When James Boswell, Esq., wrote The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., he not only achieved his purpose of giving the world “a rich intellectual treasure,” but also succeeded in making himself a subject of permanent literary interest.
Among the good things which the year 1922 has brought to us I count the Boswell redivivus from the industrious1 and skilful2 hand of Professor Chauncey Brewster Tinker of Yale. He calls his excellent book, which is largely enriched with new material in the way of hitherto unpublished letters, Young Boswell. This does not mean that he deals only with the early years, amatory episodes, and first literary ventures of Johnson’s inimitable biographer, but that he sees in the man a certain persistent3 youngness which accounts for the exuberance4 of his faults and follies5 as well as for the enthusiasm of his hero-worship.
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Mr. Tinker does not attempt to camouflage6 the incorrigible7 absurdities8 of Boswell’s disposition9, nor the excesses of his conduct, but finds an explanation if not an excuse for them in the fact that he had a juvenile10 temperament11 which inclined him all through life to self-esteem and self-indulgence, and kept him “very much a boy” until he died of it. Whether this is quite consistent with his being “in fullest truth a genius,” as Mr. Tinker claims, may be doubted; for genius in the high sense is something that ripens12 if time be given it. But what is certain beyond a question is that this vain and vagarious little Scotch13 laird had in him a gift of observation, a talent of narration14, and above all a power of generous admiration15, which enabled him to become, by dint16 of hard work, what Macaulay entitled him, “the first of biographers.”
Ever since it appeared in 1791, Boswell’s Life of Johnson has been a most companionable book. Reprinted again and again, it finds a perennial17 welcome. To see it in a new edition is no more remarkable18 nowadays than it once was to see Dr. Oliver Goldsmith in a new and vivid waistcoat. For my own part I prefer it handsomely drest, with
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large type, liberal margins19, and a-plenty of illustrations. For it is not a book in which economy of bulk is needful; it is less suitable for company on a journey or a fishing-trip, than for a meditative20 hour in the library after dinner, or a pleasant wakeful hour in bed, when the reading-lamp glows clear and steady, and all the rest of the family are asleep or similarly engaged in recumbent reading.
There are some books with which we can never become intimate. However long we may know them they keep us on the cold threshold of acquaintance. Others boisterously21 grasp our hand and drag us in, only to bore us and make us regret the day of our introduction. But if there ever was a book which invited genially22 to friendship and delight it is this of Boswell’s. The man who does not know it is ignorant of some of the best cheer that can enliven a solitary23 fireside. The man who does not enjoy it is insensible alike to the attractions of a noble character vividly24 depicted25, and to the amusement afforded by the sight of a great genius in company with an adoring follower26 capable, at times, of acting27 like an engaging ass28.
Yet after all, I have always had my doubts about
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the supposed “asininity” of Boswell. As his Great Friend said, “A man who talks nonsense so well must know that he is talking nonsense.” It is only fair to accept his own explanation and allow that when he said or did ridiculous things it was, partly at least, in order to draw out his Tremendous Companion. Thus we may think with pleasure of Boswell taking a rise out of Johnson. But we do not need to imagine Johnson taking a rise out of Boswell; it was not necessary; he rose of his own accord. He made a candid29 record of these diverting incidents because, though self-complacent, he was not touchy30, and he had sense enough to see that the sure way to be entirely31 entertaining is to be quite frank.
Boswell threw a stone at one bird and brought down two. His triumphant32 effort to write the life of his Immense Hero just as it was, with all its surroundings, appurtenances, and eccentricities33, has won for himself a singular honour: his proper name has become a common noun. It is hardly necessary to use a capital letter when we allude34 to a boswell. His pious35 boast that he had “Johnsonized
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the land,” is no more correct than it would be to say, (and if he were alive he would certainly say it,) that he had boswellized biography.
The success of the book appears the more remarkable when we remember that of the seventy-five years of Samuel Johnson’s life not more than two years and two months were passed in the society of James Boswell. Yet one would almost think that they had been rocked in the same cradle, or, (if this figure of speech seem irreverent,) that the Laird of Auchinleck had slept in a little trundle-bed beside the couch of the Mighty36 Lexicographer37. I do not mean by this that the record is trivial and cubicular, but simply that Boswell has put into his book as much of Johnson as it will hold.
Let no one imagine, however, that a like success can be secured by following the same recipe with any chance subject. The exact portraiture38 of an insignificant39 person confers information where there is no curiosity, and becomes tedious in proportion as it is precise.[19] The first thing needful is to catch
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a giant for your hero; and in this little world it is seldom that one like Johnson comes to the net.
What a man he was,—this “old struggler,” as he called himself,—how uncouth41 and noble and genuine and profound,—“a labouring, working mind; an indolent, reposing42 body”! What a heart of fortitude43 in the bosom44 of his melancholy45, what a kernel46 of human kindness within the shell of his rough manner! He was proud but not vain, sometimes rude but never cruel. His prejudices were insular47, but his intellect was continental48. There was enough of contradiction in his character to give it variety, and enough of sturdy faith to give it unity49. It was not easy for him to be good, but it was impossible for him to be false; and he fought the battle of life through along his chosen line even to the last skirmish of mortality.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Painted by Reynolds.
From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London.
I suppose we Americans might harbour a grudge50 against him on the score of his opinion of our forefathers51. It is on record that he said of them, during their little controversy52 with King George III, that they were “a race of convicts.” (How exciting it would have been to hear him say a thing like that
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to the face of George Washington or Benjamin Franklin! He was quite capable of it.) But we can afford to laugh at such an obiter dictum now. And upon my honesty it offends me less at the present time than Lionel Lispingly Nutt’s condescending53 advice on poetry and politics, or Stutterworth Bummell’s patronizing half-praise. Let a man smite55 us fairly on one cheek, and we can manage to turn the other,—out of his reach. But if he deals superciliously56 with us as “poor relations,” we can hardly help looking for a convenient and not too dangerous flight of stairs for his speedy descent.
Johnson may be rightly claimed as a Tory-Democrat on the strength of his serious saying that “the interest of millions must ever prevail over that of thousands,” and the temper of his pungent57 letter to Lord Chesterfield. And when we consider also his side remark in defense58 of card-playing on the ground that it “generates kindness and consolidates59 society,” we may differ from him in our estimate of the game, but we cannot deny that in small things as well as in great he spoke60 as a liberal friend of humanity.
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His literary taste was not infallible; in some instances, (for example his extreme laudation of Sir John Denham’s poem Cooper’s Hill, and his adverse61 criticism of Milton’s verse,) it was very bad. In general you may say that it was based upon theories and rules which are not really of universal application, though he conceived them to be so. But his style was much more the product of his own personality and genius. Ponderous62 it often was, but seldom clumsy. He had the art of saying what he meant in a deliberate, clear, forceful way. Words arrayed themselves at his command and moved forward in serried63 phalanx. He had the praiseworthy habit of completing his sentences and building his paragraphs firmly. It will not do us any good to belittle64 his merit as a writer, particularly in this age of slipper-shod and dressing-gowned English.
His diction was much more varied65 than people usually suppose. He could suit his manner to almost any kind of subject, except possibly the very lightest. He had a keen sense of the shading of synonyms66 and rarely picked the wrong word. Of antithesis67 and the balanced sentence he was over-fond;
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and this device, intended originally to give a sharpened emphasis, being used too often, lends an air of monotony to his writing. Yet it has its merits too, as may be seen in these extracts from the fiftieth number of The Rambler,—extracts which, by the way, have some relation to a controversy still raging:
“Every old man complains of the growing depravity of the world, of the petulance68 and insolence69 of the rising generation. He recounts the decency70 and regularity71 of former times, and celebrates the discipline and sobriety of the age in which his youth was passed; a happy age, which is now no more to be expected, since confusion has broken in upon the world and thrown down all the boundaries of civility and reverence72.... It may, therefore, very reasonably be suspected that the old draw upon themselves the greatest part of those insults which they so much lament73, and that age is rarely despised but when it is contemptible74.... He that would pass the latter part of his life with honour and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he shall one day be old; and remember, when he is
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old, that he has once been young. In youth, he must lay up knowledge for his support, when his powers of action shall forsake75 him; and in age forbear to animadvert with rigour on faults which experience only can correct.”
In meaning this is very much the same as Sir James Barrie’s recent admirable discourse76 on “Courage” at the University of St. Andrew’s; but in manner there is quite a difference.
It is commonly supposed that Dr. Johnson did a great deal to overload77 and oppress the English language by introducing new and awkward words of monstrous78 length. His opportunities in that way were large, but he always claimed that he had used them with moderation and had not coined above four or five words. When we note that “peregrinity” was one of them, we are grateful that he refrained so much; but when we remember that “clubbable” was another, we are glad that he did not refrain altogether. For there is no quality more easy to recognize and difficult to define than that which makes a man acceptable in a club; and of this Dr. Johnson has given us a fine example in his life and an appropriate name in his word.
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I think one reason why he got on so well with people who differed from him, and why most of the sensible ones so readily put up with his downright and often brusque way of expressing his sentiments, was because they came so evidently from his sincere and unshakeable conviction that certain things are true, that they can not be changed, and that they should not be forgotten. Not only in politics, but also and more significantly in religion, Samuel Johnson stands out as a sturdy believer.
This seems the more noteworthy when we consider the conditions of his life. There is hardly one among the great men of history who can be called so distinctively79 “a man of letters,” undoubtedly80 none who has won as high a position and as large a contemporary influence by sheer strength of pen. Now the literary life is not generally considered to be especially favourable81 to the cultivation82 of religion; and Johnson’s peculiar83 circumstances were not of a kind to make it more favourable in his case than usual. He was poor and neglected, struggling during a great part of his career against the heaviest odds84. His natural disposition was by no means such as to predispose him to faith. He was afflicted85
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from childhood with a hypochondriac and irritable86 humour; a high, domineering spirit, housed in an unwieldy and disordered body; plagued by inordinate87 physical appetites; inclined naturally to rely with over-confidence upon the strength and accuracy of his reasoning powers; driven by his impetuous temper into violent assertion and controversy; deeply depressed88 by his long years of obscurity and highly elated by his final success,—he was certainly not one whom we would select as likely to be a remarkably89 religious man. Carlyle had less to embitter90 him. Goethe had no more to excuse self-idolatry. And yet, beyond a doubt, Johnson was a sincere, humble91, and, in the main, a consistent Christian92.
Of course, we cannot help seeing that his peculiarities93 and faults affected94 his religion. He was intolerant in his expression of theological views to a degree which seems almost ludicrous. We may, perhaps, keep a straight face and a respectful attitude when we see him turning his back on the Abbé Raynal, and refusing to “shake hands with an infidel.” But when he exclaims in regard to a young
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lady who had left the Church of England to become a Quaker, “I hate the wench and shall ever hate her; I hate all impudence95 of a chit; apostasy96 I nauseate”; and when he answers the gently expressed hope of a friend that he and the girl would meet, after all, in a blessed eternity97, by saying, “Madam, I am not fond of meeting fools anywhere,” we cannot help joining in the general laughter of the company to whom he speaks; and as the Doctor himself finally laughs and becomes cheerful and entertaining, we feel that it was only the bear in him that growled,—an honest beast, but sometimes very surly.
As for his remarkable strictures upon Presbyterianism, his declaration that he preferred the Roman Catholic Church, his expressed hope that John Knox was buried in the highway, and his wish that a dangerous steeple in Edinburgh might not be taken down because if it were let alone it might fall on some of the posterity98 of John Knox, which, he said, would be “no great matter,”—if when we read these things we remember that he was talking to his Scotch friend Boswell, we get a new idea of
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the audacity99 of the great man’s humour. I believe he even stirred up his natural high-churchism to rise rampant100 and roar vigourously, for the pleasure of seeing Boswell’s eyes stand out, and his neat little pigtail vibrate in dismay.
There are many other sayings of Johnson’s which disclose a deeper vein101 of tolerance102; such as that remark about the essential agreement and trivial differences of all Christians103, and his warm commendation, on his dying bed, of the sermons of Dr. Samuel Clarke, a Dissenting104 minister.
But even suppose we are forced to admit that Dr. Johnson was lacking in that polished liberality, that willingness to admit that every other man’s opinions are as good as his own, which we have come nowadays to regard as the chief of the theological virtues105; even suppose we must call him “narrow,” we must admit at the same time that he was “deep”; he had a profundity106 of conviction, a sincerity107 of utterance108 which made of his religion something, as the Germans say, “to take hold of with your hands.”
He had need of a sturdy belief. With that tempestuous109, unruly disposition of his boiling all the
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time within him, living in the age of Chesterfield and Bolingbroke, fighting his way through the world amid a thousand difficulties and temptations, he had great need to get a firm grip upon some realities of religion and hold fast to them as things that were settled. His first conviction of the truth of Christianity came to him while he was at Oxford110, through a casual reading of Law’s Call to the Unconverted. There were some years after that, he tells us, when he was totally regardless of religion. But sickness and trouble brought it back, “and I hope,” says he, “that I have never lost it since.”
He was not unwilling111 to converse112 with friends at fitting opportunities in regard to religious subjects, and no one who heard him could have remained long in doubt as to the nature of his views. There was one conversation in particular, on the subject of the sacrifice of Christ, at the close of which he solemnly dictated113 to his friend a brief statement of his belief, saying finally, “The peculiar doctrine114 of Christianity is that of an universal sacrifice and a perpetual propitiation. Other prophets only proclaimed the will and the threatenings of God. Christ
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satisfied his justice.” Again, one calm, bright Sunday afternoon, when he was in a boat with some friends upon the sea (I think it was during his journey to the Hebrides,) he fell into discourse with Boswell about the fear of death, which was often very terrible to his mind. He would not admit that the close of life ought to be regarded with cheerfulness or indifference115, or that a rational man should be as willing to leave the world as to go out of a show-room after he has seen it. “No, sir,” said he, “there is no rational principle by which a man can die contented116, but a trust in the mercy of God through the merits of Jesus Christ.” He was not ashamed to say that he was afraid to die. He assumed no braggadocio117 before the grave. He was honest with himself, and he felt that he needed all the fortitude of a religious faith to meet the hour of dissolution and the prospect118 of divine judgment119 without flinching120. He could never have understood the attitude of men who saunter as unconcernedly and airily towards the day of judgment as if they were going to the play.
But Johnson was by no means given to unseasonable
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or unreasonable121 religious discourse. He had a holy horror of cant40, and of unprofitable controversy. He once said of a friend who was more loquacious122 than discreet123, “Why, yes, sir; he will introduce religious discourse without seeing whether it will end in instruction and improvement, or produce some profane124 jest. He would introduce it in the company of Wilkes, and twenty more such.”
It was Dr. Johnson’s custom to keep a book of Prayers and Meditations125 for his own private use. These were printed after his death, and they reveal to us the sincerity of his inner life as nothing else could do. Think of the old man kneeling down in his room before he began the painful labours of a studious day, and repeating this prayer:—
“Against inquisitive126 and perplexing thoughts: O Lord, my Maker127 and Protector, who hast graciously sent me into this world to work out my salvation128, enable me to drive from me all such unquiet and perplexing thoughts as may mislead or hinder me in the practice of those duties which Thou hast required. When I behold129 the works of thy hands, and consider the course of thy providence130, give me
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grace always to remember that thy thoughts are not my thoughts, nor thy ways my ways. And while it shall please Thee to continue me in this world, where much is to be done and little to be known, teach me by thy Holy Spirit to withdraw my mind from unprofitable and dangerous inquiries131, from difficulties vainly curious, and doubts impossible to be solved. Let me rejoice in the light which Thou hast imparted; let me serve Thee with active zeal132 and humble confidence, and wait with patient expectation for the time in which the soul Thou receivest shall be satisfied with knowledge. Grant this, O Lord, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
These are honest and sensible petitions. And the more a man knows, the more devoted133 he is to serious and difficult studies, the more he ought to feel the need of just such a divine defense and guidance. It is good to be kept on the track. It is wise to mistrust your own doubts. It is happy to be delivered from them.
The fundamental quality of Dr. Johnson’s religion was the sense of reverence. He was never “known to utter the name of God but on proper
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occasions and with due respect.” He approached the consideration of divine things with genuine solemnity, and could not tolerate sacred trifling134 or pious profanity. He was not ashamed to kneel where men could see him, although he never courted their notice; or to pray where men could hear him, although he did not desire their approbation135 any more than he feared their ridicule136.
There were grave faults and errors in his conduct. But no one had so keen a sense of their unworthiness as the man himself, who was bravely fighting against them, and sincerely lamenting137 their recurrence138. They often tripped him and humiliated139 him, but they never got him completely down. He righted himself and went lumbering140 on. He never sold his heart to a lie, never confused the evil and the good. When he sinned he knew it and repented141. It gives us confidence in his sincerity when we see him denying himself the use of wine because he was naturally prone142 to excess, and yet allowing it to his friends who were able to use it temperately143. He was no puritan; and, on the other hand, he was no slipshod condoner144 of vice54 or suave145 preacher of moral
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indifference. He was a big, honest soul, trying hard to live straight along the line of duty and to do good as he found opportunity.
The kindness and generosity146 of his heart were known to few save his intimate friends, and not always appreciated even by those who had most cause to be grateful to him. The poor broken-down pensioners147 with whom he filled his house in later years, and to whom he alluded148 playfully as his seraglio, were a constant source of annoyance149. They grumbled150 perpetually and fought like so many cats. But he would not cast them off any more than he would turn out his favourite mouser, Hodge, for whom he used to “go out and buy oysters151, lest the servants having that trouble should take a dislike to the poor creature.” He gave away a large part of his income in charity; and, what was still more generous, he devoted a considerable portion of his time to counseling young and unsuccessful authors and, (note this,) reading their manuscripts.
I suppose if one had been a poverty-stricken beginner at literature, in London of the eighteenth century, the best thing one could have done would
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have been to find the way to Dr. Johnson’s house and tell him how the case stood. If he himself had no money to lend, he would have borrowed it from some of his friends. And if he could not say anything encouraging about the manuscripts, he would have been honest and kind enough to advise the unhappy aspirant152 to fame to prefer the life of a competent shoemaker to that of an incompetent153 scribbler.
Much of what was best in the character of Johnson came out in his friendships. He was as good a lover as he was a hater. He was loyal to a fault, and sincere, though never extravagant154, in his admirations.
The picture of the old man in his last illness, surrounded by the friends whom he had cherished so faithfully, and who now delighted to testify their respect and affection for him, and brighten his lingering days with every attention, has little of the customary horror of a death-bed. It is strange indeed that he who had always been subject to such a dread155 of dying should have found it possible to meet the hour of dissolution with such composure.
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His old friend Sir Joshua Reynolds comes in to bid him farewell, and Johnson makes three requests of him,—to forgive him thirty pounds which he had borrowed from him, to read the Bible, and never to use his pencil on a Sunday. Good petitions, which Sir Joshua readily granted, although we cannot help fearing that he occasionally forgot the last.
“Tell me,” says the sick man to his physician, “can I possibly recover? Give me a direct answer.” Being hard pressed, Dr. Brocklesby confesses that in his opinion recovery is out of the question. “Then,” says Johnson, “I will take no more physick, not even my opiates: for I have prayed that I may render up my soul to God unclouded.”
And so with kind and thoughtful words to his servant, and a “God bless you, my dear” to the young daughter of a friend who stood lingering at the door of his room, this sturdy old believer went out to meet the God whom he had tried so honestly to serve. His life was an amazing victory over poverty, sickness, and sin. Greatness alone could not have insured, nor could perseverance156 alone have
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commanded, three of his good fortunes in this world: that Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his portrait; that Boswell wrote his biography; and that His Wife said of him that “he was the most sensible man she had ever met.”
Among the good things which the year 1922 has brought to us I count the Boswell redivivus from the industrious1 and skilful2 hand of Professor Chauncey Brewster Tinker of Yale. He calls his excellent book, which is largely enriched with new material in the way of hitherto unpublished letters, Young Boswell. This does not mean that he deals only with the early years, amatory episodes, and first literary ventures of Johnson’s inimitable biographer, but that he sees in the man a certain persistent3 youngness which accounts for the exuberance4 of his faults and follies5 as well as for the enthusiasm of his hero-worship.
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Mr. Tinker does not attempt to camouflage6 the incorrigible7 absurdities8 of Boswell’s disposition9, nor the excesses of his conduct, but finds an explanation if not an excuse for them in the fact that he had a juvenile10 temperament11 which inclined him all through life to self-esteem and self-indulgence, and kept him “very much a boy” until he died of it. Whether this is quite consistent with his being “in fullest truth a genius,” as Mr. Tinker claims, may be doubted; for genius in the high sense is something that ripens12 if time be given it. But what is certain beyond a question is that this vain and vagarious little Scotch13 laird had in him a gift of observation, a talent of narration14, and above all a power of generous admiration15, which enabled him to become, by dint16 of hard work, what Macaulay entitled him, “the first of biographers.”
Ever since it appeared in 1791, Boswell’s Life of Johnson has been a most companionable book. Reprinted again and again, it finds a perennial17 welcome. To see it in a new edition is no more remarkable18 nowadays than it once was to see Dr. Oliver Goldsmith in a new and vivid waistcoat. For my own part I prefer it handsomely drest, with
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large type, liberal margins19, and a-plenty of illustrations. For it is not a book in which economy of bulk is needful; it is less suitable for company on a journey or a fishing-trip, than for a meditative20 hour in the library after dinner, or a pleasant wakeful hour in bed, when the reading-lamp glows clear and steady, and all the rest of the family are asleep or similarly engaged in recumbent reading.
There are some books with which we can never become intimate. However long we may know them they keep us on the cold threshold of acquaintance. Others boisterously21 grasp our hand and drag us in, only to bore us and make us regret the day of our introduction. But if there ever was a book which invited genially22 to friendship and delight it is this of Boswell’s. The man who does not know it is ignorant of some of the best cheer that can enliven a solitary23 fireside. The man who does not enjoy it is insensible alike to the attractions of a noble character vividly24 depicted25, and to the amusement afforded by the sight of a great genius in company with an adoring follower26 capable, at times, of acting27 like an engaging ass28.
Yet after all, I have always had my doubts about
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the supposed “asininity” of Boswell. As his Great Friend said, “A man who talks nonsense so well must know that he is talking nonsense.” It is only fair to accept his own explanation and allow that when he said or did ridiculous things it was, partly at least, in order to draw out his Tremendous Companion. Thus we may think with pleasure of Boswell taking a rise out of Johnson. But we do not need to imagine Johnson taking a rise out of Boswell; it was not necessary; he rose of his own accord. He made a candid29 record of these diverting incidents because, though self-complacent, he was not touchy30, and he had sense enough to see that the sure way to be entirely31 entertaining is to be quite frank.
Boswell threw a stone at one bird and brought down two. His triumphant32 effort to write the life of his Immense Hero just as it was, with all its surroundings, appurtenances, and eccentricities33, has won for himself a singular honour: his proper name has become a common noun. It is hardly necessary to use a capital letter when we allude34 to a boswell. His pious35 boast that he had “Johnsonized
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the land,” is no more correct than it would be to say, (and if he were alive he would certainly say it,) that he had boswellized biography.
The success of the book appears the more remarkable when we remember that of the seventy-five years of Samuel Johnson’s life not more than two years and two months were passed in the society of James Boswell. Yet one would almost think that they had been rocked in the same cradle, or, (if this figure of speech seem irreverent,) that the Laird of Auchinleck had slept in a little trundle-bed beside the couch of the Mighty36 Lexicographer37. I do not mean by this that the record is trivial and cubicular, but simply that Boswell has put into his book as much of Johnson as it will hold.
Let no one imagine, however, that a like success can be secured by following the same recipe with any chance subject. The exact portraiture38 of an insignificant39 person confers information where there is no curiosity, and becomes tedious in proportion as it is precise.[19] The first thing needful is to catch
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a giant for your hero; and in this little world it is seldom that one like Johnson comes to the net.
What a man he was,—this “old struggler,” as he called himself,—how uncouth41 and noble and genuine and profound,—“a labouring, working mind; an indolent, reposing42 body”! What a heart of fortitude43 in the bosom44 of his melancholy45, what a kernel46 of human kindness within the shell of his rough manner! He was proud but not vain, sometimes rude but never cruel. His prejudices were insular47, but his intellect was continental48. There was enough of contradiction in his character to give it variety, and enough of sturdy faith to give it unity49. It was not easy for him to be good, but it was impossible for him to be false; and he fought the battle of life through along his chosen line even to the last skirmish of mortality.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Painted by Reynolds.
From a photograph, copyright by Hollyer, London.
I suppose we Americans might harbour a grudge50 against him on the score of his opinion of our forefathers51. It is on record that he said of them, during their little controversy52 with King George III, that they were “a race of convicts.” (How exciting it would have been to hear him say a thing like that
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to the face of George Washington or Benjamin Franklin! He was quite capable of it.) But we can afford to laugh at such an obiter dictum now. And upon my honesty it offends me less at the present time than Lionel Lispingly Nutt’s condescending53 advice on poetry and politics, or Stutterworth Bummell’s patronizing half-praise. Let a man smite55 us fairly on one cheek, and we can manage to turn the other,—out of his reach. But if he deals superciliously56 with us as “poor relations,” we can hardly help looking for a convenient and not too dangerous flight of stairs for his speedy descent.
Johnson may be rightly claimed as a Tory-Democrat on the strength of his serious saying that “the interest of millions must ever prevail over that of thousands,” and the temper of his pungent57 letter to Lord Chesterfield. And when we consider also his side remark in defense58 of card-playing on the ground that it “generates kindness and consolidates59 society,” we may differ from him in our estimate of the game, but we cannot deny that in small things as well as in great he spoke60 as a liberal friend of humanity.
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His literary taste was not infallible; in some instances, (for example his extreme laudation of Sir John Denham’s poem Cooper’s Hill, and his adverse61 criticism of Milton’s verse,) it was very bad. In general you may say that it was based upon theories and rules which are not really of universal application, though he conceived them to be so. But his style was much more the product of his own personality and genius. Ponderous62 it often was, but seldom clumsy. He had the art of saying what he meant in a deliberate, clear, forceful way. Words arrayed themselves at his command and moved forward in serried63 phalanx. He had the praiseworthy habit of completing his sentences and building his paragraphs firmly. It will not do us any good to belittle64 his merit as a writer, particularly in this age of slipper-shod and dressing-gowned English.
His diction was much more varied65 than people usually suppose. He could suit his manner to almost any kind of subject, except possibly the very lightest. He had a keen sense of the shading of synonyms66 and rarely picked the wrong word. Of antithesis67 and the balanced sentence he was over-fond;
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and this device, intended originally to give a sharpened emphasis, being used too often, lends an air of monotony to his writing. Yet it has its merits too, as may be seen in these extracts from the fiftieth number of The Rambler,—extracts which, by the way, have some relation to a controversy still raging:
“Every old man complains of the growing depravity of the world, of the petulance68 and insolence69 of the rising generation. He recounts the decency70 and regularity71 of former times, and celebrates the discipline and sobriety of the age in which his youth was passed; a happy age, which is now no more to be expected, since confusion has broken in upon the world and thrown down all the boundaries of civility and reverence72.... It may, therefore, very reasonably be suspected that the old draw upon themselves the greatest part of those insults which they so much lament73, and that age is rarely despised but when it is contemptible74.... He that would pass the latter part of his life with honour and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he shall one day be old; and remember, when he is
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old, that he has once been young. In youth, he must lay up knowledge for his support, when his powers of action shall forsake75 him; and in age forbear to animadvert with rigour on faults which experience only can correct.”
In meaning this is very much the same as Sir James Barrie’s recent admirable discourse76 on “Courage” at the University of St. Andrew’s; but in manner there is quite a difference.
It is commonly supposed that Dr. Johnson did a great deal to overload77 and oppress the English language by introducing new and awkward words of monstrous78 length. His opportunities in that way were large, but he always claimed that he had used them with moderation and had not coined above four or five words. When we note that “peregrinity” was one of them, we are grateful that he refrained so much; but when we remember that “clubbable” was another, we are glad that he did not refrain altogether. For there is no quality more easy to recognize and difficult to define than that which makes a man acceptable in a club; and of this Dr. Johnson has given us a fine example in his life and an appropriate name in his word.
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I think one reason why he got on so well with people who differed from him, and why most of the sensible ones so readily put up with his downright and often brusque way of expressing his sentiments, was because they came so evidently from his sincere and unshakeable conviction that certain things are true, that they can not be changed, and that they should not be forgotten. Not only in politics, but also and more significantly in religion, Samuel Johnson stands out as a sturdy believer.
This seems the more noteworthy when we consider the conditions of his life. There is hardly one among the great men of history who can be called so distinctively79 “a man of letters,” undoubtedly80 none who has won as high a position and as large a contemporary influence by sheer strength of pen. Now the literary life is not generally considered to be especially favourable81 to the cultivation82 of religion; and Johnson’s peculiar83 circumstances were not of a kind to make it more favourable in his case than usual. He was poor and neglected, struggling during a great part of his career against the heaviest odds84. His natural disposition was by no means such as to predispose him to faith. He was afflicted85
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from childhood with a hypochondriac and irritable86 humour; a high, domineering spirit, housed in an unwieldy and disordered body; plagued by inordinate87 physical appetites; inclined naturally to rely with over-confidence upon the strength and accuracy of his reasoning powers; driven by his impetuous temper into violent assertion and controversy; deeply depressed88 by his long years of obscurity and highly elated by his final success,—he was certainly not one whom we would select as likely to be a remarkably89 religious man. Carlyle had less to embitter90 him. Goethe had no more to excuse self-idolatry. And yet, beyond a doubt, Johnson was a sincere, humble91, and, in the main, a consistent Christian92.
Of course, we cannot help seeing that his peculiarities93 and faults affected94 his religion. He was intolerant in his expression of theological views to a degree which seems almost ludicrous. We may, perhaps, keep a straight face and a respectful attitude when we see him turning his back on the Abbé Raynal, and refusing to “shake hands with an infidel.” But when he exclaims in regard to a young
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lady who had left the Church of England to become a Quaker, “I hate the wench and shall ever hate her; I hate all impudence95 of a chit; apostasy96 I nauseate”; and when he answers the gently expressed hope of a friend that he and the girl would meet, after all, in a blessed eternity97, by saying, “Madam, I am not fond of meeting fools anywhere,” we cannot help joining in the general laughter of the company to whom he speaks; and as the Doctor himself finally laughs and becomes cheerful and entertaining, we feel that it was only the bear in him that growled,—an honest beast, but sometimes very surly.
As for his remarkable strictures upon Presbyterianism, his declaration that he preferred the Roman Catholic Church, his expressed hope that John Knox was buried in the highway, and his wish that a dangerous steeple in Edinburgh might not be taken down because if it were let alone it might fall on some of the posterity98 of John Knox, which, he said, would be “no great matter,”—if when we read these things we remember that he was talking to his Scotch friend Boswell, we get a new idea of
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the audacity99 of the great man’s humour. I believe he even stirred up his natural high-churchism to rise rampant100 and roar vigourously, for the pleasure of seeing Boswell’s eyes stand out, and his neat little pigtail vibrate in dismay.
There are many other sayings of Johnson’s which disclose a deeper vein101 of tolerance102; such as that remark about the essential agreement and trivial differences of all Christians103, and his warm commendation, on his dying bed, of the sermons of Dr. Samuel Clarke, a Dissenting104 minister.
But even suppose we are forced to admit that Dr. Johnson was lacking in that polished liberality, that willingness to admit that every other man’s opinions are as good as his own, which we have come nowadays to regard as the chief of the theological virtues105; even suppose we must call him “narrow,” we must admit at the same time that he was “deep”; he had a profundity106 of conviction, a sincerity107 of utterance108 which made of his religion something, as the Germans say, “to take hold of with your hands.”
He had need of a sturdy belief. With that tempestuous109, unruly disposition of his boiling all the
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time within him, living in the age of Chesterfield and Bolingbroke, fighting his way through the world amid a thousand difficulties and temptations, he had great need to get a firm grip upon some realities of religion and hold fast to them as things that were settled. His first conviction of the truth of Christianity came to him while he was at Oxford110, through a casual reading of Law’s Call to the Unconverted. There were some years after that, he tells us, when he was totally regardless of religion. But sickness and trouble brought it back, “and I hope,” says he, “that I have never lost it since.”
He was not unwilling111 to converse112 with friends at fitting opportunities in regard to religious subjects, and no one who heard him could have remained long in doubt as to the nature of his views. There was one conversation in particular, on the subject of the sacrifice of Christ, at the close of which he solemnly dictated113 to his friend a brief statement of his belief, saying finally, “The peculiar doctrine114 of Christianity is that of an universal sacrifice and a perpetual propitiation. Other prophets only proclaimed the will and the threatenings of God. Christ
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satisfied his justice.” Again, one calm, bright Sunday afternoon, when he was in a boat with some friends upon the sea (I think it was during his journey to the Hebrides,) he fell into discourse with Boswell about the fear of death, which was often very terrible to his mind. He would not admit that the close of life ought to be regarded with cheerfulness or indifference115, or that a rational man should be as willing to leave the world as to go out of a show-room after he has seen it. “No, sir,” said he, “there is no rational principle by which a man can die contented116, but a trust in the mercy of God through the merits of Jesus Christ.” He was not ashamed to say that he was afraid to die. He assumed no braggadocio117 before the grave. He was honest with himself, and he felt that he needed all the fortitude of a religious faith to meet the hour of dissolution and the prospect118 of divine judgment119 without flinching120. He could never have understood the attitude of men who saunter as unconcernedly and airily towards the day of judgment as if they were going to the play.
But Johnson was by no means given to unseasonable
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or unreasonable121 religious discourse. He had a holy horror of cant40, and of unprofitable controversy. He once said of a friend who was more loquacious122 than discreet123, “Why, yes, sir; he will introduce religious discourse without seeing whether it will end in instruction and improvement, or produce some profane124 jest. He would introduce it in the company of Wilkes, and twenty more such.”
It was Dr. Johnson’s custom to keep a book of Prayers and Meditations125 for his own private use. These were printed after his death, and they reveal to us the sincerity of his inner life as nothing else could do. Think of the old man kneeling down in his room before he began the painful labours of a studious day, and repeating this prayer:—
“Against inquisitive126 and perplexing thoughts: O Lord, my Maker127 and Protector, who hast graciously sent me into this world to work out my salvation128, enable me to drive from me all such unquiet and perplexing thoughts as may mislead or hinder me in the practice of those duties which Thou hast required. When I behold129 the works of thy hands, and consider the course of thy providence130, give me
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grace always to remember that thy thoughts are not my thoughts, nor thy ways my ways. And while it shall please Thee to continue me in this world, where much is to be done and little to be known, teach me by thy Holy Spirit to withdraw my mind from unprofitable and dangerous inquiries131, from difficulties vainly curious, and doubts impossible to be solved. Let me rejoice in the light which Thou hast imparted; let me serve Thee with active zeal132 and humble confidence, and wait with patient expectation for the time in which the soul Thou receivest shall be satisfied with knowledge. Grant this, O Lord, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.”
These are honest and sensible petitions. And the more a man knows, the more devoted133 he is to serious and difficult studies, the more he ought to feel the need of just such a divine defense and guidance. It is good to be kept on the track. It is wise to mistrust your own doubts. It is happy to be delivered from them.
The fundamental quality of Dr. Johnson’s religion was the sense of reverence. He was never “known to utter the name of God but on proper
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occasions and with due respect.” He approached the consideration of divine things with genuine solemnity, and could not tolerate sacred trifling134 or pious profanity. He was not ashamed to kneel where men could see him, although he never courted their notice; or to pray where men could hear him, although he did not desire their approbation135 any more than he feared their ridicule136.
There were grave faults and errors in his conduct. But no one had so keen a sense of their unworthiness as the man himself, who was bravely fighting against them, and sincerely lamenting137 their recurrence138. They often tripped him and humiliated139 him, but they never got him completely down. He righted himself and went lumbering140 on. He never sold his heart to a lie, never confused the evil and the good. When he sinned he knew it and repented141. It gives us confidence in his sincerity when we see him denying himself the use of wine because he was naturally prone142 to excess, and yet allowing it to his friends who were able to use it temperately143. He was no puritan; and, on the other hand, he was no slipshod condoner144 of vice54 or suave145 preacher of moral
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indifference. He was a big, honest soul, trying hard to live straight along the line of duty and to do good as he found opportunity.
The kindness and generosity146 of his heart were known to few save his intimate friends, and not always appreciated even by those who had most cause to be grateful to him. The poor broken-down pensioners147 with whom he filled his house in later years, and to whom he alluded148 playfully as his seraglio, were a constant source of annoyance149. They grumbled150 perpetually and fought like so many cats. But he would not cast them off any more than he would turn out his favourite mouser, Hodge, for whom he used to “go out and buy oysters151, lest the servants having that trouble should take a dislike to the poor creature.” He gave away a large part of his income in charity; and, what was still more generous, he devoted a considerable portion of his time to counseling young and unsuccessful authors and, (note this,) reading their manuscripts.
I suppose if one had been a poverty-stricken beginner at literature, in London of the eighteenth century, the best thing one could have done would
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have been to find the way to Dr. Johnson’s house and tell him how the case stood. If he himself had no money to lend, he would have borrowed it from some of his friends. And if he could not say anything encouraging about the manuscripts, he would have been honest and kind enough to advise the unhappy aspirant152 to fame to prefer the life of a competent shoemaker to that of an incompetent153 scribbler.
Much of what was best in the character of Johnson came out in his friendships. He was as good a lover as he was a hater. He was loyal to a fault, and sincere, though never extravagant154, in his admirations.
The picture of the old man in his last illness, surrounded by the friends whom he had cherished so faithfully, and who now delighted to testify their respect and affection for him, and brighten his lingering days with every attention, has little of the customary horror of a death-bed. It is strange indeed that he who had always been subject to such a dread155 of dying should have found it possible to meet the hour of dissolution with such composure.
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His old friend Sir Joshua Reynolds comes in to bid him farewell, and Johnson makes three requests of him,—to forgive him thirty pounds which he had borrowed from him, to read the Bible, and never to use his pencil on a Sunday. Good petitions, which Sir Joshua readily granted, although we cannot help fearing that he occasionally forgot the last.
“Tell me,” says the sick man to his physician, “can I possibly recover? Give me a direct answer.” Being hard pressed, Dr. Brocklesby confesses that in his opinion recovery is out of the question. “Then,” says Johnson, “I will take no more physick, not even my opiates: for I have prayed that I may render up my soul to God unclouded.”
And so with kind and thoughtful words to his servant, and a “God bless you, my dear” to the young daughter of a friend who stood lingering at the door of his room, this sturdy old believer went out to meet the God whom he had tried so honestly to serve. His life was an amazing victory over poverty, sickness, and sin. Greatness alone could not have insured, nor could perseverance156 alone have
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commanded, three of his good fortunes in this world: that Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his portrait; that Boswell wrote his biography; and that His Wife said of him that “he was the most sensible man she had ever met.”
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1
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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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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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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ripens
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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lexicographer
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| n.辞典编纂人 | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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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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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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consolidates
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| 巩固 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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belittle
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| v.轻视，小看，贬低 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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synonyms
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| 同义词( synonym的名词复数 ) | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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72
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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74
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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75
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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76
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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77
overload
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| vt.使超载；n.超载 | |
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78
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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79
distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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80
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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81
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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82
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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83
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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84
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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85
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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87
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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88
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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89
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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90
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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91
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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92
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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93
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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94
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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95
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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96
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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97
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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98
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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99
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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100
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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101
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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102
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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103
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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104
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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105
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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106
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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107
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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108
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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109
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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110
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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111
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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112
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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113
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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114
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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115
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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116
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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117
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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118
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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119
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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120
flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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121
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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122
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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123
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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124
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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125
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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126
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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127
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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128
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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129
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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130
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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131
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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132
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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133
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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134
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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135
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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136
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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137
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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138
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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139
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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140
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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141
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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143
temperately
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| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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144
condoner
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| 容忍，宽恕，原谅 | |
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145
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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146
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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147
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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148
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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150
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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151
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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152
aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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153
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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154
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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155
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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156
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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