I say "forgotten," and I think it is just; save for his beautiful hymn3 "The Star of Bethlehem," who nowadays ever hears of Henry Kirke White? But on the drawing-room tables of our grandmothers' girlhood the plump volume, edited with a fulsome4 memoir5 by Southey, held honourable6 place near the conch shell from the Pacific and the souvenirs of the Crystal Palace. Mr. Southey, in his thirty years' laureateship, made the fame of several young versifiers, and deemed that in introducing poor White's remains to the polite world he was laying the first lucifer to a bonfire that would gloriously crackle for posterity7. No less than Chatterton was the worthy8 laureate's estimate of his young foundling; but alas9! Chatterton and Kirke White both seem thinnish gruel10 to us; and even Southey himself is down among the pinch hitters. Literary prognosis is a parlous11 sport.
The generation that gave us Wordsworth, Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Jane Austen, Hazlitt, De Quincey, Byron, Shelley, and Keats, leaves us little time for Kirke White considered purely12 as a literary man. His verses are grotesquely13 stilted14, the obvious conjunction of biliousness15 and overstudy, and adapted to the taste of an era when the word female was still used as a substantive16. But they are highly entertaining to read because they so faithfully mirror the backwash of romanticism. They are so thoroughly18 unhealthy, so morbid19, so pallid20 with moonlight, so indentured21 by the ayenbite of inwit, that it is hard to believe that Henry's father was a butcher and should presumably have reared him on plenty of sound beefsteak and blood gravy22. If only Miss Julia Lathrop or Dr. Anna Howard Shaw could have been Henry's mother, he might have lived to write poems on the abolition23 of slavery in America. But as a matter of fact, he was done to death by the brutal24 tutors of St. John's College, Cambridge, and perished at the age of twenty-one, in 1806. As a poet, let him pass; but the story of his life breathes a sweet and honourable fragrance25, and is comely26 to ponder in the midnight hours. As Southey said, there is nothing to be recorded but what is honourable to him; nothing to be regretted but that one so ripe for heaven should so soon have been removed from the world.
He was born in Nottingham, March 21, 1785, of honest tradesman parents; his origin reminds one inevitably27 of that of Keats. From his earliest years he was studious in temper, and could with difficulty be drawn28 from his books, even at mealtimes. At the age of seven he wrote a story of a Swiss emigrant29 and gave it to the servant, being too bashful to show it to his mother. Southey's comment on this is "The consciousness of genius is always accompanied with this diffidence; it is a sacred, solitary30 feeling."
His schooling31 was not long; and while it lasted part of Henry's time was employed in carrying his father's deliveries of chops and rumps to the prosperous of Nottingham. At fourteen his parents made an effort to start him in line for business by placing him in a stocking factory. The work was wholly uncongenial, and shortly afterward32 he was employed in the office of a busy firm of lawyers. He spent twelve hours a day in the office and then an hour more in the evening was put upon Latin and Greek. Even such recreation hours as the miserable33 youth found were dismally34 employed in declining nouns and conjugating35 verbs. In a little garret at the top of the house he began to collect his books; even his supper of bread and milk was carried up to him there, for he refused to eat with his family for fear of interrupting his studies. It is a deplorable picture: the fumes36 of the hearty37 butcher's evening meal ascend38 the stair in vain, Henry is reading "Blackstone" and "The Wealth of Nations." If it were Udolpho or Conan Doyle that held him, there were some excuse. The sad life of Henry is the truest indictment39 of overstudy that I know. No one, after reading Southey's memoir, will overload40 his brain again.
At the age of fifteen we find the boy writing to his older brother Neville: "I have made a firm resolution never to spend above one hour at this amusement [novel reading]. I have been obliged to enter into this resolution in consequence of a vitiated taste acquired by reading romances." He is human enough to add, however, that "after long and fatiguing41 researches in 'Blackstone' or 'Coke,' 'Tom Jones' or 'Robinson Crusoe' afford a pleasing and necessary relaxation43. Of 'Robinson Crusoe' I shall observe that it is allowed to be the best novel for youth in the English language."
The older brother to whom these comments were addressed was living in London, apparently44 a fairly successful man of business. Henry permitted himself to indulge his pedagogical and ministerial instincts for the benefit and improvement of his kinsman45. They seem to have carried on a mutual46 recrimination in their letters: Neville was inclined to belittle47 the divine calling of poets in their teens; while Henry deplored48 his brother's unwillingness49 to write at length and upon serious and "instructive" topics. Alas, the ill-starred young man had a mania50 for self-improvement. If our great-grandparents were all like that what an age it had been for the Scranton correspondence courses! "What is requisite51 to make one's correspondence valuable?" asks Henry. "I answer, sound sense." (The italics are his own.) "You have better natural abilities than many youth," he tells his light-hearted brother, "but it is with regret I see that you will not give yourself the trouble of writing a good letter. My friend, you never found any art, however trivial, that did not require some application at first." He begs the astounded52 Neville to fill his letters with his opinions of the books he reads. "You have no idea how beneficial this would be to yourself." Does one not know immediately that Henry is destined54 to an early grave?
Henry's native sweetness was further impaired55 by a number of prizes won in magazine competitions. A silver medal and a pair of twelve-inch globes shortly became his for meritorious56 contributions to the Monthly Mirror. He was also admitted a member of a famous literary society then existing in Nottingham, and although the youngest of the sodality he promptly57 announced that he proposed to deliver them a lecture. With mingled58 curiosity and dismay the gathering59 assembled at the appointed time, and the inspired youth harangued60 them for two hours on the subject of Genius. The devil, or his agent in Nottingham, had marked Henry for destruction.
In such a career there can be no doubt as to the next step. He published a book of poems. His verses, dealing61 with such topics as Consumption, Despair, Lullaby of a Female Convict to Her Child the Night Previous to Execution, Lines Spoken by a Lover at the Grave of His Mistress, The Eve of Death, and Sonnet63 Addressed by a Female Lunatic to a Lady, had been warmly welcomed by the politest magazines of the time. To wish to publish them in more permanent form was natural; but the unfortunate young man conceived the thought that the venture might even be a profitable one. He had found himself troubled with deafness, which threatened to annul64 his industry in the law; moreover, his spirit was canting seriously toward devotional matters, and thoughts of a college career and then the church were lively in his mind.
The winter of 1802-3 was busily passed in preparing his manuscript for the printer. Probably never before or since, until the Rev62. John Franklin Bair of Greensburg, Pennsylvania, set about garnering65 his collected works into that volume which is the delight of the wicked, has a human heart mulled over indifferent verses with so honest a pleasure and such unabated certainty of immortality67. The first two details to be attended to were the printing of what were modestly termed Proposals—i.e., advertisements of the projected volume, calling for pledges of subscription—and, still more important, securing the permission of some prominent person to accept a dedication68 of the book. The jolly old days of literary patronage69 were then in the sere70 and saffron, but it was still esteemed71 an aid to the sale of a volume if it might be dedicated72 to some marquis of Carabas. Accordingly the manuscript was despatched to London, and Neville, the philistine73 brother, was called upon to leave it at the residence of the Duchess of Devonshire. A very humble74 letter from honest Henry accompanied it, begging leave of her Grace to dedicate his "trifling75 effusions" to her.
Henry's letters to Neville while his book was in preparation are very entertaining, as those of minor76 poets always are under such circumstances. Henry was convinced that at least 350 copies would be sold in Nottingham. He writes in exultation77 that he has already got twenty-three orders even before his "proposals" are ready:
"I have got twenty-three, without making the affair public at all, among my immediate53 acquaintance: and mind, I neither solicit79 nor draw the conversation to the subject, but a rumour80 has got abroad, and has been received more favourably81 than I expected."
But the matter of the dedication unfortunately lagged far behind the poet's hopes. After the manuscript was left at the house of her Grace of Devonshire there followed what the Ancient Mariner82 so feelingly calls a weary time. Poor Henry in Nottingham hung upon the postman's heels, but no word arrived from the duchess. She was known to be assaulted from all sides by such applications: indeed her mail seems to have been very nearly as large as that of Mary Pickford or Theda Bara. Then, to his unspeakable anxiety, the miserable and fermenting83 Henry learned that all parcels sent to the duchess, unless marked with a password known only to her particular correspondents, were thrown into a closet by her porter to be reclaimed84 at convenience, or not at all. "I am ruined," cried Henry in agony; and the worthy Neville paid several unsuccessful visits to Devonshire House in the attempt to retrieve85 the manuscript. Finally, after waiting four hours in the servants' hall, he succeeded. Even then undaunted, this long-suffering older brother made one more try in the poet's behalf: he obtained a letter of introduction to the duchess, and called on her in person, wisely leaving the manuscript at home; and with the complaisance86 of the great the lady readily acquiesced87 in Henry's modest request. Her name was duly inscribed88 on the proper page of the little volume, and in course of time the customary morocco-bound copy reached her. Alas, she took no notice of it, and Mr. Southey surmises89 that "Involved as she was in an endless round of miserable follies90, it is probable that she never opened the book."
It is not necessary to take the poems in this little volume more seriously than any seventeen-year-old ejaculations. It is easy to see what Henry's reading had been—Milton, Collins, and Gray, evidently. His unconscious borrowings from Milton do him great credit, as showing how thoroughly he appreciated good poetry. It seeped92 into his mind and became part of his own outpourings. Il Penseroso gushes93 to the surface of poor Henry's song every few lines; precious twigs94 and shreds95 of Milton flow merrily down the current of his thought. And yet smile as we may, every now and then friend Henry puts something over. One of his poems is a curious foretaste of what Keats was doing ten years later. Every now and then one pauses to think that this lad, once his youthful vapours were over, might have done great things. And as he says in his quaint78 little preface, "the unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of literary information, but in the more active business of life, must not be expected to exhibit any considerable portion of the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace."
The publishing game was new to Henry, and the slings96 and arrows found an unshielded heart. When the first copies of his poor little book came home from the printer he was prostrated97 to find several misprints. He nearly swooned, but seizing a pen he carefully corrected all the copies. After writing earnest and very polite letters to all the reviewers he dispatched copies to the leading periodicals, and sat down in the sure hope of rapid fame. How bitter was his chagrin98 when the Monthly Review for February, 1804, came out with a rather disparaging99 comment: in particular the critic took umbrage100 at his having put boy to rhyme with sky, and added, referring to Henry's hopes of a college course, "If Mr. White should be instructed by alma mater, he will, doubtless, produce better sense and better rhymes."
The review was by no means unjust: it said what any disinterested101 opinion must have confirmed, that the youth's ambitions were excellent, but that neither he, nor indeed any two-footed singer, is likely to be an immortal66 poet by seventeen. But Henry's sensitive soul had been so inflated102 by the honest pride of his friends that he could only see gross and callous103 malignity104 and conspiracy105 in the criticism. His theology, his health, his peace of mind, were all overthrown106. As a matter of fact, however (as Southey remarks), it was the very brusqueness of this review that laid the foundation of his reputation. The circumstance aroused Southey's interest in the young man's efforts to raise himself above his level in the world and it was the laureate who after Henry's death edited his letters and literary remains, and gave him to us as we have him. Southey tells us that after the young man's death he and Coleridge looked over his papers with great emotion, and were amazed at the fervour of his industry and ambition.
Alas, we must hurry the narrative108, on which one would gladly linger. The life of this sad and high-minded anchorite has a strong fascination109 for me. Melancholy110 had marked him for her own: he himself always felt that he had not a long span before him. Hindered by deafness, threatened with consumption, and a deadlier enemy yet—epilepsy—his frail111 and uneasy spirit had full right to distrust its tenement112. The summer of 1804 he spent partly at Wilford, a little village near Nottingham where he took lodgings113. His employers very kindly114 gave him a generous holiday to recruit; but his old habits of excessive study seized him again. He had, for the time, given up hope of being able to attend the university, and accordingly thought it all the more necessary to do well at the law. Night after night he would read till two or three in the morning, lie down fully17 dressed on his bed, and rise again to work at five or six. His mother, who was living with him in his retreat, used to go upstairs to put out his candle and see that he went to bed; but Henry, so docile115 in other matters, in this was unconquerable. When he heard his mother's step on the stair he would extinguish the taper116 and feign117 sleep; but after she had retired118 he would light it again and resume his reading. Perhaps the best things he wrote were composed in this period of extreme depression. The "Ode on Disappointment," and some of his sonnets119, breathe a quiet dignity of resignation to sorrow that is very touching120 and even worthy of respect as poetry. He never escaped the cliché and the bathetic121, but this is a fair example of his midnight musings at their highest pitch:—
TO CONSUMPTION
Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand. Let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And if 'tis true what holy men have said,
O let the aerial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear;
That I may bid my weeping friends good-bye,
Ere I depart upon my journey drear:
And smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.
But in spite of depression and ill health, he was really happy at Wilford, a village in the elbow of a deep gully on the Trent, and near his well-beloved Clifton Woods. On the banks of the stream he would sit for hours in a maze107 of dreams, or wander among the trees on summer nights, awed125 by the sublime126 beauty of the lightning, and heedless of drenched127 and muddy clothes.
Later in the summer it was determined128 that he should go to college after all; and by the generosity129 of a number of friends (including Neville who promised twenty pounds annually) he was able to enter himself for St. John's College, Cambridge. In the autumn he left his legal employers, who were very sorry to lose him, and took up quarters with a clergyman in Lincolnshire (Winteringham) under whom he pursued his studies for a year, to prepare himself thoroughly for college. His letters during this period are mostly of a religious tinge130, enlivened only by a mishap131 while boating on the Humber when he was stranded132 for six hours on a sand-bank. He had become quite convinced that his calling was the ministry133. The proper observance of the Sabbath by his younger brothers and sisters weighed on his mind, and he frequently wrote home on this topic.
In October, 1805, we find him settled at last in his rooms at St. John's, the college that is always dear to us as the academic home of two very different undergraduates—William Wordsworth and Samuel Butler. His rooms were in the rearmost court, near the cloisters134, and overlooking the famous Bridge of Sighs. His letters give us a pleasant picture of his quiet rambles135 through the town, his solitary cups of tea as he sat by the fire, and his disappointment in not being able to hear his lecturers on account of his deafness. Most entertaining to any one at all familiar with the life of the Oxford136 and Cambridge colleges is his account of the thievery of his "gyp" (the manservant who makes the bed, cares for the rooms, and attends to the wants of the students). Poor Henry's tea, sugar, and handkerchiefs began to vanish in the traditional way; but he was practical enough to buy a large padlock for his coal bin42.
But Henry's innocent satisfaction in having at last attained137 the haven138 of his desires was not long of duration. In spite of ill health, his tutors constrained139 him to enter for a scholarship examination in December, and when the unfortunate fellow pleaded physical inability, they dosed him with "strong medicines" to enable him to face the examiners. After the ordeal140 he was so unstrung that he hurried off to London to spend Christmas with his aunt.
The account of his year at college is very pitiful. His tutors were, according to their lights, very kind; they relieved him as far as possible from financial worries, but they did not have sense enough to restrain him from incessant141 study. Even on his rambles he was always at work memorizing Greek plays, mathematical theorems, or what not. In a memorandum142 found in his desk his life was thus planned: "Rise at half-past five. Devotions and walk till seven. Chapel143 and breakfast till eight. Study and lectures till one. Four and a half clear reading. Walk and dinner, and chapel to six. Six to nine reading. Nine to ten, devotions. Bed at ten."
In the summer of 1806 his examiners ranked him the best man of his year, and in mistaken kindness the college decided144 to grant him the unusual compliment of keeping him in college through the vacation with a special mathematical tutor, gratis145, to work with him, mathematics being considered his weakness. As his only chance of health lay in complete rest during the holiday, this plan of spending the summer in study was simply a death sentence. In July, while at work on logarithm tables, he was overtaken by a sudden fainting fit, evidently of an epileptic nature. The malady146 gained strength, aided by the weakness of his heart and lungs, and he died on October 19, 1806.
Poor Henry! Surely no gentler, more innocent soul ever lived. His letters are a golden treasury147 of earnest and solemn speculation148. Perhaps once a twelve-month he displays a sad little vein149 of pleasantry, but not for long. Probably the light-hearted undergraduates about him found him a very prosy, shabby, and mournful young man, but if one may judge by the outburst of tributary150 verses published after his death he was universally admired and respected. Let us close the story by a quotation151 from a tribute paid him by a lady versifier:
If worth, if genius, to the world are dear,
To Henry's shade devote no common tear.
If pure benevolence156, if steady sense,
If all the highest efforts of the mind,
Call for fond sympathy's heartfelt regret,
Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt!
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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parlous
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| adj.危险的，不确定的，难对付的 | |
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purely
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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biliousness
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| [医] 胆汁质 | |
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substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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fully
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thoroughly
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morbid
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pallid
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indentured
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gravy
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abolition
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brutal
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fragrance
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comely
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inevitably
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drawn
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emigrant
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solitary
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schooling
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afterward
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miserable
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dismally
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conjugating
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fumes
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hearty
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ascend
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indictment
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overload
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fatiguing
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relaxation
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apparently
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kinsman
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mutual
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belittle
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deplored
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unwillingness
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mania
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requisite
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astounded
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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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destined
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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58
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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59
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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60
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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62
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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63
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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64
annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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65
garnering
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的现在分词 ) | |
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66
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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67
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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68
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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69
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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70
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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71
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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72
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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73
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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74
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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75
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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76
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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77
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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78
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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79
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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80
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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81
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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82
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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83
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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84
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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85
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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86
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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87
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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89
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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90
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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91
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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92
seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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93
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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94
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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95
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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96
slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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97
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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98
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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99
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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100
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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101
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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102
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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103
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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104
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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105
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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106
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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107
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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108
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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109
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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110
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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111
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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112
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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113
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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114
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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115
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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116
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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117
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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118
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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119
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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120
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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121
bathetic
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| adj.平凡的，陈腐的，顿降的 | |
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122
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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123
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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124
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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125
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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127
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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128
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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129
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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130
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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131
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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132
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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133
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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134
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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135
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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136
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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137
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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138
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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139
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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140
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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141
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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142
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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143
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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144
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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145
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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146
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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147
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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148
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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149
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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150
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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151
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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152
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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153
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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154
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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155
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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156
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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157
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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158
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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