[In a Letter to an American Gentleman.]
My dear L,—Among the lions whom you missed by one accident or another on your late travels in Europe, I observe that you recur2 to none with so much regret as Professor Wilson; you dwell upon this one disappointment as a personal misfortune; and perhaps with reason; for, in the course of my life, I have met with no man of equally varied4 accomplishments5, or, upon the whole, so well entitled to be ranked with that order of men distinguished7 by brilliant versatility8 and ambidexterity—of which order we find such eminent9 models in Alcibiades, in Cæsar, in Crichton, in that of Servan recorded by Sully, and in one or two Italians. Pity that you had not earlier communicated to me the exact route you were bound to, and the particular succession of your engagements when you visited the English Lakes; since, in that case, my interest with Professor Wilson (supposing always that you had declined to rely upon the better passport of your own merits as a naturalist10) would have availed for a greater thing than at that time stood between you and the introduction which you coveted11. On the day, or the night rather, when you were at Bowness and Ambleside, I happen to know that Professor Wilson’s business was one which might have been executed by proxy12, though it could not be delayed; and I also know that, apart from the general courtesy of his nature, he would, at all times, have an especial pleasure in waiving13 a claim of business for one of science or letters, in the person of a foreigner coming from a great distance; and that in no other instance would he make such a sacrifice so cordially as on behalf of an able naturalist. Perhaps you already know from your countryman, Audubon, that the Professor is himself a naturalist, and of original merit; in fact, worth a score of such meagre bookish naturalists14 as are formed in museums and by second-hand15 acts of memory; having (like Audubon) built much of his knowledge upon personal observation. Hence he has two great advantages: one, that his knowledge is accurate in a very unusual degree; and another, that this knowledge, having grown up under the inspiration of a real interest and an unaffected love for its objects,—commencing, indeed, at an age when no affectation in matters of that nature could exist,—has settled upon those facts and circumstances which have a true philosophical16 value: habits, predominant affections, the direction of instincts, and the compensatory processes where these happen to be thwarted,—on all such topics he is learned and full; whilst, on the science of measurements and proportions, applied18 to dorsal-fins and tail-feathers, and on the exact arrangement of colours, &c.—that petty upholstery of nature, on which books are so tedious and elaborate,—not uncommonly20 he is negligent22 or forgetful. What may have served in later years to quicken and stimulate23 his knowledge in this field, and, at any rate, greatly to extend it, is the conversation of his youngest brother, Mr. James Wilson, who (as you know much better than I) is a naturalist majorum gentium. He, indeed, whilst a boy of not more than sixteen or seventeen, was in correspondence (I believe) with Montague the Ornithologist24; and about the same time had skill enough to pick holes in the coat of Mr. Hüber, the German reformer of our then erroneous science of bees.
You see, therefore, that no possible introduction could have stood you more in stead than your own extensive knowledge of transatlantic ornithology25. Swammerdam passed his life, it is said, in a ditch. That was a base, earthy solitude26,—and a prison. But you and Audubon have passed your lives in the heavenly solitudes27 of forests and savannahs; and such solitude as this is no prison, but infinite liberty. The knowledge which you have gathered has been answerable to the character of your school: and no sort of knowledge could have secured you a better welcome with Professor Wilson. Yet, had it been otherwise, I repeat that my interest (as I flatter myself) would have opened the gates of Elleray to you even at midnight; for I am so old a friend of Mr. Wilson that I take a pride in supposing myself the oldest; and, barring relations by blood, arrogate28 the rights of dean in the chapter of his associates: or at least I know of but one person whose title can probably date earlier than mine. About this very month when I am writing, I have known Professor Wilson for a cycle of twenty years and more, which is just half of his life—and also half of mine; for we are almost ad apicem of the same age; Wilson being born in May, and I in August, of the same memorable29 year.
My introduction to him—setting apart the introducee himself—was memorable from one sole circumstance, viz. the person of the introducer. William Wordsworth it was, who in the vale of Grasmere, if it can interest you to know the place, and in the latter end of 1808, if you can be supposed to care about the time, did me the favour of making me known to John Wilson, or as I might say (upon the Scottish fashion of designating men from their territorial31 pretensions32) to Elleray. I remember the whole scene as circumstantially as if it belonged to but yesterday. In the vale of Grasmere,—that peerless little vale which you and Gray the poet and so many others have joined in admiring as the very Eden of English beauty, peace, and pastoral solitude,—you may possibly recall, even from that flying glimpse you had of it, a modern house called Allan Bank, standing33 under a low screen of woody rocks which descend34 from the hill of Silver How, on the western side of the lake. This house had been then recently built by a worthy35 merchant of Liverpool; but for some reason of no importance to you and me, not being immediately wanted for the family of the owner, had been let for a term of three years to Mr. Wordsworth. At the time I speak of, both Mr. Coleridge and myself were on a visit to Mr. Wordsworth; and one room on the ground floor, designed for a breakfasting-room, which commands a sublime37 view of the three mountains,—Fairfield, Arthur’s Chair, and Seat Sandal (the first of them within about four hundred feet of the highest mountains in Great Britain), was then occupied by Mr. Coleridge as a study. On this particular day, the sun having only just set, it naturally happened that Mr. Coleridge—whose nightly vigils were long—had not yet come down to breakfast: meantime, and until the epoch38 of the Coleridgian breakfast should arrive, his study was lawfully39 disposable to profaner41 uses. Here, therefore, it was, that, opening the door hastily in quest of a book, I found seated, and in earnest conversation, two gentlemen—one of them my host, Mr. Wordsworth, at that time about thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old; the other was a younger man by good sixteen or seventeen years, in a sailor’s dress, manifestly in robust42 health—fervidus juventâ, and wearing upon his countenance43 a powerful expression of ardour and animated44 intelligence, mixed with much good nature. ‘Mr. Wilson of Elleray’—delivered, as the formula of introduction, in the deep tones of Mr. Wordsworth—at once banished45 the momentary46 surprise I felt on finding an unknown stranger where I had expected nobody, and substituted a surprise of another kind: I now well understood who it was that I saw; and there was no wonder in his being at Allan Bank, Elleray standing within nine miles; but (as usually happens in such cases) I felt a shock of surprise on seeing a person so little corresponding to the one I had half unconsciously prefigured.
And here comes the place naturally, if anywhere, for a description of Mr. Wilson’s person and general appearance in carriage, manner, and deportment; and a word or two I shall certainly say on these points, simply because I know that I must, else my American friends will complain that I have left out that precise section in my whole account which it is most impossible for them to supply for themselves by any acquaintance with his printed works. Yet suffer me, before I comply with this demand, to enter one word of private protest against the childish (nay, worse than childish—the missy) spirit in which such demands originate. From my very earliest years,—that is the earliest years in which I had any sense of what belongs to true dignity of mind,—I declare to you that I have considered the interest which men, grown men, take in the personal appearance of each other as one of the meanest aspects under which human curiosity commonly presents itself. Certainly I have the same intellectual perception of differences in such things that other men have; but I connect none of the feelings, whether of admiration47 or contempt, liking48 or disliking, which are obviously connected with these perceptions by human beings generally. Such words as ‘commanding appearance,’ ‘prepossessing countenance,’ applied to the figures or faces of the males of the human species, have no meaning in my ears: no man commands me, no man prepossesses me, by anything in, on, or about his carcass. What care I for any man’s legs? I laugh at his ridiculous presumption49 in conceiting that I shall trouble myself to admire or to respect anything that he can produce in his physics. What! shall I honour Milo for the very qualities which he has in common with the beastly ox he carries—his thews and sinews, his ponderous51 strength and weight, and the quantity of thumping52 that his hide will carry? I disclaim53 and disdain54 any participation55 in such green-girl feelings. I admit that the baby feelings I am here condemning56 are found in connection with the highest intellects: in particular, Mr. Coleridge for instance once said to me, as a justifying58 reason for his dislike of a certain celebrated59 Scotsman, with an air of infinite disgust,—‘that ugh!’ (making a guttural sound as if of execration) ‘he (viz. the said Scotsman) was so chicken-breasted.’ I have been assured by the way, that Mr. Coleridge was mistaken in the mere30 matter of fact: but supposing that he were not, what a reason for a philosopher to build a disgust upon! And Mr. Wordsworth, in or about the year 1820, in expressing the extremity60 of his Nil61 admirari spirit, declared that he would not go ten yards out of his road to see the finest specimen62 of man (intellectually speaking) that Europe had to show: and so far indeed I do not quarrel with his opinion; but Mr. Wordsworth went on to say that this indifference63 did not extend itself to man considered physically64; and that he would still exert himself to a small extent (suppose a mile or so) for the sake of seeing Belzoni. That was the case he instanced: and, as I understood him, not by way of a general illustration for his meaning, but that he really felt an exclusive interest in this particular man’s physics. Now Belzoni was certainly a good tumbler, as I have heard; and hopped65 well upon one leg, when surmounted66 and crested67 by a pyramid of men and boys; and jumped capitally through a hoop68; and did all sorts of tricks in all sorts of styles, not at all worse than any monkey, bear, or learned pig, that ever exhibited in Great Britain. And I would myself have given a shilling to have seen him fight with that cursed Turk that assaulted him in the streets of Cairo; and would have given him a crown for catching69 the circumcised dog by the throat and effectually taking the conceit50 out of his Mahometan carcass: but then that would have been for the spectacle of the passions, which, in such a case, would have been let loose: as to the mere animal Belzoni,—who after all was not to be compared to Topham the Warwickshire man, that drew back by main force a cart, and its driver, and a strong horse,—as to the mere animal Belzoni, I say, and his bull neck, I would have much preferred to see a real bull or the Darlington ox. The sum of the matter is this: all men, even those who are most manly70 in their style of thinking and feeling, in many things retain the childishness of their childish years: no man thoroughly71 weeds himself of all. And this particular mode of childishness is one of the commonest, into which they fall the more readily from the force of sympathy, and because they apprehend72 no reason for directing any vigilance against it. But I contend that reasonably no feelings of deep interest are justifiable73 as applied to any point of external form or feature in human beings, unless under two reservations: first, that they shall have reference to women; because women, being lawfully the objects of passions and tender affections, which can have no existence as applied to men, are objects also, rationally and consistently, of all other secondary feelings (such as those derived74 from their personal appearance) which have any tendency to promote and support the first. Whereas between men the highest mode of intercourse75 is merely intellectual, which is not of a nature to receive support or strength from any feelings of pleasure or disgust connected with the accidents of external appearance: but exactly in the degree in which these have any influence at all they must warp76 and disturb by improper77 biases78; and the single case of exception, where such feelings can be honourable79 and laudable amongst the males of the human species, is where they regard such deformities as are the known products and expressions of criminal or degrading propensities80. All beyond this, I care not by whom countenanced81, is infirmity of mind, and would be baseness if it were not excused by imbecility.
Excuse this digression, for which I have a double reason: chiefly I was anxious to put on record my own opinions, and my contempt for men generally in this particular; and here I seemed to have a conspicuous82 situation for that purpose. Secondly83, apart from this purpose of offence, I was at any rate anxious, merely on a defensive84 principle, to screen myself from the obvious misinterpretation incident to the case: saying anything minute or in detail upon a man’s person, I should necessarily be supposed to do so under the ordinary blind feelings of interest in that subject which govern most people; feelings which I disdain. Now, having said all this, and made my formal protest, liberavi animam meam; and I revert85 to my subject, and shall say that word or two which I was obliged to promise you on Professor Wilson’s personal appearance.
Figure to yourself, then, a tall man, about six feet high, within half an inch or so, built with tolerable appearance of strength; but at the date of my description (that is, in the very spring-tide and blossom of youth) wearing, for the predominant character of his person, lightness and agility86, or (in our Westmoreland phrase), lishness: he seemed framed with an express view to gymnastic exercises of every sort—
“Αλμα, ποδωκειην, δισκον, ακοντα, παλην”
In the first of these exercises, indeed, and possibly (but of that I am not equally certain) in the second, I afterwards came to know that he was absolutely unrivalled: and the best leapers at that time in the ring, Richmond the Black and others, on getting ‘a taste of his quality,’ under circumstances of considerable disadvantage [viz. after a walk from Oxford87 to Moulsey Hurst, which I believe is fifty miles], declined to undertake him. For this exercise he had two remarkable88 advantages: it is recorded of Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, that, though otherwise a handsome man, he offended the connoisseurs89 in statuesque proportions by one eminent defect—perhaps the most obtrusive90 to which the human figure is liable—viz. a body of length disproportioned to his legs. In Mr. Wilson the proportions were fortunately reversed: a short trunk, and remarkably91 long legs, gave him one half of his advantages in the noble science of leaping; the other half was afterwards pointed92 out to me by an accurate critic in these matters as lying in the particular conformation of his foot, the instep of which is arched, and the back of the heel strengthened in so remarkable a way that it would be worth paying a penny or so for a sight of them. It is really laughable to think of the coxcombry93 which eminent men of letters have displayed in connection with their powers—real or fancied—in this art. Cardinal94 du Perron vapoured to the end of his life upon some remarkable leap that he either had accomplished95, or conceived himself to have accomplished (not, I presume, in red stockings). Every tenth page of the Perroniana rings with the echo of this stupendous leap—the length of which, if I remember rightly, is as obviously fabulous96 as any feat19 of Don Belianis of Greece. Des Cartes also had a lurking97 conceit that, in some unknown place, he had perpetrated a leap that ought to immortalise him; and in one of his letters he repeats and accredits98 a story of some obscure person’s leap, which
‘At one light bound high overleaped all bound’
of reasonable credulity. Many other eminent leapers might be cited, Pagan and Christian99: but the Cardinal, by his own account, appears to have been the flower of Popish leapers; and, with all deference100 to his Eminence101, upon a better assurance than that, Professor Wilson may be rated, at the time I speak of, as the flower of all Protestant leapers. Not having the Cardinal’s foible of connecting any vanity with this little accomplishment6, knowing exactly what could and what could not be effected in this department of gymnastics, and speaking with the utmost simplicity102 and candour of his failures and his successes alike, he might always be relied upon, and his statements were constantly in harmony with any collateral103 testimony104 that chance happened to turn up.
Viewed, therefore, by an eye learned in gymnastic proportions, Mr. Wilson presented a somewhat striking figure: and by some people he was pronounced with emphasis a fine looking young man; but others, who less understood, or less valued these advantages, spoke105 of him as nothing extraordinary. Still greater division of voices I have heard on his pretensions to be thought handsome. In my opinion, and most certainly in his own, these pretensions were but slender. His complexion106 was too florid; hair of a hue107 quite unsuited to that complexion; eyes not good, having no apparent depth, but seeming mere surfaces; and in fine, no one feature that could be called fine, except the lower region of his face, mouth, chin, and the parts adjacent, which were then (and perhaps are now) truly elegant and Ciceronian. Ask in one of your public libraries for that little 4to edition of the Rhetorical Works of Cicero, edited by Schütz (the same who edited Æschylus), and you will there see (as a frontispiece to the 1st vol.) a reduced whole length of Cicero from the antique; which in the mouth and chin, and indeed generally, if I do not greatly forget, will give you a lively representation of the contour and expression of Professor Wilson’s face. Taken as a whole, though not handsome (as I have already said), when viewed in a quiescent109 state, the head and countenance are massy, dignified110, and expressive111 of tranquil112 sagacity.
Thus far of Professor Wilson in his outward man, whom (to gratify you and yours, and upon the consideration that my letter is to cross the Atlantic), I have described with an effort and a circumstantiation that are truly terrific to look back upon. And now, returning to the course of my narrative113, such in personal appearance was the young man upon whom my eyes suddenly rested, for the first time, upwards114 of twenty years ago, in the study of S. T. Coleridge—looking, as I said before, light as a Mercury to eyes familiar with the British build; but, with reference to the lengthy115 model of you Yankees, who spindle up so tall and narrow, already rather bulky and columnar. Note, however, that of all this array of personal features, as I have here described them, I then saw nothing at all, my attention being altogether occupied with Mr. Wilson’s conversation and demeanour, which were in the highest degree agreeable: the points which chiefly struck me being the humility116 and gravity with which he spoke of himself, his large expansion of heart, and a certain air of noble frankness which overspread everything he said; he seemed to have an intense enjoyment117 of life; indeed, being young, rich, healthy, and full of intellectual activity, it could not be very wonderful that he should feel happy and pleased with himself and others; but it was somewhat unusual to find that so rare an assemblage of endowments had communicated no tinge118 of arrogance119 to his manner, or at all disturbed the general temperance of his mind.
Turn we now suddenly, and without preparation,—simply by way of illustrating120 the versatile121 humour of the man,—from this grave and (as in reality it was) philosophic17 scene, to another first introduction, under most different circumstances, to the same Mr. Wilson. Represent to yourself the earliest dawn of a fine summer morning, time about half-past two o’clock. A young man, anxious for an introduction to Mr. Wilson, and as yet pretty nearly a stranger to the country, has taken up his abode122 in Grasmere, and has strolled out at this early hour to that rocky and moorish123 common (called the White Moss) which overhangs the Vale of Rydal, dividing it from Grasmere. Looking southwards in the direction of Rydal, suddenly he becomes aware of a huge beast advancing at a long trot125 with the heavy and thundering tread of a hippopotamus126 along the public road. The creature is soon arrived within half a mile of his station; and by the gray light of morning is at length made out to be a bull apparently127 flying from some unseen enemy in his rear. As yet, however, all is mystery; but suddenly three horsemen double a turn in the road, and come flying into sight with the speed of a hurricane, manifestly in pursuit of the fugitive128 bull; the bull labours to navigate129 his huge bulk to the moor124, which he reaches, and then pauses, panting and blowing out clouds of smoke from his nostrils130, to look back from his station amongst rocks and slippery crags upon his hunters. If he had conceited131 that the rockiness of the ground had secured his repose132, the foolish bull is soon undeceived; the horsemen, scarcely relaxing their speed, charge up the hill, and speedily gaining the rear of the bull, drive him at a gallop133 over the worst part of that impracticable ground down into the level ground below. At this point of time the stranger perceives by the increasing light of the morning that the hunters are armed with immense spears fourteen feet long. With these the bull is soon dislodged, and scouring136 down to the plain below, he and the hunters at his tail take to the common at the head of the lake, and all, in the madness of the chase, are soon half engulfed137 in the swamps of the morass138. After plunging139 together for ten or fifteen minutes, all suddenly regain140 the terra firma, and the bull again makes for the rocks. Up to this moment there had been the silence of ghosts; and the stranger had doubted whether the spectacle were not a pageant141 of aërial spectres, ghostly huntsmen; ghostly lances, and a ghostly bull. But just at this crisis—a voice (it was the voice of Mr. Wilson) shouted aloud, ‘Turn the villain142; turn that villain; or he will take to Cumberland.’ The young stranger did the service required of him; the villain was turned and fled southwards; the hunters, lance in rest, rushed after him; all bowed their thanks as they fled past him; the fleet cavalcade143 again took the high road; they doubled the cape144 which shut them out of sight; and in a moment all had disappeared and left the quiet valley to its original silence, whilst the young stranger and two grave Westmoreland statesmen (who by this time had come into sight upon some accident or other) stood wondering in silence, and saying to themselves, perhaps,—
‘The earth hath bubbles as the water hath;
And these are of them!’
But they were no bubbles; the bull was a substantial bull; and took no harm at all from being turned out occasionally at midnight for a chase of fifteen or eighteen miles. The bull, no doubt, used to wonder at this nightly visitation; and the owner of the bull must sometimes have pondered a little on the draggled state in which the swamps would now and then leave his beast; but no other harm came of it. And so it happened, and in the very hurly burly of such an unheard-of chase, that my friend was fortunate enough, by a little service, to recommend himself to the notice of Mr. Wilson; and so passed the scene of his first introduction.
In reading the anecdote145 of the bull hunt, you must bear in mind the period of Mr. Wilson’s life to which it belongs, else I should here be unintentionally adding one more to the thousand misrepresentations of his character, which are already extant in different repositories of scandal: most of which I presume, unless in the rarer cases where they have been the pure creations of malice146, owe their origin to a little exaggeration, and a great deal of confusion in dates. Levities147 and extravagances, which find a ready excuse at twenty, ten or fifteen years later are fatal to a man’s character for good sense. In such a case, therefore, to be careless or inaccurate148 in dates, is a moral dishonesty. Understand then that the bull-hunting scenes belong to the time which immediately succeeded my first knowledge of Mr. Wilson. This particular frolic happened to fall within the earliest period of my own personal acquaintance with him. Else, and with this one exception, the era of his wildest (and according to the common estimate, of his insane) extravagances was already past. All those stories, therefore, which you question me about with so much curiosity, of his having joined a company of strolling players, and himself taken the leading parts both in Tragedy and Comedy—of his having assumed the garb149 of a Gipsy, and settled for some time in a Gipsy encampment, out of admiration for a young Egyptian beauty; with fifty others of the same class, belong undoubtedly150 (as many of them as are not wholly fabulous), to the four years immediately preceding the time at which my personal knowledge of Mr. Wilson commenced.
From the latter end of 1803 to the spring of 1808, Mr. Wilson had studied at the University of Oxford; and it was within that period that most of his escapades were crowded. He had previously151 studied as a mere boy, according to the Scotch152 fashion, at the University of Glasgow, chiefly under the tuition of the late Mr. Jardine (the Professor, I believe, of Logic), and Dr. or Mr. Young (the Professor of Greek). At both Universities he had greatly distinguished himself; but at Oxford, where the distribution of prizes and honours of every kind is to the last degree parsimonious153 and select, naturally it follows that such academical distinctions are really significant distinctions, and proclaim an unequivocal merit in him who has carried them off from a crowd of 1600 or 2000 co-rivals, to whom the contest was open; whereas, in the Scotch Universities, as I am told by Scotchmen, the multiplication154 of prizes and medals, and the almost indiscriminate profusion155 with which they are showered abroad, neutralises their whole effect and value. At least this was the case in Mr. Wilson’s time; but lately some conspicuous changes have been introduced by a Royal Commission (not yet, I believe, dissolved) into one at least of the Scotch Universities, which have greatly improved it in this respect, by bringing it much nearer to the English model. When Mr. Wilson gained a prize of fifty guineas for fifty lines of English verse, without further inquiry156 it becomes evident, from the mere rarity of the distinction which, for a university now nearly of five thousand members, occurs but once a year, and from the great over-proportion of that peculiar157 class (the Undergraduates) to whom the contest is open,—that such a victory was an indisputable criterion of very conspicuous merit. In fact, never in any place did Mr. Wilson play off his Proteus variety of character and talent with so much brilliant effect as at Oxford. In this great University, the most ancient, and by many degrees the most magnificent in the world, he found a stage for display, perfectly158 congenial with the native elevation159 of his own character. Perhaps you are not fully40 aware of the characteristic differences which separate our two English Universities of Oxford and Cambridge from those of Scotland and the Continent: for I have always observed that the best informed foreigners, even after a week’s personal acquaintance with the Oxford system, still adhere to the inveterate160 preconceptions which they had brought with them from the Continent. For instance, they continue obstinately161 to speak of the Professors as the persons to whom the students are indebted for tuition; whereas the majority of these hold their offices as the most absolute sinecures163, and the task of tuition devolves upon the tutors appointed in each particular college. These tutors are called public tutors; meaning that they do not confine their instructions to any one individual; but distribute them amongst all the Undergraduates of the college to which they belong; and, in addition to these, private tutors are allowed to any student who chooses to increase his expenditure164 in that particular. But the main distinction, which applies to our immediate36 subject, is the more than regal provision for the lodging165 and accommodation of the students by the system of Colleges. Of these there are in Oxford, neglecting the technical subdivision of Halls, five-and-twenty; and the main use of all, both colleges and halls, is, not as in Scotland and on the Continent, to lodge134 the head of the University with suitable dignity, and to provide rooms for the library and public business of the University. These purposes are met by a separate provision, distinct from the colleges; and the colleges are applied as follows: 1st, and mainly to the reception of the Fellows, and of the Undergraduate Students; 2ndly, to the accommodation of the head (known in different colleges by the several designations of provost, principal, dean, rector, warden166, &c.); 3rdly to the accommodation of the private library attached to that college, and to the chapel167, which is used at least twice every day for public prayers; 4thly, to the Hall, and the whole establishment of kitchen, wine vaults168, buttery, &c., &c., which may be supposed necessary for the liberal accommodation, at the public meals of dinner [and in some colleges supper] of gentlemen and visitors from the country, or from the Continent; varying (we will suppose) from 25 to 500 heads. Everywhere else the great mass of the students are lodged135 in obscure nooks and corners, which may or may not be respectable, but are at all events withdrawn169 from the surveillance of the University. I shall state both the ground and the effect (or tendency rather) of this difference. Out of England, universities are not meant exclusively for professional men; the sons of great landholders, and a large proportion of the sons of noblemen, either go through the same academic course as others—or a shorter course adapted to their particular circumstances. In England, again, the church is supplied from the rank of gentry170—not exclusively, it is true, but in a much larger proportion than anywhere else, except in Ireland. The corresponding ranks in Scotland, from their old connection with France, have adopted (I believe) much more of the Continental171 plan for disposing of their sons at this period. At any rate, it will not be contended by any man, that Scotland throws anything like the same proportion with England, of her gentry and her peerage into her universities. Hence, a higher standard of manners and of habits presides at Oxford and Cambridge; and, consequently, a demand for much higher accommodations would even otherwise have arisen, had not such a demand already been supplied by the munificence172 of our English princes and peers, both male and female; and, in one instance at least, of a Scottish Prince (Baliol). The extent of these vast Caravanseras enables the governors of the various colleges to furnish every student with a set of two rooms at the least, often with a suite108 of three—[I, who lived at Oxford on no more than my school allowance, had that number]—or in many cases with far more. In the superior colleges, indeed (superior, I mean, as to their purse and landed endowments), all these accommodations keep pace with the refinements173 of the age; and thus a connection is maintained between the University and the landed Noblesse—upper and lower—of England, which must be reciprocally beneficial, and which, under other circumstances, could scarcely have taken place.
Of these advantages, you may be sure, that Mr. Wilson availed himself to the utmost extent. Instead of going to Baliol College, he entered himself at Magdalen, in the class of what are called, ‘Gentlemen Commoners.’ All of us (you know) in Oxford and Cambridge wear an Academic dress, which tells at once our Academic rank with all its modifications174. And the term ‘Gentlemen Commoner‘ implies that he has more splendid costumes, and more in number; that he is expected to spend a good deal more money, that he enjoys a few trifling175 immunities176; and that he has, in particular instances, something like a King’s right of pre-emption, as in the choice of rooms, &c.
Once launched in this orbit, Mr. Wilson continued to blaze away for the four successive years, 1804, 1805, 1806, 1807, I believe without any intermission. Possibly I myself was the one sole gownsman who had not then found my attention fixed177 by his most heterogeneous178 reputation. In a similar case, Cicero tells a man that ignorance so unaccountable of another man’s pretensions argued himself to be a homo ignorabilis; or, in the language of the Miltonic Satan, ‘Not to know me, argues thyself unknown.’ And that is true; a homo ignorabilis most certainly I was. And even with that admission it is still difficult to account for the extent and the duration of my ignorance. The fact is, that the case well expresses both our positions; that he should be so conspicuous as to challenge knowledge from the most sequestered179 of anchorites expresses his life; that I should have right to absolute ignorance of him who was familiar as daylight to all the rest of Oxford—expresses mine. Never indeed before, to judge from what I have since heard upon inquiry, did a man, by variety of talents and variety of humours, contrive180 to place himself as the connecting link between orders of men so essentially181 repulsive182 of each other—as Mr. Wilson in this instance.
‘Omnis Aristippum decuit color et status, et res.’
From the learned president of his college, Dr. Routh, the editor of parts of Plato, and of some Theological Selections, with whom Wilson enjoyed an unlimited183 favour—from this learned Academic Doctor, and many others of the same class, Wilson had an infinite gamut184 of friends and associates, running through every key; and the diapason closing full in groom185, cobbler, stable-boy, barber’s apprentice186, with every shade and hue of blackguard and ruffian. In particular, amongst this latter kind of worshipful society, there was no man who had any talents—real or fancied—for thumping or being thumped187, but had experienced some preeing of his merits from Mr. Wilson. All other pretensions in the gymnastic arts he took a pride in humbling188 or in honouring; but chiefly his examinations fell upon pugilism; and not a man, who could either ‘give’ or ‘take,’ but boasted to have punished, or to have been punished by, Wilson of Mallens.2
A little before the time at which my acquaintance with Mr. Wilson commenced, he had purchased a beautiful estate on the lake of Windermere, which bore the ancient name of Elleray—a name which, with his customary good taste, Mr. Wilson has never disturbed. With the usual latitude189 of language in such cases, I say on Windermere; but in fact this charming estate lies far above the lake; and one of the most interesting of its domestic features is the foreground of the rich landscape which connects, by the most gentle scale of declivities, this almost aërial altitude [as, for habitable ground, it really is] with the sylvan190 margin191 of the deep water which rolls a mile and a half below. When I say a mile and a half, you will understand me to compute192 the descent according to the undulations of the ground; because else the perpendicular193 elevation above the level of the lake cannot be above one half of that extent. Seated on such an eminence, but yet surrounded by foregrounds of such quiet beauty, and settling downwards194 towards the lake by such tranquil steps as to take away every feeling of precipitous or dangerous elevation, Elleray possesses a double character of beauty, rarely found in connection; and yet each, by singular good fortune, in this case absolute and unrivalled in its kind. Within a bow-shot of each other may be found stations of the deepest seclusion195, fenced in by verdurous walls of insuperable forest heights, and presenting a limited scene of beauty—deep, solemn, noiseless, severely196 sequestered—and other stations of a magnificence so gorgeous as few estates in this island can boast, and of those few perhaps none in such close connection with a dwelling-house. Stepping out from the very windows of the drawing-room, you find yourself on a terrace which gives you the feeling of a ‘specular height,’ such as you might expect on Ararat, or might appropriately conceive on ‘Athos seen from Samothrace.’ The whole course of a noble lake, about eleven miles long, lies subject to your view, with many of its islands, and its two opposite shores so different in character—the one stern, precipitous, and gloomy; the other (and luckily the hither one) by the mere bounty197 of nature and of accident—by the happy disposition198 of the ground originally, and by the fortunate equilibrium199 between the sylvan tracts200, meandering202 irregularly through the whole district, and the proportion left to verdant203 fields and meadows,—wearing the character of the richest park scenery; except indeed that this character is here and there a little modified by a quiet hedge-row or the stealing smoke which betrays the embowered cottage of a labourer. But the sublime, peculiar, and not-to-be-forgotten feature of the scene is the great system of mountains which unite about five miles off at the head of the lake to lock in and inclose this noble landscape. The several ranges of mountains which stand at various distances within six or seven miles of the little town of Ambleside, all separately various in their forms and all eminently204 picturesque205, when seen from Elleray appear to blend and group as parts of one connected whole; and when their usual drapery of clouds happens to take a fortunate arrangement, and the sunlights are properly broken and thrown from the most suitable quarter of the heavens,—I cannot recollect206 any spectacle in England or Wales, of the many hundreds I have seen, bearing a local, if not a national reputation for magnificence of prospect207, which so much dilates208 the heart with a sense of power and aërial sublimity209 as this terrace view from Elleray. It is possible that I may have stood on other mountain terraces commanding as ample a view and as happily combined; but the difference of effect must always be immense between a spectacle to which you ascend210 by half a day’s labour, and that upon which you are launched in a second of time from the breakfast table. It is of great importance, for the enjoyment of any natural scene, to be liberated211 from the necessity of viewing it under circumstances of haste and anxiety, to have it in one’s power to surrender oneself passively and tranquilly212 to the influences of the objects as they gradually reveal themselves, and to be under no summons to crowd one’s whole visual energy and task of examination within a single quarter of an hour. Having seen Elleray at all times under these favourable213 circumstances, it is certainly not impossible that I may unconsciously have overrated in some degree its pretensions in comparison with some rival scenes. I may have committed the common error of attributing to the objects the whole sum of an impression which in part belonged to the subjective214 advantages of the contemplator215 and the benefits of his station. But, making every allowance in this direction, I am still of opinion that Elleray has, in connection with the merits common to all scenes of its class, others peculiar to itself—and such as are indispensable conditions for the full effect of all the rest. In particular, I would instance this: To bring any scene upon a level of competition with Elleray as to range and majesty216 of prospect, it is absolutely essential that it should occupy an equal elevation, or one not conspicuously217 inferior. Now, it is seldom indeed that eminences218 so commanding are not, by that very circumstance, unfitted to the picturesque aspects of things: in fact I remember no tract201 of ground so elevated as Elleray from which the lowest level of the adjacent country does not take a petty, dotted, and map-like appearance. But this effect, which is so heavy a price for the sublimities of the upper regions, at Elleray is entirely219 intercepted220 by the exquisite221 gradations of descent by which the contiguous grounds begin their fall to the level of the lake: the moment that this fall in any quarter becomes accelerated and precipitous, it is concealed222 by the brows of this beautiful hanging foreground; and so happily is this remedy applied, that in every instance where the lowest grounds would, if seen at all, from their immediate proximity223, be seen by the spectator looking down perpendicularly224 as into a well, there they are uniformly hidden; and these lowest levels first emerge to view at a remote distance—where, being necessarily viewed obliquely225, they suffer no peculiar disadvantage by being viewed from an eminence. In short, to sum up the whole in one word, the splendours of Elleray, which could not have been had but at an unusual elevation, are by a rare bounty of nature obtained without one of those sacrifices for the learned eye which are usually entailed226 upon that one single advantage of unusual elevation.
The beautiful estate, which I have thus described to you, was ornamented227 by no suitable dwelling-house at the time when it was purchased by Mr. Wilson: there was indeed a rustic228 cottage, most picturesquely229 situated230, which, with the addition of a drawing-room thrown out at one end, was made for the present (and, as it turned out, for many a year to come) capable of meeting the hospitable231 system of life adopted by its owner. But, with a view to more ample and luxurious232 accommodations, even at that early period of his possession (1808), Mr. Wilson began to build a mansion233 of larger and more elegant proportions. The shell, and perhaps the greater part of the internal work, was soon finished; but for some reason, which I never remember to have inquired into, was not rendered thoroughly habitable (and consequently not inhabited) till the year 1825. I think it worth while to mention this house particularly, because it has always appeared to me a silent commentary on its master’s state of mind, and an exemplification of his character both as it was and as it appeared. At first sight there was an air of adventurousness234, or even of extravagance about the plan and situation of the building; and yet upon a considerate examination (and latterly upon a practical trial) of it, I cannot see that within the same dimensions it would have been possible to have contrived235 a more judicious236 or commodious237 house. Thus, for instance, the house is planted upon the boldest and most exposed point of ground that can be found on the whole estate, consequently upon that which might have presumed (and I believe was really reputed) to be the very stormiest: yet, whether from counteracting238 screens of wood that have since been reared in fortunate situations, or from what other cause I know not, but undoubtedly at this day no practical inconvenience is suffered; though it is true, I believe, that in the earlier years of its history, the house bore witness occasionally, by dismal239 wrecks240 of roof and windows, to the strength and fury of the wind on one particular quarter. Again, in the internal arrangements one room was constructed of such ample proportions, with a view to dancing, that the length (as I remember) was about seventy feet; the other dimensions I have forgotten. Now, in this instance most people saw an evidence of nothing but youthful extravagance, and a most disproportionate attention directed to one single purpose, which upon that scale could not probably be of very frequent occurrence in any family. This by the way was at any rate a sensible extravagance in my judgment241; for our English mode of building tends violently to the opposite and most unwholesome extravagance of giving to the very principal room of a house the beggarly proportions of closets. However, the sequel showed that in providing for one end, Mr. Wilson had not lost sight of others: for the seventy-feet room was so divided by strong folding-doors, or temporary partitions, as in its customary state to exhibit three rooms of ordinary proportions, and unfolded its full extent only by special and extraordinary mechanism242. Other instances I might give in which the plan seemed to be extravagant243 or inconsiderate, and yet really turned out to have been calculated with the coolest judgment and the nicest foresight244 of domestic needs. It is sufficient to say that I do not know a house apparently more commodiously245 arranged than this, which was planned and built with utmost precipitation, and in the very heyday246 of a most tempestuous247 youth. In one thing only, upon a retrospect248 at this day of the whole case, there may appear to have been some imprudence, viz. that timber being then at a most unprecedented250 high price, it is probable that the building cost seven or eight hundred pounds more than it would have done a few years later. Allowing for this one oversight251, the principal house on the Elleray estate, which at the time was looked upon as an evidence of Mr. Wilson’s flightiness of mind, remains252 at this day a lasting253 monument of his good sense and judgment.
Whilst I justify57 him, however, on this head, I am obliged to admit that on another field, at that very time, Mr. Wilson was displaying the most reckless profusion. A sailing club had been established on Windermere, by whom I never heard; very probably by Mr. Wilson himself; at all events, he was the leader and the soul of the confederation; and he applied annually254 nothing less than a little fortune to the maintenance of the many expenses which arose out of it. Amongst the members of the club there were more than one who had far larger fortunes than Mr. Wilson could ever have possessed255; but he would permit no one to outshine him on this arena256. The number of his boats was so great as to compose a little fleet; and some of them, of unusually large dimensions for this lake, had been built at an enormous expense by regular builders brought over expressly from the port of Whitehaven (distant from Elleray about forty-five miles), and kept during the whole progress of their labour at a most expensive Lakers’ hotel. One of these boats in particular, a ten-oared barge257, which you will find specially258 introduced by name in Professor Wilson’s tale of The Foresters (vide p. 215), was generally believed at the time to have cost him at the least five hundred pounds. And as the number of sailors which it required to man these boats was necessarily very great at particular seasons, and as the majority of these sailors lived, during the period of their services, with little or no restraint upon their expenses at the most costly259 inn in the neighbourhood,—it may be supposed very readily that about this time Mr. Wilson’s lavish260 expenditure, added to the demands of architects and builders, and the recent purchase of Elleray, must have seriously injured his patrimonial261 property,—though generally believed to have been originally considerably262 more than thirty thousand (many asserted forty thousand) pounds. In fact, he had never less than three establishments going on concurrently263 for some years; one at the town or village of Bowness (the little port of the lake of Windermere), for his boatmen; one at the Ambleside Hotel, about five miles distant, for himself; and a third at Elleray, for his servants, and the occasional resort of himself and his friends. It is the opinion of some people that about this time, and during the succeeding two years, Mr. Wilson dissipated the main bulk of his patrimony264 in profuse265 expenditure. But more considerate people see no ground for that opinion: his expenses, though great, were never adequate to the dilapidation266 of so large an estate as he was reputed to have inherited: and the prevailing267 opinion is that some great loss of £20,000 at a blow, by the failure of some trustee or other, was the true cause of that diminution268 in his property which, within a year or two from this time, he is generally supposed to have suffered. However, as Mr. Wilson himself has always maintained an obstinate162 silence on the subject, and as the mere fact of the loss (however probable) is not more accurately269 known to me than its extent, or its particular mode, or its cause,—I shall not allow myself to make any conjectural270 speculations271 on the subject. It can be interesting to you and me only from one of its consequences, viz. its leading him afterwards to seek a professorship: for most certain it is, that, if the splendour of Mr. Wilson’s youthful condition as to pecuniary272 matters had not been in some remarkable degree overcast273, and suffered some signal eclipse, he would never have surrendered any part of that perfect liberty which was so dear to him, for all the honours and rewards that could have been offered by the foremost universities of Europe.
You will have heard, no doubt, from some of those with whom you conversed274 about Professor Wilson when you were in Europe, or you may have read it in Peter’s Letters, that in very early life (probably about the age of eighteen) he had formed a scheme for penetrating275 into central Africa, visiting the city of Tombuctoo, and solving (if it were possible) the great outstanding problem of the course of the Niger. To this scheme he was attracted probably not so much by any particular interest in the improvement of geographical276 knowledge, as by the youthful spirit of romantic adventure, and a very uncommon21 craving277 for whatever was grand—indefinite—and gigantic in conception, supposing that it required at the same time great physical powers in the execution. There cannot be a doubt for us at this day, who look back upon the melancholy278 list of victims in this perilous279 field of discovery which has been furnished by the two or three and twenty years elapsed since Mr. Wilson’s plan was in agitation280, that in that enterprise—had he ever irretrievably embarked281 himself upon it—he would infallibly have perished; for, though reasonably strong, he was not strong upon that heroic scale which an expedition so Titanic282 demands; and what was perhaps still more important, if strong enough—he was not hardy283 enough, as a gentleman rarely is, more especially where he has literary habits; because the exposure to open air, which is the indispensable condition of hardiness284, is at any rate interrupted—even if it were not counteracted—by the luxurious habits and the relaxing atmosphere of the library and the drawing-room. Moreover, Mr. Wilson’s constitution was irritable285 and disposed to fever; his temperament286 was too much that of a man of genius not to have furnished a mine of inflammable materials for any tropical climate; his prudence249, as regarded his health, was not remarkable; and if to all these internal and personal grounds of danger you add the incalculable hazards of the road itself, every friend of Mr. Wilson’s must have rejoiced on hearing that in 1808, when I first met him, this Tim-(or Tom-) buctoo scheme was already laid aside.
Yet, as the stimulus287 of danger, in one shape or other, was at that time of life perhaps essential to his comfort, he soon substituted another scheme, which at this day might be accomplished with ease and safety enough, but in the year 1809 (under the rancorous system of Bonaparte) was full of hazard. In this scheme he was so good as to associate myself as one of his travelling companions, together with an earlier friend of his own—an Englishman, of a philosophical turn of mind, with whom he had been a fellow-student at Glasgow; and we were certainly all three of an age and character to have enjoyed the expedition in the very highest degree, had the events of the war allowed us to realise our plan. The plan was as follows: from Falmouth, by one of the regular packets, we were to have sailed to the Tagus; and, landing wherever accident should allow us, to purchase mules288—hire Spanish servants—and travel extensively in Spain and Portugal for eight or nine months; thence, by such of the islands in the Mediterranean289 as particularly interested us, we were gradually to have passed into Greece, and thence to Constantinople. Finally, we were to have visited the Troad, Syria, Egypt, and perhaps Nubia. I feel it almost ludicrous to sketch the outline of so extensive a tour, no part of which was ever executed; such a Barmacide feast is laughable in the very rehearsal290. Yet it is bare justice to ourselves to say that on our parts there was no slackness or make-believe: what put an extinguisher upon our project was the entrance of Napoleon into Spain, his immediate advance upon Madrid, and the wretched catastrophe291 of the expedition so miserably292 misconducted under Sir John Moore. The prestige of French generalship was at that time a nightmare upon the courage and spirit of hopeful exertion293 throughout Europe; and the earliest dawn was only then beginning to arise of that glorious experience which was for ever to dissolve it. Sir J. Moore, and through him his gallant294 but unfortunate army, was the last conspicuous victim to the mere sound and humbug295 (if you will excuse a coarse expression) of the words Napoleon Bonaparte. What he fled from was precisely296 those two words. And the timid policy, adopted by Sir John on that memorable occasion, would—among other greater and national consequences—have had this little collateral interest to us unfortunate travellers, had our movements been as speedy as we had anticipated, that it would have cost us our heads. A certain bulletin, issued by Bonaparte at that time, sufficiently297 apprised298 us of that little truth. In this bulletin Bonaparte proclaimed with a careless air, but making at the same time somewhat of a boast of it, that having happened to meet a party of sixteen British travellers—persons of whom he had ascertained299 nothing at all but that they did not bear a military character—he had issued a summary order that they should all be strung up without loss of time by the neck. In this little facetious300 anecdote, as Bonaparte seemed to think it, we read the fate that we had escaped. Had nothing occurred to retard301 our departure from this country, we calculated that the route we had laid down for our daily motions would have brought us to Guadarama (or what was the name of the pass?) just in time to be hanged. Having a British general at our backs with an army of more than thirty thousand effective men, we should certainly have roamed in advance with perfect reliance upon the old British policy of fighting, for which we could never have allowed ourselves to dream of such a substitute as a flight through all the passes of Gallicia on the principle of ‘the D—— take the hindmost.’ Infallibly also we should have been surprised by the extraordinary rapidity at that time of the French movements; our miserable302 shambling mules, with their accursed tempers, would have made but a shabby attempt at flight before a squadron of light cavalry303; and in short, as I said before, we should have come just in time to be hanged. And hanged we should all have been: though why, and upon what principle, it would be difficult to say; and probably that question would have been left to after consideration in some more philosophical age. You will suppose naturally that we rejoiced at our escape; and so undoubtedly we did. Yet for my part I had, among nineteen-twentieths of joy, just one-twentieth of a lingering regret that we had missed the picturesque fate that awaited us. The reason was this: it has been through life an infirmity of Mr. Wilson’s (at least in my judgment an infirmity) to think too indulgently of Bonaparte, not merely in an intellectual point of view, but even with reference to his pretensions—hollower, one would think, than the wind—to moral elevation and magnanimity. Such a mistake, about a man who could never in any one instance bring himself to speak generously, or even forbearingly of an enemy, rouses my indignation as often as I recur to it; and in Professor Wilson, I have long satisfied myself that it takes its rise from a more comprehensive weakness, the greatest in fact which besets304 his mind, viz. a general tendency to bend to the prevailing opinion of the world, and a constitutional predisposition, to sympathise with power and whatsoever305 is triumphant306. Hence, I could not but regret most poignantly307 the capital opportunity I had forfeited308 of throwing in a deep and stinging sarcasm309 at his idol310, just at the moment when we should have been waiting to be turned off. I know Professor Wilson well: though a brave man, at twenty-two he enjoyed life with a rapture311 that few men have ever known, and he would have clung to it with awful tenacity312. Horribly he would have abominated313 the sight of the rope, and ruefully he would have sighed if I had suggested to him on the gallows314 any thoughts of that beautiful and quiet Elleray which he had left behind in England. Just at that moment I acknowledge that it would have been fiendish, but yet what a heaven of a luxury it would have been in the way of revenge—to have stung him with some neat epigram, that I might have composed in our walk to the gallows, or while the ropes were getting into tune3, on the generosity315 and magnanimity of Bonaparte! Perhaps, in a sober estimate, hanging might be too heavy a price for the refutation of a single error; yet still, at times, when my moral sense is roused and provoked by the obstinate blindness of Professor Wilson to the meanness and parvanimity3 of Bonaparte (a blindness which in him, as in all other worshippers of false idols316, is connected at the moment with intense hatred317 for those who refuse to partake in it), a wandering regret comes over me that we should have missed so fine an opportunity for gathering318 in our own persons some of those redundant319 bounties320 which the Corsican’s ‘magnanimity’ at that time scattered321 from his cornucopia322 of malice to the English name upon all his unfortunate prisoners of that nation.
But enough of this; an event soon occurred in Mr. Wilson’s life which made it a duty to dismiss for ever all travelling schemes that were connected with so much hazard as this. The fierce acharnement of Bonaparte so pointedly323 directed to everything English, and the prostration324 of the Continent, which had enabled him absolutely to seal every port of Europe against an Englishman, who could now no longer venture to stray a mile beyond the range of the ship’s guns, which had brought him to the shore, without the certainty of being arrested as a spy,—this unheard-of condition of things had at length compelled all English gentlemen to reconcile themselves for the present to the bounds of their own island; and, accordingly, in the spring of 1809, we three unhanged friends had entirely weaned our minds from the travelling scheme which had so completely occupied our thoughts in 1808. Mr. Wilson in particular gave himself up to the pleasures and occupations furnished by the neighbourhood of Windermere, which at that time were many and various; living myself at a distance of nine miles from Elleray, I did not see much of him through this year 1809; in 1810 he married a young English lady, greatly admired for her beauty and the elegance325 of her manners, who was generally supposed to have brought him a fortune of about ten thousand pounds. In saying that, I violate no confidence at any time reposed326 in me, for I rely only on the public voice—which, in this instance, I have been told by well-informed persons, was tolerably correct. Be that as it may, however, in other respects I have the best reasons for believing that this marriage connection has proved the happiest event of Mr. Wilson’s life; and that the delightful327 temper and disposition of his wife have continued to shed a sunshine of peace and quiet happiness over his domestic establishment, which were well worth all the fortunes in the world. This lady has brought him a family of two sons and three daughters, all interesting by their personal appearance and their manners, and at this time rapidly growing up into young men and women.
Here I should close all further notice of Mr. Wilson’s life, and confine myself, through what remains of the space which I have allowed myself, to a short critical notice (such as it may be proper for a friend to write) of his literary character and merits; but one single event remains of a magnitude too conspicuous in any man’s life to be dismissed wholly without mention. I should add, therefore, that, about eight or nine years after his marriage (for I forget the precise year4), Mr. Wilson offered himself a candidate for the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University in Edinburgh, which had recently become vacant by the death of Dr. Thomas Brown, the immediate successor of Mr. Dugald Stewart. The Scotch, who know just as much about what they call ‘Moral5 Philosophy’ and Metaphysics as the English do, viz. exactly nothing at all, pride themselves prodigiously328 upon these two names of Dugald Stewart and Dr. Brown, and imagine that they filled the chair with some peculiar brilliance329. Upon that subject a word or two farther on. Meantime this notion made the contest peculiarly painful and invidious, amongst ungenerous enemies, for any untried man—no matter though his real merits had been a thousand times greater than those of his predecessors330. This Mr. Wilson found; he had made himself enemies; whether by any unjustifiable violences, and wanton provocations331 on his own part, I have no means of knowing. In whatever way created, however, these enemies now used the advantages of the occasion with rancorous malignity332, and persecuted333 him at every step with unrelenting fury. Very different was the treatment he met with from his competitor in the contest; in that one circumstance of the case, the person of his competitor, he had reason to think himself equally fortunate and unfortunate; fortunate, that he should be met by the opposition334 of a man whose opposition was honour—a man of birth, talents, and high breeding, a good scholar, and for extensive reading and universal knowledge of books (and especially of philosophic literature) the Magliabecchi of Scotland; unfortunate on the other hand that this accomplished opponent, adorned335 by so many brilliant gifts that recommended him to the contested office, should happen to be his early and highly valued friend. The particular progress of the contest, and its circumstances, I am not able to state; in general I have heard in Edinburgh that, from political influences which chiefly governed the course of the election, the conduct of the partisans336 (perhaps on both sides) was intemperate337, personal, and unjust; whilst that of the principals and their immediate friends was full of forbearance and generosity. The issue was, that Mr. Wilson carried the Professorship,—by what majority of votes, I am unable to say; and you will be pleased to hear that any little coolness, which must naturally have succeeded to so warm a contest, has long since passed away; and the two rival candidates have been for many years restored to their early feelings of mutual338 esteem339 and regard.
Here I pause for everything that concerns in the remotest way the incidents of Professor Wilson’s life; one letter I mean to add, as I have already promised, on the particular position which he occupies in relation to modern literature; and then I have done. Meantime, let me hope that you have not so far miscalculated my purpose as to have been looking out for anecdotes340 (i. e. scandal) about Professor Wilson throughout the course of this letter; since, if in any case I could descend to cater341 for tastes of that description (which I am persuaded, are naturally no tastes of your family),—you must feel, on reflection, how peculiarly impossible it is to take that course in sketching342 the character of a friend, because the very means, by which in almost every case one becomes possessed of such private anecdotes, are the opportunities thrown in one’s way by the confiding343 negligence344 of affectionate friendship; opportunities therefore which must be for ever sacred to every man of honour.
Yours most faithfully,
Parmenides.
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sketch
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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distinguished
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versatility
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eminent
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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proxy
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waiving
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的现在分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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second-hand
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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philosophic
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applied
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feat
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uncommonly
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uncommon
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negligent
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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ornithologist
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| n.鸟类学家 | |
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25
ornithology
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| n.鸟类学 | |
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26
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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arrogate
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| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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34
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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36
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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37
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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38
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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39
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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40
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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41
profaner
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| adj.不敬（神）的；渎神的；亵渎的；世俗的vt.不敬；亵渎，玷污n.未受秘传的人 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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43
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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44
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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45
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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47
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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48
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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49
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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50
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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51
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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52
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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53
disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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54
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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55
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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56
condemning
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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57
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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58
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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59
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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60
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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61
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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62
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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63
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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64
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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65
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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66
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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67
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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68
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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69
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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70
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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71
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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72
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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73
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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74
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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75
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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76
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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77
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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78
biases
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| 偏见( bias的名词复数 )； 偏爱； 特殊能力； 斜纹 | |
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79
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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80
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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81
countenanced
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|
| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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82
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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83
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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84
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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85
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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86
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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87
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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88
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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89
connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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90
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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91
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
coxcombry
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| n.（男子的）虚浮，浮夸，爱打扮 | |
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94
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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95
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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96
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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97
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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98
accredits
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| v.相信( accredit的第三人称单数 )；委托；委任；把…归结于 | |
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99
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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100
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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101
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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102
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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103
collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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104
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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105
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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106
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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107
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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108
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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109
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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110
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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111
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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112
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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113
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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114
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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115
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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116
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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117
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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118
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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119
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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120
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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121
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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122
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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123
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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124
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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125
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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126
hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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127
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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128
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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129
navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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130
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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131
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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132
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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133
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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134
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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135
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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136
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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137
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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139
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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140
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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141
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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142
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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143
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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144
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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145
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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146
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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147
levities
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| n.欠考虑( levity的名词复数 )；不慎重；轻率；轻浮 | |
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148
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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149
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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150
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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151
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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152
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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153
parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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154
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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155
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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156
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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157
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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158
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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159
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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160
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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161
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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162
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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163
sinecures
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| n.工作清闲但报酬优厚的职位，挂名的好差事( sinecure的名词复数 ) | |
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164
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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165
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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166
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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167
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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168
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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169
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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170
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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171
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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172
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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173
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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174
modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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175
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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176
immunities
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| 免除，豁免( immunity的名词复数 )； 免疫力 | |
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177
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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178
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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179
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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180
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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181
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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182
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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183
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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184
gamut
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| n.全音阶，(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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185
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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186
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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187
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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189
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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190
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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191
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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192
compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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193
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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194
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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195
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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196
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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197
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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198
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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199
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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200
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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201
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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202
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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203
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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204
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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205
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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206
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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207
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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208
dilates
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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209
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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210
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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211
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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212
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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213
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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214
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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215
contemplator
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| 沉思者，静观者 | |
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216
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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217
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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218
eminences
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| 卓越( eminence的名词复数 )； 著名； 高地； 山丘 | |
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219
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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220
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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221
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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222
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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223
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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224
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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225
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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226
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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227
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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229
picturesquely
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230
situated
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|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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231
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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232
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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233
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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234
adventurousness
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235
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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236
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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237
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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238
counteracting
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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239
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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240
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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241
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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242
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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243
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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244
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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245
commodiously
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| adv.宽阔地，方便地 | |
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246
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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247
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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248
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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249
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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250
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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251
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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252
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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253
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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254
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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255
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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256
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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257
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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258
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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259
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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260
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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261
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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262
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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263
concurrently
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| adv.同时地 | |
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264
patrimony
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| n.世袭财产，继承物 | |
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265
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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266
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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267
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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268
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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269
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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270
conjectural
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| adj.推测的 | |
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271
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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272
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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273
overcast
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|
| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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274
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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275
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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276
geographical
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|
| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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277
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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278
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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279
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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280
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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281
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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282
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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283
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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284
hardiness
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| n.耐劳性，强壮；勇气，胆子 | |
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285
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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286
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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287
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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288
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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289
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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290
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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291
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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292
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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293
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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294
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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295
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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296
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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297
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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298
apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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299
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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300
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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301
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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302
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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303
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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304
besets
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| v.困扰( beset的第三人称单数 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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305
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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306
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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poignantly
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308
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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309
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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310
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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311
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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312
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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313
abominated
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| v.憎恶，厌恶，不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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314
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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315
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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316
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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317
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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318
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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319
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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320
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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321
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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322
cornucopia
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| n.象征丰收的羊角 | |
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323
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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324
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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325
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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326
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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327
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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328
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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329
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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330
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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331
provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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332
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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333
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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334
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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335
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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336
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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337
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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338
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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339
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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340
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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341
cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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342
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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343
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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344
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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