men of my father's intellect and public spirit, holding with such intensity44 of moral conviction as he did, unpopular opinions on religion, or on any other of the great subjects of thought, would now either practise or inculcate the withholding45 of them from the world, unless in the cases, becoming fewer every day, in which frankness on these subjects would either risk the loss of means of subsistence, or would amount to exclusion46 from some sphere of usefulness peculiarly suitable to the capacities of the individual. On religion in particular the time appears to me to have come, when it is the duty of all who being qualified47 in point of knowledge, have on mature consideration satisfied themselves that the current opinions are not only false but hurtful, to make their dissent48 known; at least, if they are among those whose station or reputation, gives their opinion a chance of being attended to. Such an avowal would put an end, at once and for ever, to the vulgar prejudice, that what is called, very improperly49, unbelief, is connected with any bad qualities either of mind or heart. The world would be astonished if it knew how great a proportion of its brightest ornaments50 — of those most distinguished51 even in popular estimation for wisdom and virtue21 — are complete sceptics in religion; many of them refraining from avowal, less from personal considerations, than from a conscientious52, though now in my opinion a most mistaken apprehension53, lest by speaking out what would tend to weaken existing beliefs, and by consequence (as they suppose) existing restraints, they should do harm instead of good.
Of unbelievers (so called) as well as of believers, there are many species, including almost every variety of moral type. But the best among them, as no one who has had opportunities of really knowing them will hesitate to affirm (believers rarely have that opportunity), are more genuinely religious, in the best sense of the word religion, than those who exclusively arrogate54 to themselves the title. The liberality of the age, or in other words the weakening of the obstinate prejudice which makes men unable to see what is before their eyes because it is contrary to their expectations, has caused it to be very commonly admitted that a Deist may be truly religious: but if religion stands for any graces of character and not for mere dogma, the assertion may equally be made of many whose belief is far short of Deism. Though they may think the proof incomplete that the universe is a work of design, and though they assuredly disbelieve that it can have an Author and Governor who is absolute in power as well as perfect in goodness, they have that which constitutes the principal worth of all religions whatever, an ideal conception of a Perfect Being, to which they habitually55 refer as the guide of their conscience; and this ideal of Good is usually far nearer to perfection than the objective Deity57 of those, who think themselves obliged to find absolute goodness in the author of a world so crowded with suffering and so deformed58 by injustice59 as ours.
My father's moral convictions, wholly dissevered from religion, were very much of the character of those of the Greek Philosophers; and were delivered with the force and decision which characterized all that came from him. Even at the very early age at which I read with him the Memorabilia of Xenophon, I imbibed60 from that work and from his comments a deep respect for the character of Socrates; who stood in my mind as a model of ideal excellence: and I well remember how my father at that time impressed upon me the lesson of the "Choice of Hercules." At a somewhat later period the lofty moral standard exhibited in the writings of Plato operated upon me with great force. My father's moral inculcations were at all times mainly those of the "Socratici viri;" justice, temperance (to which he gave a very extended application), veracity61, perseverance62, readiness to encounter pain and especially labour; regard for the public good; estimation of persons according to their merits, and of things according to their intrinsic usefulness; a life of exertion63 in contradiction to one of self-indulgent sloth64. These and other moralities he conveyed in brief sentences, uttered as occasion arose, of grave exhortation65, or stern reprobation66 and contempt.
But though direct moral teaching does much, indirect does more; and the effect my father produced on my character, did not depend solely67 on what he said or did with that direct object, but also, and still more, on what manner of man he was.
In his views of life he partook of the character of the Stoic68, the Epicurean, and the Cynic, not in the modern but the ancient sense of the word. In his personal qualities the Stoic predominated. His standard of morals was Epicurean, inasmuch as it was utilitarian69, taking as the exclusive test of right and wrong, the tendency of actions to produce pleasure or pain. But he had (and this was the Cynic element) scarcely any belief in pleasure; at least in his later years, of which alone, on this point, I can speak confidently. He was not insensible to pleasures; but he deemed very few of them worth the price which, at least in the present state of society, must be paid for them. The greater number of miscarriages70 in life, he considered to be attributable to the overvaluing of pleasures. Accordingly, temperance, in the large sense intended by the Greek philosophers — stopping short at the point of moderation in all indulgences — was with him, as with them, almost the central point of educational precept71. His inculcations of this virtue fill a large place in my childish remembrances. He thought human life a poor thing at best, after the freshness of youth and of unsatisfied curiosity had gone by. This was a topic on which he did not often speak, especially, it may be supposed, in the presence of young persons: but when he did, it was with an air of settled and profound conviction. He would sometimes say, that if life were made what it might be, by good government and good education, it would be worth having: but he never spoke72 with anything like enthusiasm even of that possibility. He never varied73 in rating intellectual enjoyments74 above all others, even in value as pleasures, independently of their ulterior benefits. The pleasures of the benevolent affections he placed high in the scale; and used to say, that he had never known a happy old man, except those who were able to live over again in the pleasures of the young. For passionate75 emotions of all sorts, and for everything which has been said or written in exaltation of them, he professed76 the greatest contempt. He regarded them as a form of madness. "The intense" was with him a bye-word of scornful disapprobation. He regarded as an aberration77 of the moral standard of modern times, compared with that of the ancients, the great stress laid upon feeling. Feelings, as such, he considered to be no proper subjects of praise or blame. Right and wrong, good and bad, he regarded as qualities solely of conduct-of acts and omissions79; there being no feeling which may not lead, and does not frequently lead, either to good or to bad actions: conscience itself, the very desire to act right, often leading people to act wrong. Consistently carrying out the doctrine80, that the object of praise and blame should be the discouragement of wrong conduct and the encouragement of right, he refused to let his praise or blame be influenced by the motive81 of the agent. He blamed as severely82 what he thought a bad action, when the motive was a feeling of duty, as if the agents had been consciously evil doers. He would not have accepted as a plea in mitigation for inquisitors, that they sincerely believed burning heretics to be an obligation of conscience. But though he did not allow honesty of purpose to soften83 his disapprobation of actions, it had its full effect on his estimation of characters. No one prized conscientiousness84 and rectitude of intention more highly, or was more incapable85 of valuing any person in whom he did not feel assurance of it. But he disliked people quite as much for any other deficiency, provided he thought it equally likely to make them act ill. He disliked, for instance, a fanatic86 in any bad cause, as much or more than one who adopted the same cause from self-interest, because he thought him even more likely to be practically mischievous87. And thus, his aversion to many intellectual errors, or what he regarded as such, partook, in a certain sense, of the character of a moral feeling. All this is merely saying that he, in a degree once common, but now very unusual, threw his feelings into his opinions; which truly it is difficult to understand how any one who possesses much of both, can fail to do. None but those who do not care about opinions, will confound it with intolerance. Those, who having opinions which they hold to be immensely important, and their contraries to be prodigiously89 hurtful, have any deep regard for the general good, will necessarily dislike, as a class and in the abstract, those who think wrong what they think right, and right what they think wrong: though they need not therefor.e be, nor was my father, insensible to good qualities in an opponent, nor governed in their estimation of individuals by one general presumption90, instead of by the whole of their character. I grant that an earnest person, being no more infallible than other men, is liable to dislike people on account of opinions which do not merit dislike; but if he neither himself does them any ill office, nor connives91 at its being done by others, he is not intolerant: and the forbearance which flows from a conscientious sense of the importance to mankind of the equal Freedom of all opinions, is the only tolerance88 which is commendable92, or, to the highest moral order of minds, possible.
It will be admitted, that a man of the opinions, and the character, above described, was likely to leave a strong moral impression on any mind principally formed by him, and that his moral teaching was not likely to err78 on the side of laxity or indulgence. The element which was chiefly deficient93 in his moral relation to his children was that of tenderness. I do not believe that this deficiency lay in his own nature. I believe him to have had much more feeling than he habitually showed, and much greater capacities of feeling than were ever developed. He resembled most Englishmen in being ashamed of the signs of feeling, and by the absence of demonstration94, starving the feelings themselves. If we consider further that he was in the trying position of sole teacher, and add to this that his temper was constitutionally irritable95, it is impossible not to feel true pity for a father who did, and strove to do, so much for his children, who would have so valued their affection, yet who must have been constantly feeling that fear of him was drying it up at its source. This was no longer the case later in life, and with his younger children. They loved him tenderly. and if I cannot say so much of myself, I was always loyally devoted96 to him. As regards my own education, I hesitate to pronounce whether I was more a loser or gainer by his severity it was not such as to prevent me from having a happy childhood. And I do not believe that boys can be induced to apply themselves with vigour97, and what is so much more difficult, perseverance, to dry and irksome studies, by the sole force of persuasion98 and soft words. Much must be done, and much must be learnt, by children, for which rigid99 discipline, and known liability to punishment, are indispensable as means. It is, no doubt, a very laudable effort, in modern teaching, to render as much as possible of what the young are required to learn, easy and interesting to them. But when this principle is pushed to the length of not requiring them to learn anything but what has been made easy and interesting, one of the chief objects of education is sacrificed. I rejoice in the decline of the old brutal100 and tyrannical system of teaching, which, however, did succeed in enforcing habits of application; but the new, as it seems to me, is training up a race of men who will be incapable of doing anything which is disagreeable to them. I do not, then, believe that fear, as an element in education, can be dispensed101 with; but I am sure that it ought not to be the main element; and when it predominates so much as to preclude102 love and confidence on the part of the child to those who should be the unreservedly trusted advisers103 of after years, and perhaps to seal up the fountains of frank and spontaneous communicativeness in the child's nature, it is an evil for which a large abatement104 must be made from the benefits, moral and intellectual, which may flow from any other part of the education.
During this first period of my life, the habitual56 frequenters of my father's house were limited to a very few persons, most of them little known to the world, but whom personal worth, and more or less of congeniality with at least his political opinions (not so frequently to be met with then as since) inclined him to cultivate; and his conversations with them I listened to with interest and instruction. My being an habitual inmate106 of my father's study made me acquainted with the dearest of his friends, David Ricardo, who by his benevolent countenance107, and kindliness108 of manner, was very attractive to young persons, and who after I became a student of political economy, invited me to his house and to walk with him in order to converse109 on the subject. I was a more frequent visitor (from about 1817 or 1818) to Mr Hume, who, born in the same part of Scotland as my father, and having been, I rather think, a younger schoolfellow or college companion of his, had on returning from India renewed their youthful acquaintance, and who coming like many others greatly under the influence of my father's intellect and energy of character, was induced partly by that influence to go into Parliament, and there adopt the line of conduct which has given him an honourable110 place in the history of his country. Of Mr Bentham I saw much more, owing to the close intimacy112 which existed between him and my father. I do not know how soon after my father's first arrival in England they became acquainted. But my father was the earliest Englishman of any great mark, who thoroughly113 understood, and in the main adopted, Bentham's general views of ethics114, government and law: and this was a natural foundation for sympathy between them, and made them familiar companions in a period of Bentham's life during which he admitted much fewer visitors than was the case subsequently. At this time Mr Bentham passed some part of every year at Barrow Green House, in a beautiful part of the Surrey hills, a few miles from Godstone, and there I each summer accompanied my father in a long visit. In 1813, Mr Bentham, my father, and I made an excursion, which included Oxford115, Bath and Bristol, Exeter, Plymouth, and Portsmouth. In this journey I saw many things which were instructive to me, and acquired my first taste for natural scenery, in the elementary form of fondness for a "view." in the succeeding winter we moved into a house very near Mr Bentham's, which my father rented from him, in Queen Square, Westminster. From 1814 to 1817 Mr Bentham lived during half of each year at Ford116 Abbey in Somersetshire (or rather in a part of Devonshire surrounded by Somersetshire), which intervals117 I had the advantage of passing at that place. This sojourn118 was, I think, an important circumstance in my education. Nothing contributes more to nourish elevation119 of sentiments in a people, than the large and free character of their habitations. The middle-age architecture, the baronial hall, and the spacious120 and lofty rooms, of this fine old place, so unlike the mean and cramped121 externals of English middle class life, gave the sentiment of a large and freer existence, and were to me a sort of poetic122 cultivation123, aided also by the character of the grounds in which the Abbey stood; which were riant and secluded124, umbrageous125, and full of the sound of falling waters.
I owed another of the fortunate circumstances in my education, a year's residence in France, to Mr Bentham's brother, General Sir Samuel Bentham. I had seen Sir Samuel Bentham and his family at their house near Gosport in the course of the tour already mentioned (he being then Superintendent126 of the Dockyard at Portsmouth), and during a stay of a few days which they made at Ford Abbey shortly after the peace, before going to live on the Continent. In 1820 they invited me for a six months' visit to them in the South of France, which their kindness ultimately prolonged to nearly a twelvemonth. Sir Samuel Bentham, though of a character of mind different from that of his illustrious brother, was a man of very considerable attainments127 and general powers, with a decided128 genius for mechanical art. His wife, a daughter of the celebrated129 chemist, Dr Fordyce, was a woman of strong will and decided character, much general knowledge, and great practical good sense of the Edgeworth kind: she was the ruling spirit of the household, as she deserved, and was well qualified, to be. Their family consisted of one son (the eminent26 botanist) and three daughters, the youngest about two years my senior. I am indebted to them for much and various instruction, and for an almost parental130 interest in my welfare. When I first joined them, in May 1820, they occupied the Chateau131 of Pompignan (still belonging to a descendant of Voltaire's enemy) on the heights overlooking the plain of the Garonne between Montauban and Toulouse. I accompanied them in an excursion to the Pyrenees, including a stay of some duration at Bagnères de Bigorre, a journey to Pau, Bayonne, and Bagnères de Luchon, and an ascent132 of the Pic du Midi de Bigorre.
This first introduction to the highest order of mountain scenery made the deepest impression on me, and gave a colour to my tastes through life. In October we proceeded by the beautiful mountain route of Castres and St. Pons, from Toulouse to Montpellier, in which last neighbourhood Sir Samuel had just bought the estate of Restinclière, near the foot of the singular mountain of St. Loup. During this residence in France I acquired a familiar knowledge of the French language, and acquaintance with the ordinary French literature; I took lessons in various bodily exercises, in none of which however I made any proficiency133; and at Montpellier I attended the excellent winter courses of lectures at the Faculté des Sciences, those of M. Anglada on chemistry, of M. Proven?al on zoology134, and of a very accomplished135 representative of the eighteenth century metaphysics, M. Gergonne, on logic, under the name of Philosophy of the Sciences. I also went through a course of the higher mathematics under the private tuition of M. Lenthéric, a professor at the Lycée of Montpellier. But the greatest, perhaps, of the many advantages which I owed to this episode in my education, was that of having breathed for a whole year, the free and genial105 atmosphere of Continental136 life. This advantage was not the less real though I could not then estimate, nor even consciously feel it. Having so little experience of English life, and the few people I knew being mostly such as had public objects, of a large and personally disinterested137 kind, at heart, I was ignorant of the low moral tone of what, in England, is called society'. the habit of, not indeed professing138, but taking for granted in every mode of implication, that conduct is of course always directed towards low and petty objects; the absence of high feelings which manifests itself by sneering139 depreciation140 of all demonstrations141 of them, and by general abstinence (except among a few of the stricter religionists) from professing any high principles of action at all, except in those preordained cases in which such profession is put on as part of the costume and formalities of the occasion. I could not then know or estimate the difference between this manner of existence, and that of a people like the French, whose faults, if equally real, are at all events different; among whom sentiments, which by comparison at least may be called elevated, are the current coin of human intercourse, both in books and in private life; and though often evaporating in profession, are yet kept alive in the nation at large by constant exercise, and stimulated142 by sympathy, so as to form a living and active part of the existence of great numbers of persons, and to be recognized and understood by all. Neither could I then appreciate the general culture of the understanding, which results from the habitual exercise of the feelings, and is thus carried down into the most uneducated classes of several countries on the Continent, in a degree not equalled in England among the so-called educated, except where an unusual tenderness of conscience leads to a habitual exercise of the intellect on questions of right and wrong. I did not know the way in which, among the ordinary English, the absence of interest in things of an unselfish kind, except occasionally in a special thing here and there, and the habit of not speaking to others, nor much even to themselves, about the things in which they do feel interest, causes both their feelings and their intellectual faculties143 to remain undeveloped, or to develope themselves only in some single and very limited direction; reducing them, considered as spiritual beings, to a kind of negative existence. All these things I did not perceive till long afterwards; but I even then felt, though without stating it clearly to myself, the contrast between the frank sociability144 and amiability145 of French personal intercourse, and the English mode of existence in which everybody acts as if everybody else (with few, or no exceptions) was either an enemy or a bore. In France, it is true, the bad as well as the good points, both of individual and of national character, come more to the surface, and break out more fearlessly in ordinary intercourse, than in England: but the general habit of the people is to show, as well as to expect, friendly feeling in every one towards every other, wherever there is not some positive cause for the opposite. In England it is only of the best bred people, in the upper or upper middle ranks, that anything like this can be said.
In my way through Paris, both going and returning, I passed some time in the house of M. Say, the eminent political economist146, who was a friend and correspondent of my father, having become acquainted with him on a visit to England a year or two after the peace. He was a man of the later period of the French Revolution, a fine specimen147 of the best kind of French Republican, one of those who had never bent111 the knee to Bonaparte though courted by him to do so; a truly upright, brave, and enlightened man. He lived a quiet and studious life, made happy by warm affections, public and private. He was acquitted148 with many of the chiefs of the Liberal party, and I saw various noteworthy persons while staying at his house; among whom I have pleasure in the recollection of having once seen Saint-Simon, not yet the founder149 either of a philosophy or a religion, and considered only as a clever original. The chief fruit which I carried away from the society I saw, was a strong and permanent interest in Continental Liberalism, of which I ever afterwards kept myself au courant, as much as of English politics: a thing not at all usual in those days with Englishmen, and which had a very salutary influence on my development, keeping me free from the error always prevalent in England, and from which even my father with all his superiority to prejudice was not exempt150, of judging universal questions by a merely English standard. After passing a few weeks at Caen with an old friend of my father's, I returned to England in July 1821; and my education resumed its ordinary course.
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specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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testaments
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| n.遗嘱( testament的名词复数 )；实际的证明 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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maker
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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omnipotent
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benevolent
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atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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logic
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spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mere
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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19
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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20
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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21
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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22
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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23
lavishes
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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25
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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26
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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27
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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28
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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29
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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30
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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31
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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32
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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33
slovenliness
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34
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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35
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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36
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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37
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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38
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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39
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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40
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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41
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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42
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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43
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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44
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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45
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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46
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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47
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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48
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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49
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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50
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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53
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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54
arrogate
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| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
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55
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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56
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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57
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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58
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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59
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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60
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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61
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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62
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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63
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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64
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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65
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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66
reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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67
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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68
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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69
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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70
miscarriages
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| 流产( miscarriage的名词复数 ) | |
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71
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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72
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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73
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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74
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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75
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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76
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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77
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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78
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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79
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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80
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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81
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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82
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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83
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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84
conscientiousness
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| 责任心 | |
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85
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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86
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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87
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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88
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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89
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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90
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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91
connives
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| v.密谋 ( connive的第三人称单数 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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92
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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93
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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94
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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95
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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96
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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97
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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98
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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99
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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100
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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101
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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102
preclude
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| vt.阻止，排除，防止；妨碍 | |
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103
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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104
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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105
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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106
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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107
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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108
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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109
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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110
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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111
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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112
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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113
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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114
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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115
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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116
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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117
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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118
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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119
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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120
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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121
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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122
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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123
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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124
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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125
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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126
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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127
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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128
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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129
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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130
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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131
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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132
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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133
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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134
zoology
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| n.动物学，生态 | |
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135
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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136
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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137
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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138
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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139
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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140
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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141
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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142
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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143
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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144
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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145
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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146
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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147
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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148
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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149
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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