Labuntur anni: nec pietas moram
Rugis et instanti senect?
Adferet, indomit?que morti."
Hor.
"How swiftly glide1 our flying years,
Alas2! nor piety3, nor tears,
Can stop the fleeting4 day;
Deep-furrow'd wrinkles, frosting age,
And Death's unconquerable rage,
Are strangers to delay."
Francis.
We have already observed that Abernethy had begun to feel the wear and tear of an anxious and active life, when, after a tenure5 of office for twenty-eight years as assistant, he was appointed surgeon to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. After a few years, he took a house at Enfield, where he occasionally went at leisure hours, on Wednesday and Saturday; and, as the Spring Course of Lectures came near to a conclusion, and in the summer, sometimes on other afternoons. At this season, he had been accustomed to doff6 the black knee-breeches, silk stockings, and shoes, sometimes with, sometimes without, short gaiters, and refresh one's rural recollections with drab kerseymeres and top-boots; in which costume he would at that season not unfrequently come down to lecture. He was fond of riding, and had a favourite mare8 he called Jenny; and many a time have we seen her jogging along on a fine summer afternoon, and her master356 looking as happy as any schoolboy that he was escaping from the botherations of Bedford Row and the smoke of London. Jenny was a favourite mare, which Abernethy had for nearly twenty-five years. She was a great pet, and her excellent qualities had been associated with almost every little excursion of relaxation9 or pleasure. All things, however, must have an end. At last, the poor animal became affected10 with a kind of rheumatism11, attended with much suffering. After various hesitations12, the pain of which those who are fond of animals can very well understand, the order was given that she should be destroyed. This took place in the stables behind Bedford Row. The family were all in one apartment, except Mr. Abernethy, who was heard pacing up and down his private room. A short pause, and the coachman is seen running from the stable to say that Jenny was no more. One of his daughters ran to Mr. Abernethy's room to say, "it is all over, papa." "Good girl," said he, patting her head, "to come and tell me so soon." He is said to have suffered greatly on this occasion.
Some years before this, he met with what might have been a serious accident: in stooping forward, his horse threw up his head and struck him a violent blow on the forehead and nose; as Mr. Abernethy first thought, breaking the bones of the latter. He rode up a gateway13, and, having dismounted, was endeavouring to adjust the bruise14 and staunch the blood, when some people ran to assist him, and, as he said, very kindly15 asked him if they should fetch him a doctor; "but," said Abernethy, "I told them I thought they had better fetch me a hackney coach," which they accordingly did. He was conveyed home, and in a short time recovered from the accident.
His taking the house at Enfield was probably a prudent16 measure; he seemed to enjoy it very much, and especially in getting a quiet friend or two down on a Saturday to stay over till the Monday; amongst whom, a very favourite visitor was our respected friend Mr. Clift, of whom we have already spoken. Abernethy had always, however, had what he used aptly enough to term a fidgetty nervous system. From early life he had been annoyed by a particularly irritable17 heart. The first time he ever357 suffered materially from it was while he was yet a young man. He had been exceedingly depressed18 by the death of a patient in whose case he had been much interested, and his heart became alarmingly violent and disordered in its action. He could not sleep at night, and sometimes in the day it would beat so violently as to shake his waistcoat. He was afterwards subject to fugitive20 returns of this complaint, and few, unless by experience, know how distressing21 such attacks are.
We suspect that surgeons are more frequently thus affected than is generally supposed. A cold, half-brutal indifference22 is one thing, but a calm and humane23 self-possession in many of our duties is another, and, as we saw in Cheselden, not obtained always without some cost; the effects of this sometimes appear only when the causes have ceased to recur24, or are forgotten. A lively sensibility to impressions was natural to Abernethy; but this susceptibility had been increased by the well-known influence of the air and excitement of crowded cities on people who are engaged in much mental exertion25. His physical organization, easily susceptible26 of disturbance27, did not always shake it off again very readily. At one period he suffered an unusually long time from the consequences of a wound in dissection28.
These not uncommon29 accidents occur perhaps a hundred or a thousand times without being followed by any material results; but, if they happen in disordered conditions of health, either of mind or body, they are sometimes serious affairs, and usually of a more or less active kind—that is, soon terminating in death or recovery. Not so in Abernethy. The complaint went through various phases, so that it was nearly three years, he used to tell us, before he fairly and finally got rid of the effects of it. One of the most difficult things for a man so actively30 engaged in a profession in London as was Abernethy, is to get the requisite31 quantity of exercise; whilst the great mental exertion which characterizes a London, as distinguished32 from almost any other kind of life, requires that the digestive organs should be "up to" pretty good living.
Then, again, Abernethy lived in the days of port wine; when every man had something to say of the sample his hospitality358 produced of that popular beverage33. Abernethy, who was never intemperate34, was very hospitable36, and always selected the finest port wine he could get, which, as being generally full and powerful, was for him perhaps the least fitted.
Mr. Lloyd, of Fleet Street, who was one of the old-fashioned family wine-merchants, and one of the best men of his day, was the purveyor37 of his Falernian; never was there a more correct application of nomenclature than that which gave to him the title, by which he was best known, of "Honest John Lloyd." He was one of the kindest-hearted men I ever knew: he had a great regard for Mr. Abernethy; and was treated himself by almost everybody as an intimate friend. One day I went there just as Abernethy had left. "Well," says Mr. Lloyd, "what a funny man your master is!" "Who?" said I. "Why, Mr. Abernethy. He has just been here, and paid me for a pipe of wine; and threw down a handful of notes and pieces of papers with fees. I wanted him to stop to see if they were right, 'for,' said I, 'some of these fees may be more than you think, perhaps.' 'Never mind,' said he; 'I can't stop; you have them as I took them,' and hastily went his way."
Sedentary habits, however, as people now begin to find, do not harmonize well with great mental exertion, or constant and anxious occupation. In 1817, Abernethy felt his combined duties as surgeon to the hospital, as lecturer there, and also at the College, becoming too onerous38, and therefore in that year resigned the Professorship. On this occasion, the Council sent him the following unanimous expression of their appreciation39 of his services.
"At the Court of Assistants of the Royal College of Surgeons in
London, holden at the College on the 15th day of July, 1817;
"Resolved unanimously:
"That the thanks of this Court be presented to John Abernethy, Esq. for the series of Lectures delivered by him in the theatre of this College, in the years 1814, 1815, 1816, 1817, with distinguished energy and perspicuity40, by which he359 has elucidated41 the physiological42 and pathological opinions of John Hunter, explained his design in the formation of the Hunterian Collection, illustrated43 the principles of surgery, and thereby44 has highly conduced to the improvement of anatomical and physiological knowledge, the art and science of surgery, and to the promotion45 of the honour of the College."
This seems to have gratified him, as, under all circumstances, we can readily understand it might do; and he accordingly replied to it as follows:
"TO THE MASTER, GOVERNORS, AND COUNCIL OF THE ROYAL
COLLEGE OF SURGEONS.
"Sir and Gentlemen,
"To obtain the good opinion of others, is a universal object of human actions; and we often strive to acquire it by circuitous46 and absurd means; but to obtain the approbation47 of eminent48 and judicious49 characters, by pursuing the direct path of professional duty, is the most gratifying mode of seeking and receiving this object of general ambition.
"I have ventured to premise50 these observations, to show you, gentlemen, that I do not write inconsiderately, or merely as a matter of form, when I thus return you my warmest thanks for the distinguished honour you have conferred on me by your public approbation of my endeavours86 to discharge the duties of an arduous51 office, to which I was elected through your kindness and confidence.
"I have the honour to remain,????
"Sir and Gentlemen,??
"Your very grateful and obedient servant,?
"John Abernethy."
We insert in this place a letter which he wrote about this time to Sir William Blizard; because it shows two things which360 are characteristic: the one, how constant he was in not allowing any considerations to interfere52 with the lectures; and the other, the endurance of his old attachment53 to Sir William Blizard. It is an apology for not having been present at the Council.
"Dear Sir William,
"I was yesterday desired to see a patient residing seven or eight miles from London. I could not go that day, for it was lecture evening; I cannot go to-morrow for the same reason; consequently I must go this evening. I hope you will consider these circumstances as an apology for my absence from the Board.
"If you cite my example as one misleading future Professors, be so good as to remember that I retired54, leaving the task which I had undertaken incomplete, wherefore it became necessary to explain publicly to an indulgent audience my motives55 for resigning the Professorship.
"I remain, dear Sir William,??
"Yours unremittingly,?
"John Abernethy."
Abernethy had at various periods of his life been subject to an inflammatory sore throat of a very active kind, which would on some days impede56 so as almost to prevent his swallowing, and then suddenly terminate in abscess, leaving him perfectly57 well again. He was young when these sorts of attack began; for in his lectures he used to speak of one of them having subsided58 only the night before he had some lectures to deliver before the Council of the College, when they were accustomed to meet in the Old Bailey.
As he advanced in life, the disposition59 to disorder19 of the digestive organs, which had hitherto shown a tendency to terminate in inflammation of the mucous60 membrane61 of the throat, began to affect other structures; and he became teazed and subsequently greatly tortured by rheumatism. The disorder so termed (a kind of general name for various conditions of disorder very different from each other, and which occasionally affect, not only361 joints62, but other structures) is in many cases, as we all know, extremely painful; and is never more excruciating than when muscular parts thus conditioned are affected by spasm63. These spasms64 were a source of much acute suffering to Abernethy. His constant occupations gave him no opportunity of relieving himself from work, except there was that accommodation of indisposition to convenient times, which of course seldom happens.
In the early parts of his life, Abernethy, when he was out of health, would take the first opportunity which his occupations allowed of going a little way into the country; and there, by diet, and amusing himself by reading and exercise, he would soon get well. But as he advanced in life, he was not so ready to attend to himself as perhaps he ought to have been. Besides, he would occasionally do things which incurred65 unnecessary risks, which we ourselves have sometimes ventured to mention to him.
Living, at the time to which we are now alluding66, in Ely Place, and attending his lectures long after we had commenced practice, we frequently walked down with him to lecture; sometimes in the rain, when we used to think his knee-breeches and silk stockings looked most uncomfortable. Besides this, he was very careless about his umbrella; I never recollect7 him on such occasions calling a coach, and I hardly ever knew him come down to his evening lecture in his carriage. He generally came to the two-o'clock lecture some minutes before the time; and, as he often complained of cold feet, he would stand opposite one of the flue openings in the Museum. One day, I ventured to suggest to him that the transition of temperature to the cold place he occupied in the theatre rendered this hardly prudent, when he said, "Ay!" and moved away. Though temperate35, without being very particular in his diet, these other imprudences were unfortunate; because we saw him, every year almost, becoming troubled more and more by his painful visitor. The time, however, was now arriving when he was about to resign the Surgeoncy of the hospital.
We have seen that, when elected to that appointment, he had been no less than twenty-eight years assistant surgeon; he, however, took no pains to indemnify himself for this long and profitless362 tenure of a subordinate post; but, mindful of what he had himself suffered, immediately on his appointment he did the best he could at once to provide against others being subjected to such an unrequited service. He accordingly, on his election, addressed a letter to the Governors of the Hospital, of which, when the first edition went to press, we had no copy. As we then stated, our friend, Mr. E. A. Lloyd, a friend and favourite pupil of Abernethy's, had found one, and kindly laid it aside for us; but he unfortunately again mislaid it; and there is no copy of it on the books of the hospital. Subsequently, Mr. Pettigrew has most kindly sent us a volume containing the letter in question. To us it is a very interesting document; but as we had already mentioned the most important fact in it, we have not thought it necessary to reprint the letter. We must not fail to repeat publicly our thanks to Mr. Pettigrew for his kind assistance.
The object of the letter was to recommend some alteration68 in the arrangement of the duties of the surgeons of the hospital; and, amongst other things, that they should resign at the age of sixty, with a retiring salary. Nothing could, we think, be more just or considerate than such a proposal; and it came very well from Abernethy, who had just stepped into the lucrative69 appointment. The proposal, however, was not acted upon; and it would appear that his successors, however much they may have at the time approved of the precept70, have not been in haste to follow the example. There is little doubt that Abernethy's proposal was as just and considerate of the interests of all parties, as it was in favour of those of science. We cannot think that any one, who considers the whole subject without prejudice, will arrive at any other conclusion.
The absence, however, of any law on the subject, made no difference to Abernethy; he had expressed his own intention of resigning at the age of sixty; and when that time arrived, he accordingly did so. The Governors, however, would not, on that occasion, accept his resignation, but requested him to continue. This he did for about another year, when, in 1827—having been elected in 1815,—he finally resigned the hospital, in the following letter, addressed to the President of the Hospital:
363
"St. Bartholomew's Hospital,?
"July 24, 1827.
"Finding myself incompetent71 to discharge the duties of surgeon to your Hospital in a satisfactory manner, and having led my junior to believe that I should resign my office at a certain period of my life, I hereby tender my resignation accordingly. At the same time, I beg leave to assure the Governors of my gratitude72 for their appointment to the offices which I have held under them, and for the good opinion and confidence which they have manifested towards me. I annex73 a draft for ￡100 for the use of the Hospital.
"I am, dear Sir,???
"Your obedient servant,?
"John Abernethy."
"To Rowland Stephenson, Esq."
At the next meeting of the "Court" of Governors, it was proposed by Dr. Latham, seconded by Mr. Wells, and unanimously resolved:
"That this Court accept, with great regret, the resignation of Mr. Abernethy as one of its Surgeons, an office which he has discharged with consummate74 ability for forty years; and the Court offers him their best, their most unanimous, and warmest thanks for his very long and important services.
"July 25, 1827."
There is something significant in this vote of thanks, merging75 his long period of assistant surgeon in the general expression of his services as surgeon. It is very suggestive of the influence which had been felt from the presence of his master mind, although so long in a position which necessarily restricted its useful energies in regard to hospital matters. We have little doubt that, had Abernethy become surgeon to the hospital at a time of life when his physical energies were unimpaired, he would have suggested many improvements on the system; but, with little real power in this respect, and with men who were opposed to him, he364 was just the last man in the world to commence a crusade against the opinions of those with whom he was associated. The moment he became surgeon, we see him endeavouring to remove an evil from which he had greatly suffered, and which is obviously a most undesirable76 state of things; namely, that men should so often arrive at a post in which their active energies are most required, at a time of life when those energies have been, perhaps, necessarily addressed to other objects, have become weary with hope deferred77, or already on the wane78.
He was, also, very averse79 to so spacious80 a portion of the hospital being devoted81 to the festive82 meetings of the Governors; and, on showing it, would sometimes go so far as to say—"Ay, this is what I call the useless portion of the hospital." He continued to lecture another year, when he resigned the lectures; and, in 1829, his appointment at the College of Surgeons also.
In May, 1829, he wrote to Mr. Belfour, the Secretary of the College of Surgeons (whose politeness and attention in facilitating our inquiries83 at the College we are happy thus publicly to acknowledge), as follows:
"My dear Sir,
"Early in April, the thermometer was above 70°, and I had so violent a relapse of rheumatism, that I have not been able (nor am I now able) to leave this place since that time. Apologize to the President, therefore, for my non-attendance on Monday. Entre nous: as I think I shall not be able to perform the duties of those situations which I now hold at the College, I think of resigning them; yet I will not decide till I have talked with Clift87 upon it. If he could come down this or the following Saturday, I should be glad to see him.
"I remain, my dear Sir,???
"Yours very sincerely,?
"John Abernethy.
?"Enfield, May 21.
"To Edmund Belfour, Esq."
365
He accordingly, in July of 1829, resigned his seat at the Court of Examiners, when the following Memorial was sent him by the Court of Examiners:
"At the College, at the Court holden on Friday, the 17th of July, 1829:
"Present: Mr. Thomas, President; Mr. Headington, Mr. Keate, Vice-Presidents; Sir William Blizard, Mr. Lynn, Sir A. Cooper, Bart., Sir A. Carlisle, Mr. Vincent, and Mr. Guthrie:
"Resolved, that the following Memorial be entered in the minutes of this Court:
"Conscious of having been enlightened by the scientific labours of Mr. Abernethy; convinced that teachers of anatomy84, physiology85, and of surgery (and consequently their pupils), have derived86 most important information from these sources of knowledge; and impressed that the healing art has been eminently87 advanced by the writings of that excellent individual; the Members of the Court of Examiners lament89 the tendered resignation of an associate so endowed, and whose conduct in the Court has always been so exemplary.
"Resolved also, that a copy of the foregoing Memorial be delivered by the Secretary to Mr. Abernethy."
He had by this time become a great sufferer—walked very lamely90; and this difficulty, interfering91 more than ever with his exercise, no doubt tended to make matters worse. He consulted nobody, I believe, but his old friend Dr. Roberts, of St. Bartholomew's. He was induced to go for some time into the country; and on his return, hearing that he was again in Bedford Row, and not having seen him for some time, I called on him one morning, about eleven o'clock.
I knew that he had been very ill; but I was not in the least prepared to see him so altered. When I was shown into his room, I was so struck with his appearance, that it was with difficulty I concealed92 the emotion it occasioned; but I felt happy in observing that I had succeeded.
He appeared, all at once as it were, to have become a very old366 man; he was much thinner; his features appeared shrunk. He had always before worn a good deal of powder; but his hair, which used to hang rather thickly over his ears, was now thin, and, as it appeared to me, silvered by age and suffering.
There was the same expressive93 eye which I had so often seen lit up by mirth or humour, or animated94 by some more impassioned feeling, looking as penetrating95 and intellectual as ever, but with a calmness and languor96 which seemed to tell of continued pain, and which I had never seen before. He was sitting at a table, on a sort of stool, as it appeared to me, and had been seeing patients, and there were still several waiting to see him. On asking him how he was, his reply was very striking.
It was indeed the same voice which I had so often listened to with pleasure; but the tone was exceedingly changed. It was the subdued97 character which is expressive of recent suffering, and sounded to me most mournfully. "Ay," say he, "this is very kind of you—very kind indeed!" And he somewhat distressed98 me by repeating this several times, so that I hardly knew what to reply. He said he was better, and that he could now walk pretty fairly again, "as," said he, "you shall see."
He accordingly slowly dismounted from his seat, and, with the aid of two sticks, began to walk; but it was a melancholy99 sight to me. I had never seen him nearly so lame88 before.
I asked him what he was going to do. He said he was going to Enfield on the morrow, and that he did not think he should return. I suggested that he might possibly try a drier air with more advantage; that I feared Enfield might be a little low and damp, and not, possibly, the best place for him. "Well," he said, "anything is better than this." I very shortly after took my leave; not sorry to be again alone; for I felt considerably100 depressed by the unexpected impressions I had received from this interview. It was too plain that his powers were rapidly waning101. He went to Enfield on the following day (a Wednesday, I think), and never returned again to practice. He lingered about another year, during which time I once went to see him, when I found him something better. He was able to see his friends occasionally, and at times seemed to rally. In the spring, however, of 1831,367 he gradually got weaker, and died on the 20th of April in that year.
He perfectly retained his consciousness to the last, and died as tranquilly102 as possible. In exhausted103 conditions of the body, persons will sometimes linger much longer than the medical attendant had considered possible; in other cases, the flickering104 lamp becomes extinguished many days before they had been apprehensive105 of immediate67 danger. The latter was the case with Mr. Abernethy. Dr. Roberts had just been to see him; and the family, who scarcely ever left him, had followed the Doctor down into the dining room, anxious to hear his report. This, although it gave them no hope as to the ultimate result, expressed no apprehension106 of immediate danger. On returning to Mr. Abernethy, but a few minutes had elapsed when he gently laid his head back and expired; but with such entire absence of any struggle, alteration of countenance107, or other indication, that for a short time it was difficult to realize the fact that he was no more. His body was not examined; but, from the history and symptoms of his case, there could be little doubt that there would have been found organic changes, in which the valvular structures of the heart had more or less participated.
He was buried in the parish church of Enfield. The funeral was a private one; and there is a plain tablet on the wall over his vault108, with the following inscription109:
H. S. E.
?
JOHANNES ABERNETHY, R. S. S.
REGII CHIRURGORUM COLLEGII QUONDAM PR?SES,
QUI INGENIO, PROBITATE, BENIGNITATE
EXIMIE PR?DITUS
ARTEM MEDICAM PER ANNOS PLURIMOS,
SUMMA CUM DILIGENTIA, SOLERTIA, FELICITATE
COLUIT, EXERCUIT, DOCUIT, AUXIT,
ET SCRIPTIS HOC MARMORE PERENNIORIBUS
368POSTERITATI TRADIDIT,
MORBO DEMUM GRAVISSIMO CONFECTUS
CUJUS ANGORES HAUD ALITER DOMANDOS
PIO ET CONSTANTI ANIMO SUBEGIT.
CONJUGI, LIBERIS, AMICIS, DISCIPULIS,
HUMANO GENERI, CUI TANTOPERE SUCCURRERAT
FLEBILIS,
APRILIS DIE 20, A. D. 1831, ?TATIS SU? 67.
PLACIDE IN CHRISTO OBDORMIVIT.
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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doff
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| v.脱，丢弃，废除 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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gateway
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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exertion
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susceptible
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disturbance
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dissection
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uncommon
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actively
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requisite
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distinguished
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beverage
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intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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37
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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elucidated
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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43
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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48
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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50
premise
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| n.前提；v.提论，预述 | |
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51
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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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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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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mucous
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| adj. 黏液的，似黏液的 | |
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membrane
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| n.薄膜，膜皮，羊皮纸 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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86
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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99
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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101
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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103
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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104
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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105
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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106
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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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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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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109
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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