Concomitantly with continued increase in the frequency and intensity4 of his headaches, my father’s irritability5 of temper had increased to a degree which made him a very difficult man to live with. For simple assent6 to his utterances8 of an argumentative nature did not satisfy him, he would be argued with. Yet argument produced irritability leading to scenes of painful violence, which I had reason to fear hastened the return of his suffering. But the greatest good, in his opinion, that could then be achieved for me, was, that I should have an university education; and this he was steadfastly{191} minded to procure9 for me at any cost of pressure and privation.
And then the question arose, at what college should I matriculate?
My father eventually selected Alban Hall—a singular and hardly a judicious10 choice in any case, but which under the circumstances, as they subsequently arose, proved a disastrous11 one. My father’s financial position was at the time such, that it would have seemed reasonable that he should have been in a great measure guided in his choice by the consideration of expense. But such was not the case. For Alban Hall was at that time by no means a specially12 inexpensive place of academical residence. No! the ruling motive13 was to place me under Whately, who had about four years previously14 been appointed by Lord Granville Principal of Alban Hall. My father, as I have mentioned, was a “Liberal,” and Whately’s Liberalism was the point in his character by which he was most known to the world in general. I do not think that any personal acquaintance, or even contact, had ever existed between my father and Whately. The connecting link I take to have been Whately’s friend Senior. Whately’s Liberalism certainly, and, I think I may say, my father’s also, would have made excellent Conservatism at the present day. But in those days the new Principal of Alban Hall stood out in strong contrast with the intellectual attitude and habits of thought of Oxford15, And this was the leading motive of my father’s choice.{192}
I know not how the case may be now, but in those days it was a decided16 disadvantage socially and academically to belong to any one of the “halls,” instead of to a college. But of all this side of Oxford life, my father, who had been a New College man in the days when New College exercised its ancient privilege of presenting its members for their degree without submitting them to any examination in the schools, knew nothing. In his day the New College man before the Vice17-Chancellor for his degree, instead of using the formula prescribed for every other member of the university to the effect that having satisfied the examiners he begged his degree (peto gradum), said, “Having satisfied my college, I demand my degree” (postulo gradum). This has long been voluntarily abandoned by New College, which on the enactment18 of the new statute19 for examinations of course saw that the retention20 of it necessarily excluded them from “honours.” But in the old day it had inevitably21 the effect of causing New College men to live very much in a world of their own.
Alban Hall had been, previously to Whately’s time, a sort of “refuge for the destitute22” intellectually, or academically: as were for the most part the other halls at that period. This reproach Whately at once set himself to remove from Alban Hall, and had altogether removed by the time I joined the society. It would be difficult to say what generally operating influence had brought together the score or so of members who then constituted that society. They{193} were certainly not intellectually superior to the average undergraduate of the time. Neither were they in any wise inferior in general respectability. But there was no cohesion23, no general prevailing24 character. We seemed like a collection of waifs thrown together by as many different sets of circumstances as there were individuals. I suppose all had been brought there by some personal connection with, or respect for, either Dr. Whately, or for Mr. Hinds26, the excellent Vice-Principal, who subsequently became Bishop27 of Norwich. There was, I remember, a knot of some three or four West Indians, who formed some little exception to what I have said of a general absence of cohesion.
The time which I spent under Dr. Whately’s authority and tuition led me to form a very exalted28 opinion of his intellectual capacity, high principle, and lofty determination to do what he deemed to be his duty. But I do not think that he was the right man in the right place.
His daughter, Miss Jane Whately, in her excellent and most interesting life of the Archbishop, published some twenty years ago, writes:—-
“Teaching was indeed the occupation most peculiarly suited to his powers and tastes. He had a remarkable29 faculty30 of drawing out the mind of the learner, by leading him step by step, and obliging him to think for himself. He used to say that he believed himself to be one of the few teachers who could train a young person of retentive31 memory for words, without spoiling him. The temptation to the{194} student in such cases is to rehearse by rote32 the rules or facts he has learned, without exercising his powers of thought; while one whose powers of recollection were less perfect, would be forced to reflect and consider what was likely to be written or said on such or such a point by the writer, and thus to learn more intelligently and less mechanically. The cure for this tendency in young persons who learned quickly by rote he effected by asking them questions, substantially the same as those in the textbook, but which they must answer in their own words, making them draw conclusions from axioms already laid down. In this manner he was able successfully to teach mathematics to many who had been apparently35 unable to master the first principles, and often to ground them in the elements of Euclid, better than some mathematicians36 whose actual attainments37 were far beyond his own. Both in this branch and in logic38, as in all other studies, he always commenced analytically39 and ended synthetically40; first drawing out the mind of the learner, by making him give the substance of the right answer, and then requiring the exact technical form of it in words.”
This must strike all, who remember Whately’s teaching, as evidently true. But it in no wise leads me to modify the opinion above expressed as to his adaptation for the position in which I knew him. The style of teaching described by his biographer, if ever suitable at all for a college lecture-room, could only be so in the case of a collection of pupils{195} far superior intellectually to those, with whom (with one or two exceptions, notably41 that of Mr. Wall, whose subsequent career at Oxford did credit to his Alban Hall training) Dr. Whately had to deal. Miss Whately describes a teacher whose influence in tête-à-tête teaching over a clever pupil would be quite invaluable42. But he was always firing far over the heads of his hearers; and I do not think that his method was adapted to driving, pushing, hustling43 an idle and very backward and unprepared collection of youths through their “little-go” and “pass,” quod erat in votis. Most of this necessary driving fell to the share of Hinds, who was fitted for far higher work, but was patient, kind, laborious44, and conscientious45 to the utmost decree.
Miss Whately’s book, mainly by virtue46 of the great number of the Archbishop’s letters contained in it, succeeds in giving a very just and vivid notion of her father’s character and tone of mind. She is hardly justified47, I think, by facts, in speaking of the “delicacy of his consideration for the feelings of others.” A little circumstance that I well remember scarcely seems to indicate the possession of any such quality. It was about the time when the then burning question of Parliamentary Reform was exercising the minds of all men. A large party of undergraduates were dining at Whately’s table—such invitations were usually given by him in every term—and Mrs. Whately at the head of the long table was asking the young man who sat next her what was the general opinion in the hall on the{196} Reform question, when Whately, who at the bottom of the table had overheard her, called out, “Why don’t you ask what the bedmakers think?” I have little doubt that the opinion of the bedmakers might have been ascertained48 with an equal, or perhaps greater, degree of profit. But I cannot think that the Principal showed much “delicacy of consideration” for the feelings of his guests.
Perhaps a degree of roughness akin33 to this, though hardly altogether of the same sort, contributed to increase that strong feeling of dislike for Whately which, outside his own Oriel, was pretty generally felt in Oxford, and which was mainly caused by more serious objections to his political, and in some degree religious, Liberalism.
I fear that I profited very little by his tuition at Alban Hall, doubtless chiefly from my own fault and idleness. But other causes contributed also to the result. The classical lectures were such as I had left a long way behind me. No study on my part was necessary to hold my own in the lecture-room by the side of my fellows in the team. Yet, of course, it was easy for such a teacher as Whately to perceive that I was trusting to Winchester work rather than to his instruction. And naturally this did not please him. I think too that he had a prejudice against public schools in general, and that for some reason or other he disliked Winchester in particular. I remember his saying to me once—though I totally forget on what occasion—“We don’t want any New College ways here, sir!” I{197} told him that I feared I did not deserve the compliment of being supposed capable of bringing any such there. And the reply failed to mollify him.
Those who are old enough to remember anything of the social aspects of Oxford at that day, and indeed any who have read the excellent biography of Archbishop Whately by his daughter, know that he was exceedingly unpopular among “the dons,” his contemporaries. This was due partly to the opinions he held on matters social, political, and religious, partly to those which prejudiced minds far inferior to his own supposed him to hold, but partly also to his own personal ways and manners. I think I know, and indeed I think I knew when I was his pupil, enough of the fibre and calibre of his mind to feel sure that he was greatly the intellectual superior to most of those of similar position around him. And I suppose that the world in general has by this time come to the conclusion that in respect of most of those opinions, which were then most obnoxious49 to the world in which he lived, Whately was right and his adversaries50 wrong. But he was not the man to win acceptance for new ideas in any society. The temper of his mind was in a high degree autocratical. He was born to be a benevolent51 and beneficent despot. His daughter, speaking of the painful experiences that awaited him when he became Archbishop of Dublin, says that “opposition was painful to his disposition52.”
Doubtless the Principal of Alban Hall, thoroughly53 congenial to him as was at that time the social{198} atmosphere of the common room of his own Oriel, would have felt himself much out of his element in most of the common rooms of Oxford. I remember a dear old man, Dr. Johnson, of Magdalen, who was greatly beloved by his own society, and an universal favourite with all who knew him. He was a high, though not altogether dry, right divine man (divino rightly spelled, be it understood, and not with an “e,” as in jure de vino), and used to maintain that the lineal descendants of the last Stuarts were still the rightful sovereigns of England. Sometimes a knot of youngsters would cluster around him, with, “But now, Dr. Johnson, do you really and truly believe that the present Duke of Modena is your lawful54 sovereign?” “Well, boy,” the doctor would say when thus pressed, “after dinner I do.”
This was not the sort of man whom Whately would have tolerated, for though full of wit, as I have said, he was utterly55 devoid56 of any tincture of humour.
Those were the days when it used to be said that the rule at Magdalen respecting preferment tenable together with a fellowship, was, “Hold your tongue, and you may hold any thing else.”
It was supposed, I remember, at that day that there was to a certain special degree an antagonism57 and dislike between him and Dr. Shuttleworth, the Warden58 of New College. There was a story current to the effect that the brusquerie of the Principal of Alban Hall was upon one occasion exhibited in an offensive manner in the drawing-{199}room of the Warden of New College, when not only men but ladies were present. Whately had a habit of sitting in all sorts of uncouth59 postures60 on his chair. He would balance himself, while nursing one leg over the knee of the other, on the two hind25 legs of his chair, or even on one of them, and was indulging in gymnastics of this sort when the leg of the chair suddenly snapped, and he, a large and heavy man, rolled on the floor. He was a man of far too much real pith and aplomb61 to be unnecessarily disconcerted at such an accident. But the story ran that he manifested his disregard for it by simply tossing the offending and crippled chair into a corner, and taking another as he proceeded with what he was saying without one word of apology to his hostess.
If it was true that there was any such special feeling of antagonism between Whately and Shuttleworth it was a pity; for assuredly there were very few, if any, men among the heads of colleges of that day, better calculated by power and originality62 of mind, and in many respects by liberality of thinking, to understand and foregather with Whately than the Warden of New College.
Shuttleworth was, and had the reputation of being an especially witty63 man. And I consider Whately to have been the wittiest64 man I ever knew. But it is true that their wit was of a very different character. Whately was not a man fitted to shine in society, unless it were the society of those prepared by knowledge of and regard for him to recognise his undisputed{200} right to be the acknowledged leader of it. Shuttleworth was, on the contrary, eminently65 calculated to contribute more than his share to the most brilliant social intercourse66. He had, with abundance of solid sweetmeat at the bottom of the trifle, a sparkling store of that froth of wit which is most accepted as the readiest and pleasantest social small change. Whately’s wit was not of the kind which ever set any “table on a roar.” It was of that higher and deeper kind, which consists in prompt perception, not of the superficial resemblances in dissimilar things, but in the underlying67 resemblances disclosed only to the eye capable of appreciating at a glance the essential qualities and characteristics of the matter in hand. I have heard Whately deliciously witty at a logic or Euclid lecture.
An admirable specimen68 of this highest description of wit is given—among dozens of others indeed—by his daughter in her biography of him, which delighted me much when I read it, and which may be cited because it is very brilliant and may be given shortly. It will be found at the 38th page of the first volume of Miss Whately’s work. The Archbishop, writing of the controversy69 respecting the observance of the Sabbath, says, “This is a case in which men impose on themselves by the fallacy of the thaumatrope. On one side are painted (to obviate70 the absurdity71 of a probable law) the plain, earnest, and repeated injunctions to the Jews relative to their Sabbath; on the other side (to obviate the consequence of our having to keep{201} the Jewish Sabbath) we have the New Testament72 allusions73 to the Christian74 assemblies on the first day of the week. By a repeated and rapid twirl these two images are blended into one picture in the mind. But a steady view will show that they are on opposite sides of the card.”
I remember a favourite saying of Whately’s to the effect that the difficulty of giving a good definition of anything increased in proportion to the commonness of the thing to be defined. And he would illustrate75 his dictum by saying “Define me a teacup!” A trial of the experiment will probably convince the experimenter of the correctness of Whately’s proposition.
Whether it may have been that any antagonism between Whately and Shuttleworth caused the former to be prejudiced against Wiccamical things and men, or whether the relationship of the two feelings were vice versa, I cannot say. But I certainly thought and think still, that I suffered in his estimation from the fact that I was a Wykehamist. In writing on educational matters in or about 1830 (p. 79 of Miss Whately’s first volume), Whately says: “To compare schools generally with colleges generally may seem a vague inquiry76, but take the most in repute of each—Eton, Westminster, Harrow, etc., v. Oriel, Brasenose, Balliol, Christchurch, etc., etc.” Now, I cannot but feel that so singular an omission77 of Winchester from so short a list of the schools “most in repute,” glaringly in contradiction as it was with all that the whole English world{202}—even the non-academical world—knew to be the fact, could have been caused only by preconceived and unreasoning prejudice. Of course to me the utterance7 above quoted comes only as a confirmation78 of what the personal observation of my undergraduate days led me to feel, for I knew nothing of it till I read Miss Whately’s volumes published in 1866.
Yet I do not doubt that I may have occasionally “rubbed Whately the wrong way,” as the phrase goes. He was, as I have said, a most autocratically minded man. And we Wykehamists, as the reader may have perceived from my Winchester reminiscences, were not accustomed to be ruled autocratically. We lived under the empire, and I might almost say, in an atmosphere of law, as distinguished79 from individual will. It was constantly in our minds and on our tongues, that the “informator” or the “hostiarius” could or could not do this or that. We lived with the ever-present consciousness that the suprema lex was not what this master or the other master, or even the Warden might say, save in so far as it coincided with the college statutes80. And I doubt not that Whately perceived and understood the influence of this habit of mind in something or other that I might have said or done. It was probably something of the sort which led to his telling me that he wanted no New College manners at Alban Hall.
My “Winchester manners” however, enabled me I remember to understand him when some of his own{203} flock could not. He would at a Euclid lecture say, “Take any straight line,” scrawling81, as he said the words, a line as far from straight as he could draw it, to the utter bewilderment of some among his audience, who, I believe, really thought that the Principal was a shocking bad draughtsman, while the despised Wykehamist perfectly82 understood that his object was to show that the process of reasoning to be illustrated83 in no wise depended on accuracy of lines or angles.
There is another passage in one of the letters published by his biographer, which illustrates84 Whately’s aversion from all Wiccamical men and things, and at the same time his utter ignorance of them. “It is commonly said at Oxford,” he writes, “at least it used to be, that it was next to impossible to make a Wykehamist believe that any examination could be harder than that which the candidates for New College undergo.” My reader has already been told in some degree what that examination was, and the nature of it. It was a real and serious examination, whereas that of candidates for admission to Winchester College was a mere85 form; and it was certainly a searching examination into the thoroughness with which schoolboys had done their schoolboy work. But the supposition that any New College man ever imagined his examination in election chamber86 to be of equal difficulty with the subsequent work at the university, or with that in the schools for honours, is an absolute proof that the person so{204} supposing never knew anything about them, or had come much into contact with them.
I have said that Whately’s reputation for a very pronounced Liberalism, certainly at that time unparalleled among his brother heads of houses at Oxford, had been my father’s reason for placing me at Alban Hall. And all that reached the undergraduate world in connection with him was of a nature to lead the academic mind to regard him as a phenomenon of Radicalism87. And it is curious to recall such impressions, while reading at the present day such a passage as the following (Life of Whately, vol. i., p. 302). The Archbishop is writing about the schemes then in agitation88 for the application of a portion of the revenues of the Irish Church to the purposes of national education. The italics in the following transcription are mine.
“It is concluded, first, that in parishes where there is a very small or no Protestant population, the revenues of the Church will be either wholly or in part, as the case may be, transferred to the education board, as the incumbents89 drop, their life interests being reserved; secondly91, that in the event of an increase of the Protestant population, such portion of the funds thus alienated92, as may be thought requisite93, shall be drawn94 from the education board, and restored to the original purpose; thirdly, that in the event of a further diminution95 of the Protestants, a further portion shall be withdrawn96 from the Church, and applied97 to the purpose of general education. This last supposition is{205} merely conjectural98, but is so strictly99 the converse100 of the preceding, that every one at once concludes, and must conclude by parity101 of reasoning, that it must be contemplated102. Now it will not be supposed by any one, who knows much of the state of Ireland, that we contemplate103 as probable any such increase of the Protestant population as to call for the restoration of a considerable portion of the alienated funds. In a few places, perhaps, attempts may be made, I fear with disastrous results, by some zealous104 Protestant landlords to increase with this view the proportion of Protestants on their estates; but on the whole we neither hope nor fear any such result. What alarms us is, the holding out the principle of such a system as the apportioning105 the revenues of the Church and of the education board to the varying proportions of the Roman Catholic population to the Protestant; and again the principle of making the funds for national education contingent106 upon the death of incumbents. The natural effect of the latter of these provisions must be to place the clergy107 so circumstanced in a most invidious, and in this country a most dangerous situation. No one who knows anything of Ireland would like to reside here surrounded by his heirs, on whom his income was to devolve at his death. And such would be very much the case with an incumbent90, who was regarded as standing108 between the nation and the national benefit, viz., of provision for the education of their children. Then in respect of the other point, every Protestant{206} who might come to settle, or remain settled in any parish, would be regarded as tending towards the withdrawing or withholding109, as the case might be, of the funds of the national education, and diverting them to the use of an heretical establishment.
“The most harassing110 persecutions, the most ferocious111 outrages112, the most systematic113 murders, would in consequence be increased fourfold. Bitter as religious animosities have hitherto been in this wretched country, it would be to most persons astonishing that they could be so much augmented114, as I have no doubt they would be, by this fatal experiment. When instead of mere vague jealousy115, revenge and party spirit, to prompt to crime and violence, there was also held out a distinct pecuniary116 national benefit in the extermination117 of Protestants, it would be in fact a price set on their heads, and they would be hunted down like wolves.... Better, far better, would it be to confiscate118 at once and for ever all the endowments held by the clergy, and leave them to be supported by voluntary contribution, or by manual labour. However impoverished119, they and their congregations would at least have security for their lives.”
“To seek to pacify120 Ireland,” he writes a little further on, “by compliance121 and favour shown to its disturbers would be even worse than the superstitious122 procedure of our forefathers123, with their weapon salve, who left the wound to itself, and applied their unguents to the sword which had inflicted124 it.{207}”
Writing to his friend Senior on Parliamentary Reform he says that a system of ￡10 qualification “could not last, but must go on to universal suffrage125.” His own plan would be universal suffrage with a plurality of votes to owners of property in proportion to the amount of it, and a system of election by degrees—parishes e.g. to elect an elector. “Some may,” he concludes, “perhaps think at the first glance that my reform is very democratical. I think that a more attentive126 mind will show that it is calculated to prevent in the most effectual way the inroads of excessive democracy. I can at least say that no one can dread127 more than myself a democratical government, chiefly because I am convinced it is the most warlike.”
Such were the utterances of an advanced Liberal in the first half of this century. Was I far wrong in saying that Whately’s Liberalism would have made very good modern Conservatism?
There was a story current, I remember, not long after Whately’s acceptance of the see of Dublin, which, as I do not think it has been told in print, and as it is very significant, I may tell here—observing that all I know is, that the story was current.
It was at the time when one of the great transatlantic passenger ships had been destroyed by fire with the loss of many lives. One of those saved was a Dublin clergyman of the Low Church school of divinity, who, returning to Dublin, and{208} finding himself the hero of many tea-tables, was wont128 to moralise down the great event of his life after the fashion of those who will have it, quand même, that the tower of Siloam did fall because of the wickedness of those whom it crushed. And one day, at one of those levées of which Miss Whately speaks, he was improving his usual theme, the centre of a knot gathered around him, when the Archbishop strolled up to the group, according to his fashion, and having heard, said: “Yes, truly Mr. ——, a most remarkable experience! But I think I can cap it” (a favourite phrase of Whately’s, who was fond of the amusement of capping verses). “It is little more than a month ago that I crossed from Holyhead to Kingston, and by God’s mercy the vessel129 never caught fire at all!”
I cannot bring to an end my reminiscences relating to so remarkable a man as Whately without relating a story, which he told me, as having been told him by his old and highly valued friend and protégé, Blanco White, once so well known a figure among all the Oriel set of that period. The story was introduced, I remember, as an illustration of a favourite (and doubtless correct) theory of Whately’s to the effect that the popular English “hocus pocus,” as applied to any sleight130 of hand deception131, is simply a derisory corruption132 of the “hoc est corpus” used in the Romish liturgical133 formula for the consecration134 of the eucharistic elements. It may be that the story in question{209} has been told in print before now, but I have never met with it.
“A priest,” said Blanco White, “was for some heinous135 crime condemned136 to capital punishment at Seville. But of course before he could be delivered over to the secular137 arm for the execution of the sentence, a ceremonial degradation138 from his sacerdotal character had to be performed. And this was to be done at the place appointed for his execution immediately before that was proceeded to; and for the greater efficacy of the terrible example to be inculcated on the people, the market day at Seville had been chosen for the purpose.
“The criminal priest accordingly, as he was led to the place of execution, was still to all effects and purposes a priest, with all the tremendous powers inherent in that character, of which nothing save formal ecclesiastical degradation could deprive him. Now it so happened, or perhaps was purposely arranged, that the way from the prison to the place of execution lay through the market place, where all the provisions of all sorts for the Sevillians for that day were exposed. And as the yet undegraded, and it must be feared unrepentant, priest passed among all the various displays of food thus spread out before him, the devil, seizing an opportunity rarely to be matched, entered into the unhappy priest’s mind, and prompted him to deal one last malicious139, and sacrilegious, blow at the population about to witness his miserable140 end.{210} Suddenly, in the mid-market, he stretched out his arms, and pronounced with a loud voice the uncancellable sacramental words, ‘Hoc est corpus!’ And all the contents of that vast market were instantaneously transubstantiated! All the food in Seville was forthwith unavailable for any baser than eucharistic purposes, and Seville had to observe the vindictive141 priest’s last day on earth as a very rigorous fast day!”
Whether Blanco White told this as absolutely having occurred within his own knowledge, or only as a Seville legend, I do not know, but in any case the story is a good one.
I have said that when I entered Alban Hall I was not in a position to obtain much profit from the classical lectures, the main object of which was to drive those who attended them through the examination for the “little go.” I was better able to pass that examination when I first went to Oxford, than when the time came for my doing so. But the examination in question required that the candidate for passing should take up either logic or Euclid (four books only, as I remember), and of neither of these did I know anything. And there the Alban Hall lectures profited me. The admirably lucid142 logic lectures of both the Principal and Vice-Principal to my surprise soon rendered the rationale of the science perfectly comprehensible to me, and even Aldrich became interesting. I selected logic for my “little go,” and Whately made me abundantly able to satisfy the examiners.{211}
But, as I said a few pages back, my membership of Alban Hall was, for more reasons than those which have been already given, disastrous to me, and the disaster came about in this wise.
Whately was rightly and judiciously143 enough very particular in requiring that his men should return after vacation punctually on the day appointed for meeting. Now, unfortunately, my father on one occasion detained me until the following day. What the cause may have been I entirely144 forget, but remember perfectly well that it was in no way connected with any plans or wishes of mine. I returned a day late, and the penalty which Whately had enacted145 for this laches was the payment of a certain sum to his servant, the porter, buttery man, and factotum146 at the hall. What the amount of this penalty was, and whether it were large or small, I have entirely forgotten, if I ever knew, for the whole matter in dispute passed between my father and Whately. The former maintained, whether rightly or wrongly I have not the means of knowing, that the latter acted ultra vires in making any such motu proprio edict. There was no likelihood that Whately would yield in the matter—indeed it would have been out of the question that he should have done so. My father had quite as little of yielding in his nature, and kicked against the pricks147 determinedly148. The result was, that I was one morning summoned to the presence of the Principal and told to take my name off the books! My father was at first disposed to forbid me to do so,{212} but the result of refusal would have been expulsion, which would have entailed149 ruinous consequences much worse than the already sufficiently150 injurious results of being compelled to quit the hall. I should immediately have lost the two valuable exhibitions which I held from Winchester, besides incurring151 the very damning stigma152 that through life attaches to a man who has been expelled. Eventually I took my name off the books under menace of expulsion if I did not.
The case attracted a good deal of attention in the university at the time, and I think the general feeling among the heads of colleges was that Whately was wrong. At all events, without going into the question as between my father and him, it was emphatically a case of Delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi. From beginning to end the whole matter passed over my head. I had neither fault nor option in the matter. And Whately knew perfectly well how very great was the injury he was inflicting153 on me. It was nearly impossible to get admission under the circumstances to any college. The great majority of them could not possibly, even if any one of them had wished to do so, receive a man at a minute’s notice, from absolute want of room, and the wrong that would have been done to others who were waiting for admission. But it would have been entirely contrary to the rules and practice of almost, if not quite, every one of them to receive a man compelled to leave another college, even with a formal bene decessit. And the{213} interval154 of a term (or even of a day, I take it in strictness) would have necessarily involved the forfeiture155 of my exhibitions. All which Whately also knew; but all which, as he might have fairly answered, my father knew also!
Eventually I was received at Magdalen Hall, which has since that day become Hertford College, of which Dr. Macbride was then Principal. Dr. Macbride was one of the kindliest and best men in the world, and he was one of those who most strongly felt that I was being very hardly used. It was with difficulty that it could be managed that I should be received into his society at a day’s notice; but looking to the urgency, as well as to the other circumstances of the case, it was managed somehow, and I became a member of Magdalen Hall.
But the mischief156 done to my university career was fatal! Magdalen Hall was at that time a general refuge for the destitute! Dr. Macbride, well known for his active benevolence157 and beneficence in various spheres of well-doing on the outside of his academical character, was hardly well adapted for the position he held in the university. Anything of the nature of punishment seemed impossible to the gentleness of his character; and I fancy he held theoretically that it was desirable that a place such as his hall should exist in the university to serve as a refuge for those who, without being black sheep, were for a variety of reasons pushed aside from the beaten tracks of the academical career.{214}
I made very little acquaintance with the men there; but I do not think there were many, though no doubt some, black sheep among them. There was another hall in the university at that time famous for the “fastness” of its inmates158. But the “shadiness” of Magdalen Hall was of a different kind. There were many middle-aged159 men there—ci-devant officers in the army, who had quitted their profession with the intention of entering the Church; schoolmasters, who, having begun their career in some capacity which did not require a degree, were at a later day anxious to obtain one in order to better themselves. In general, the object of all there was not education or any other object save simply a degree needed for some social or economical purpose. “Honours” were of course about as much aspired160 to as bishoprics! And it was the business of Mr. Jacobson, the gentle, kindly161, patient, and long-suffering Vice-Principal to secure “a pass” for as many of his heterogeneous162 flock as possible.
Of discipline there could hardly be said to have been any! When other men of the kick-over-the-traces sort told their stories of various surreptitious means of entering college at all sorts of hours, Magdalen Hall men used to say that their plan was to ring at the gate and have it opened for them! I remember upon one occasion, when I had shown myself in chapel163 only on the Sunday morning during an entire week, the Vice-Principal mildly remarked, “You have reduced it to a minimum, Mr. Trollope!” I suppose that in classical attain{215}ments I was much superior to any man in the place. There were many, it is true, who were never seen at lecture at all—not probably from idleness, but because they were obtaining from a private tutor a course of cramming164 more desperately165 energetic than even kindly, patient Jacobson’s elementary lectures could supply. For me the res angusta domi forbade all idea of employing a private tutor. But as for a “pass” degree, I was just as capable of taking it when I left Winchester (with the exception of logic, and what was called “divinity”) as when I did take it; and as regards logic, I was sufficiently capable when I left Whately’s hands. If my “divinity” examination had consisted of as searching an inquiry into my knowledge of the contents of the Old Testament as was required from many men, I should infallibly have been “plucked.” But, as it chanced, it consisted solely166 of construing167 two verses of the New Testament. I remember that the examiner had been hammering away at the man next before me for an inordinate168 time, and as I construed169 my Greek Testament glibly170 enough, he was glad to make up for lost time.
As for Jacobson’s lectures they were absolutely useless to me, and he never in the slightest degree pressed me to attend them. I remember, however, that he desired an interview with me on the morning I was to go into the schools, for the purpose of testing in some degree the probability of my passing. And it is a singular circumstance that—Horace having been one of the books I was taking up{216}—he put me on, as a trial, at the very passage selected for the same purpose by the examiner in the schools an hour or two later! Jacobson found me able enough to deal with the passage he selected. But had it been otherwise he would have secured my passing—as far as Horace was concerned—despite any amount of ignorance of the author, if only I had the wit to remember his cramming for an hour or two.
Eventually, though I had in no wise aimed at anything of the sort, a third class was awarded to me—wholly, as I was given to understand, on account of my Latin writing. The examiners had given—hardly judiciously—so stiff a passage from one of the homilies to be translated into Latin that the majority of the men could not understand the English; which to a certain extent interfered171 with their translation of it into another language. They were “pass men!” With the candidates for honours it would doubtless have been otherwise. But I did understand it, and I took it into my head to translate it twice—once into Ciceronian and once into Sallustian Latin. And this was rewarded by a third class. Valeat quantum!
And thus ended my academical career in a comparative failure, the conclusion of which seemed to have been rather a foregone one. I had no private tutor, and, with the exception of Whately’s logic lectures, no college tuition of any value to me at all. And in addition to all this I was pulled up by the roots and transplanted in the middle of my career. No doubt I was idle, and might have{217} done better. I read a good deal, but it was what I chose to read and not what I ought to have read with a view to the schools. I had no very unacademical pursuits save one. I used occasionally to hire with a friend a gig with a fast horse, drive out to Witney, dine there, wait till the up mail came through, and then run back to Oxford, tormenting172 the coachman and his team by continually running by him, letting him pass me, and then da capo. But these escapades were rare.
A great deal more wine, or what was supposed to be such, was drunk at Oxford in those days than was desirable, or than, as I take it, is the case now. But I never was much of a wine drinker. I think I have been drunk twice in my life, but not oftener. Very little credit, however, is due to me for my moderation, from the fact, which I do not think I ever met with in the case of any other individual, that the headache which to most others comes the next morning as the penalty of excess, always used to come to me, if I at all exceeded, séance tenante, and almost immediately. Nor did wine ever pleasurably raise my spirits, nor did my palate care for it. To the present day as a simple question of gourmandise I would rather drink a glass of lemonade than any champagne173 that was ever grown—lemonade, by the bye, not such liquid as goes by that name in this country, but lemonade made with lemons fresh and fragrant174 from the tree. Under these circumstances I can make small claim to any moral virtue for my sobriety.{218}
I used to be a good deal upon the water either alone or accompanied by a single friend with a pair of sculls. But I was a great walker, and cultivated in those days, and, indeed, during most of the many years that have passed since, a considerable turn of speed. In those days Captain Barclay was called the champion pedestrian of England, and had walked six miles within the hour. I hear people talk of eight and even nine miles having been done within the hour. But I absolutely refuse to believe the statement. I dare say that the ground may have been covered, but not at a fair walk—at what used to be called, and perhaps is called still, a toe-and-heel walk, i.e. a walk in performing which one foot must touch the ground before the other leaves it. I tried very hard to match Captain Barclay’s feat175, but my utmost endeavours never achieved more than five miles and three-quarters—I could never do more; and of course that last quarter of a mile just made all the difference between a first-rate and a second-rate walker. The five and three-quarters I have often done on the Abingdon Road, milestone176 to milestone. And at the present day I should be happy to walk a match with any gentleman born in 1810.
The longest day’s walk I ever did was forty-seven miles, but I carried a very heavy knapsack, making, I take it, that distance fully34 equal to sixty miles without one. How well I remember walking one fair frosty morning from Winchester to Alresford, seven miles, before breakfast. I asked at the inn{219} at which I breakfasted for cold meat. They brought me an uncut loin of small Southdown mutton, of which I ate the whole. And I can see now the glance of that waiter’s eye, accusing me, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, of pocketing his master’s provisions! Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, labuntur anni, and I never shall again eat a loin of mutton at one sitting!—partly though because scientific breeding has exterminated177 the good old Southdown mutton.
One other reminiscence occurs to me in connection with the subject of walking. While I was living with my parents at Harrow, my mother’s brother, Mr. Henry Milton, was living with his family at Fulham. And one Sunday morning I walked from Harrow to Fulham before breakfast on a visit to him. As may be supposed, I was abundantly ready to do ample justice to the very solid and varied178 breakfast placed before me, but, after having done so, was hardly equally ready to accompany my uncle’s family to Fulham Church to hear the Bishop of London preach. This, however, it behoved me to do, not without great misgiving179 as to the effect that the Bishop’s sermon might have on me after my twelve miles walk and very copious180 breakfast—especially as my uncle’s pew was exactly in front and in the vicinity of the pulpit! So, minded to do my best under the difficult circumstances, I stood up during the sermon. All in vain! Nature too peremptorily181 bade me sleep. I slept, with the result of executing an uninterrupted series of{220} profound bows to the preacher, the suddenness and jerky nature of which evidently betokened182 the entirety of my agreement with his arguments. I feared the reproaches, which I doubted not awaited me on my way home. But my uncle contented183 himself with saying, “When you go to sleep during a sermon, Tom, never stand up to do it!”
To sum up the story of my certainly unsuccessful, but not entirely profitless life at Oxford, I may say that I was not altogether an idle man, nor ever in any degree a sharer in any of the “faster” phases of academical life. I was always a reader. But what academical good could come to a man who was reading The Diversions of Purley, or Plot’s Oxfordshire, or Burton’s Anatomy184 of Melancholy185, or Brown’s Vulgar Errors, when he ought to have been reading Aristotle’s Ethics186? Among other reminiscences of the sort, my diary accuses me, for instance, for having taken from the library of Magdalen Hall (and read!) a volume called Gaffarel’s Curiosities. I suppose no other living man has read it! The work contains among other “curiosities,” a chapter “of incredible nonsense,” as my diary calls it, on the construction and proper use of Talismans187!
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
vacancy
|
|
| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
irritability
|
|
| n.易怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
utterances
|
|
| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
procure
|
|
| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
judicious
|
|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
disastrous
|
|
| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
previously
|
|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
enactment
|
|
| n.演出，担任…角色；制订，通过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
statute
|
|
| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
retention
|
|
| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
inevitably
|
|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
destitute
|
|
| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
cohesion
|
|
| n.团结，凝结力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
prevailing
|
|
| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
hind
|
|
| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
hinds
|
|
| n.（常指动物腿）后面的( hind的名词复数 )；在后的；（通常与can或could连用）唠叨不停；滔滔不绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
exalted
|
|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
retentive
|
|
| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
rote
|
|
| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
akin
|
|
| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
mathematicians
|
|
| 数学家( mathematician的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
attainments
|
|
| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
logic
|
|
| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
analytically
|
|
| adv.有分析地，解析地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
synthetically
|
|
| adv. 综合地，合成地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
notably
|
|
| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
invaluable
|
|
| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
hustling
|
|
| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
laborious
|
|
| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
ascertained
|
|
| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
obnoxious
|
|
| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
adversaries
|
|
| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
benevolent
|
|
| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
lawful
|
|
| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
devoid
|
|
| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
antagonism
|
|
| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
warden
|
|
| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
uncouth
|
|
| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
postures
|
|
| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
aplomb
|
|
| n.沉着，镇静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
originality
|
|
| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
wittiest
|
|
| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
eminently
|
|
| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
intercourse
|
|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
underlying
|
|
| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
specimen
|
|
| n.样本，标本 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
controversy
|
|
| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
obviate
|
|
| v.除去，排除，避免，预防 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
testament
|
|
| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
allusions
|
|
| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
illustrate
|
|
| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
omission
|
|
| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
confirmation
|
|
| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
statutes
|
|
| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
scrawling
|
|
| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
82
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
illustrated
|
|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
illustrates
|
|
| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
chamber
|
|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
radicalism
|
|
| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
incumbents
|
|
| 教区牧师( incumbent的名词复数 )； 教会中的任职者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
incumbent
|
|
| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
secondly
|
|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
alienated
|
|
| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
requisite
|
|
| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
diminution
|
|
| n.减少；变小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
withdrawn
|
|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
conjectural
|
|
| adj.推测的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
parity
|
|
| n.平价，等价，比价，对等 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
contemplated
|
|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
contemplate
|
|
| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
zealous
|
|
| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
apportioning
|
|
| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
contingent
|
|
| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
clergy
|
|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
withholding
|
|
| 扣缴税款 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
harassing
|
|
| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
ferocious
|
|
| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
outrages
|
|
| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
systematic
|
|
| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
Augmented
|
|
| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
pecuniary
|
|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
extermination
|
|
| n.消灭，根绝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
confiscate
|
|
| v.没收(私人财产)，把…充公 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
impoverished
|
|
| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
pacify
|
|
| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
compliance
|
|
| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
superstitious
|
|
| adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
forefathers
|
|
| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
inflicted
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
suffrage
|
|
| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
attentive
|
|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
sleight
|
|
| n.技巧，花招 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
deception
|
|
| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
corruption
|
|
| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
liturgical
|
|
| adj.礼拜仪式的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
consecration
|
|
| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
heinous
|
|
| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
secular
|
|
| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
degradation
|
|
| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
malicious
|
|
| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
vindictive
|
|
| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
lucid
|
|
| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
judiciously
|
|
| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
enacted
|
|
| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
factotum
|
|
| n.杂役；听差 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
pricks
|
|
| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
determinedly
|
|
| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
entailed
|
|
| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
incurring
|
|
| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
stigma
|
|
| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
inflicting
|
|
| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
forfeiture
|
|
| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
benevolence
|
|
| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
inmates
|
|
| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
middle-aged
|
|
| adj.中年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
aspired
|
|
| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
heterogeneous
|
|
| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
chapel
|
|
| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
cramming
|
|
| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
solely
|
|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
construing
|
|
| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的现在分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
inordinate
|
|
| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
construed
|
|
| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
glibly
|
|
| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
interfered
|
|
| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
tormenting
|
|
| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
feat
|
|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
milestone
|
|
| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
exterminated
|
|
| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
varied
|
|
| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
misgiving
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
copious
|
|
| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
peremptorily
|
|
| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
betokened
|
|
| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
anatomy
|
|
| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
ethics
|
|
| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
talismans
|
|
| n.护身符( talisman的名词复数 )；驱邪物；有不可思议的力量之物；法宝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
proficiency
|
|
| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |