DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.
Young Johnson, who by now had returned from Oxford13, had, thanks to the assistance of a wealthy friend, Mr. Walmesley, set up a school of his own in the town, dignified14 by the name of "The Academy." At this seat of learning Garrick studied for a while, and years afterwards he wrote of his solemn ponderous15 master, "I honoured him, he endured me." But the academy did not prosper12, and Johnson, who had already begun to write, determined16 to try his fate in London. Thither17, too, young Garrick was bent18, for it had been decided19 that he was to study law, and kind Mr. Walmesley had arranged to pay the expenses of the special instruction he would need, declaring him to be "of a good disposition20, and as ingenious and promising21 a young man as ever I knew in my life." So together they set out, and together they lived for awhile, Johnson finding a scanty22 livelihood23 as a bookseller's assistant, David working as a student of Lincoln's Inn.
Soon afterwards Captain Garrick died, and at the same time died also the rich wine merchant uncle, who left a fair sum of money to his brother's children, with a special legacy24 to David, of whom he had been particularly fond. Then it was that for the first time the boy's ambition took definite shape: he knew there was only one life and one career for him, and that was summed up in the stage. His mother, though, shrank in horror from the idea, and to his eternal credit, rather than add to her sorrows, he set aside his own wishes, and made one more desperate effort to please his family by going into the wine business, as the London manager, with his brother Peter. Even in so doing, theatrical25 life pursued him, for his wines were so patronised by the coffee-houses and clubs to which the actors resorted, that he considered it part of his business to amuse and entertain his customers by "standing26 on the tables at the clubs to give his diverting and loudly applauded mimicries." To make a long story short, the genius that was in David would not allow him to settle down to a wine merchant's career; he became restless and dissatisfied, and one fine morning two letters fell like bombshells into the Garrick household at Lichfield: one from David, saying that his mind was so inclined to the stage that he could no longer resist it, and he hoped they would all forgive him when they found he had the genius of an actor; the other from an old friend, who hastened to assure the family how great a success Davy's first appearance had been, how the audience was in raptures27, and how several men of judgment28 had wondered that he had kept off the stage so long. Richard II. was the ambitious part Garrick had undertaken. "I played the part to the surprise of every one," he wrote humbly29 to his furious brother. "It is what I doat upon, and I am resolved to pursue it." The Daily Post had an enthusiastic notice about this unknown gentleman who had never appeared before, "whose reception was the most extraordinary and great that was ever known, whose voice was clear, without monotony, drawling, affectation, bellowing30, or grumbling31; whose mien32 was neither strutting33, slouching, stiff, nor mincing34." Pope, most keen of critics, had watched him delightedly from a box. "That young man never had his equal, and never will have a rival," he remarked; adding, "I only fear lest he should become vain and ruined by applause."
But there was a simplicity35 of character and a fund of good sense in David which saved him from this latter fate, even though he quickly became the talk of the town, the man about whom the fashionable London world went mad. After acting with ever-increasing success in nineteen different parts, his London season came to an end for the time being, and in response to an urgent invitation he went over to Dublin, where the craze for him was so intense that, when a mild epidemic36 broke out, it was given the name of the Garrick fever. A second visit to that gay capital was even more successful, and Garrick finally returned to London with a clear ￡600 in his pocket.
It was then that various difficulties beset37 him, chiefly owing to the bad management of the theatres and the endless quarrels between the principal actors of the day; but at last, thanks to the many friends who firmly believed in him, and whose faith he never disappointed, he was able to invest ￡8000 in Drury Lane Theatre, and to become its manager as well as its leading actor. His determination was to "get together the best company in England," and it is characteristic of him that he let no past jealousies39 or quarrels interfere40 with his selection. Even Macklin, who had violently attacked him with tongue and pen, was engaged, as well as his wife, and he skilfully41 smoothed down the sensitive feelings of the various ladies. He insisted on rehearsals42, which hitherto had seldom been enforced, and he also insisted that players should learn their parts, a very necessary proviso. On the opening night he remembered the friend with whom he had entered London, when triumphs such as this had been undreamt of, and it was Dr. Johnson whom he commissioned to write the prologue43, which he himself gave with splendid effect. Later on he loyally did his best to make a success of Johnson's heavy and somewhat clumsy play "Irene," and thanks to his efforts and the money he freely spent on its staging, it ran for nine nights, so that the Doctor made the sum of ￡300. But with this the author was far from satisfied, and always declared that the actors had not done justice to their parts!
It would take too long to dwell on the many plays Garrick produced, the many parts he created, the wide range of writers new and old he explored, and the excellent standard he maintained. Whether it was a tragedy of Shakespeare's, or a comedy of Ben Jonson's, or a pantomime, he threw himself heartily44 into them all and never spared himself. He knew his public and catered45 for them, but at the same time he taught them to understand and applaud the best. His kindness to every one with whom he came in contact was proverbial; indeed, his greatest weakness lay in his good-nature. He could not bear to vex46 people by refusing them anything, and this trait often landed him into difficulties with the army of playwriters to whose entreaties47 that he would produce their works he seldom turned a deaf ear. And when these plays were too hopelessly bad to be dreamt of, David tried to soften48 the blow by a gift of money, sometimes actually a pension. As might have been expected, he had a wide circle of acquaintances from the highest in the land to the poorest Grub Street poets, and rarely was man so well liked. For in spite of his weaknesses—and he was restless and sensitive to the point of touchiness—he never allowed himself to be unjust or ungenerous to other people, and no thought of self ever interfered49 with the standard he had set up for his theatre and his own profession.
More than once he talked of retiring, for the strain of his life was heavy, and he looked forward to years of restful enjoyment50 with his "sweet wife," who had been before her marriage the celebrated51 dancer Mademoiselle Violette. But the very mention of such an idea raised a storm of excitement. Once even the king intervened when David had taken an unusually long holiday, and his Majesty52 requested Mr. Garrick to shortly appear again. The night when, thus commanded, he reappeared in "The Beggar's Opera," was one of his greatest triumphs; again "the town went half mad," and the theatre was crowded to an alarming extent. All ideas of retirement53 vanished from David's mind; the old magic had not lost its spell, and for more than ten years longer he went on with his work as vigorously as ever.
His fame became even more widespread, his public loved him even more dearly, and from far-away country places people journeyed to London so that they might boast of once having seen the great Mr. Garrick.
But in 1776, an illness, which he had long kept at bay, made itself felt, and he was the first to recognise that the time had nearly come for the curtain to fall. He gave a series of his greatest representations, ending with Richard II. "I gained my fame in Richard," he said, "and I mean to close with it."—Though he confessed to being in agonies of pain, in the eyes of his enraptured54 audience he was as great as he had ever been in his palmiest days of success, as graceful55, as winsome56, and as gay. His real farewell play, however, was "The Wonder," in which he took his favourite part, that of Don Felix, and "as his grand eyes wandered round the crowded house, he saw a sea of faces, friends, strangers, even foreigners, a boundless57 amphitheatre representing most affectionate sympathies and exalted58 admiration. He played as he had never played before. When the last note of applause had died away, the other actors left the stage and he stood there alone. The house listened in awe-struck silence. At first he tried in vain to speak; for once the ready words would not come for his calling. When at last he went on to thank his friends for their wonderful kindness to him, he broke down, and his tears fell fast. Sobs59 rang through the theatre. "Farewell! Farewell!" was cried in many a quivering voice. Mrs. Garrick wept bitterly in her box, and David slowly walked off the stage with one last wistful glance at the sea of faces all around him.
His interest in his theatre did not cease after he had left it, and he was disturbed at finding that the new manager, Sheridan, was sadly easy-going and unbusiness-like. But there was not much time left for such things to trouble him. Though he kept up his merry heart and his sprightly60 manner to the end, and though he delighted in the undisturbed companionship of his wife, the disease gained rapidly and he suffered much pain. Gradually a stupor61 crept over him, and though it sometimes lifted, so that with his old sweet smile he had a jest or a word of welcome for his friends, it never cleared, and he passed gently away in the early dawn of a January morning, 1779, "leaving that human stage where he had played with as much excellence62 and dignity as ever he had done on his own."
So ended a prosperous, pleasant life, and rarely was a man better liked by his fellows, or more genuinely mourned. Dr. Johnson, in this moment, forgot all his later coldness towards the Davy he had once so loved. He left a card on Mrs. Garrick, and "wished some endeavours of his could enable her to support a loss which the world cannot repair;" while he wrote those well-known words, which Mrs. Garrick had engraved63 on her husband's memorial monument in Lichfield Cathedral, and which form an inscription64 more appropriate than that on the Abbey tomb:—"I am disappointed by that stroke of death, which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations and impoverished65 the public stock of harmless pleasure."
David's devoted66 wife outlived him for over forty years, keenly interested to the last in all matters theatrical, and a well-known figure in the Abbey, where, little and bent, she often made her way to the tomb which held him she had so loved, and standing there would readily recount over and over again to willing listeners the triumphs of "her Davy."
Johnson, as we have seen, settled down in London with the intention of making literature pay. "No man but a blockhead," he said in his strongest manner, "ever wrote except for money." Perhaps it was for opinions such as these that his wife, more than twenty years older than himself, declared him to be the most sensible man that lived. A curious figure he must have seemed to those booksellers of whom he demanded work as a translator, mightily67 tall and broadly made, with a face which he twirled and twisted about in a strange fashion, features scarred by disease, eyes which were of little use to him, and a manner pompous68 and overbearing, though redeemed69 by a kindliness70 of heart not to be concealed71. But he managed to struggle along, writing squibs or pamphlets, reporting speeches in Parliament, trying his hand at plays or poetry, and all the while working away at his Great Dictionary, for which when finished he was to receive ￡1500, he out of that sum paying his copyists and assistants. He founded a club at which he began to make his reputation as a talker, and out of those conversations with his special friends there came to him the idea of starting a newspaper on the lines of Addison's Spectator. But Johnson's heavy hand, his love of long discourses72, and the natural melancholy73 of his nature, did not fit him for work such as this. His Rambler only lasted for two years, and certainly made him no fortune, though it may have helped him to exist during that time. His Dictionary, when it was at last completed, gave him a surer position in the literary world of London, and he was paid the sum of ￡100 for his story of "Rasselas," but most of this went in paying for the last illness and funeral of his mother, and Johnson seems to have been sadly in need of money. Through the influence of some friends, the king, George III. who declared that he was most anxious to offer "brighter prospects74 to men of literary merit," proposed to give Johnson a pension of ￡300 a year. At first he would not hear of accepting it—indeed, there was a rather formidable difficulty in the way, for in his Dictionary he had defined the word pension as being "generally understood to mean pay given to a State hireling for treason to his country." However, the explanations and persuasions75 of his friends at last overcame the obstacle, and from that time forward he became one of the best known public characters. A favourite such as David Garrick he could never have aspired76 to be, and to fashionable folks, especially to ladies, he was an untidy, conceited77, rugged78 old man, who ate enormous meals, drank sometimes twenty-five cups of tea at one sitting, wore slovenly79 and dirty clothes, half-burnt wigs80, and slippers81 almost in tatters. Then he contradicted flatly, and his anger was of a very vehement82 kind; though he always declared himself to be a "most polite man," and was occasionally ceremonious to a wonderful degree. And yet as he discoursed83, men listened to him with such pleasure that they forgot entirely84 his many monstrous85 failings. His power of argument was magnificent; never could man so slay86 an adversary87 by his words as could this vigorous, quarrelsome, brilliant talker, and though he hit hard, he did not hit cruelly. There was no venom88 in his words, and however violently he argued, he never seems to have lost a friend through it. On the contrary his circle of admirers constantly grew, and cheerfully submitted to whatever demands he made upon them. Chief among those friends, of course, stands the faithful Boswell, who idolised him with a worship that must have been very wearisome. If Johnson so much as opened his mouth Boswell bent forward wild with eagerness, terrified lest one precious word should escape him; he sat as close to him as he could get, he hung around him like a dog, and no amount of snubbing could damp his ardour. He delighted in asking his master a series of such questions as these:—"What would you do if you were shut up in a castle with a new-born baby?" Or, "Why is a cow's tail long?"
"I will not be baited with what and why," Johnson would answer impatiently. "You have only two subjects, yourself and me. I am sick of both. If your presence does not drive a man out of his house, nothing will."
Johnson's daily life seems to have been mapped out in this wise. He lay in bed late into the morning, surrounded by an admiring circle of men friends, who consulted him on every particular, and listened respectfully to all his opinions. He only rose in time for a late dinner at some tavern89 which occupied most of the afternoon, as other circles of friends came to listen to him. Then he would drink tea at some house, frequently spending the rest of the evening there, unless he was supping with other acquaintances. Except for his "Lives of the Poets," he wrote but little at this period of his life, and said in excuse, "that a man could do as much good by talking as by writing."
Johnson was generally melancholy, the result of his miserable90 health to a great extent. Yet his pessimism91 never affected92 his wonderfully tender heart. Of his pension he barely spent a third on himself. His house became, after the death of his wife, the haven93 for a variety of unfortunate and homeless people, and there lived in it Miss Williams, a blind lady, whose temper was not sweet; Levett, a waiter, who had become a quack94 doctor; Mrs. Desmoulins, and her daughter, old Lichfield acquaintances, and a certain Miss Carmichael. Needless to say there was very little peace in that household, and the poor old Doctor often dreaded95 going home. "Williams hates everybody," he wrote to his really good friends, the Thrales. "Levett hates Desmoulins, and does not love Williams; Desmoulins hates them both; Poll Carmichael loves none of them."
And yet this "rugged old giant," as he has been called, provided for them all, and for many others who came and went at their will, and who grumbled96 if everything was not exactly to their liking97. As his bodily sufferings increased, he nerved himself to face the end with a touchingly98 childlike confidence. His thoughts wandered back to his wife. "We have been parted thirty years," he said. "Perhaps she is now praying for me. God help me. God, Thou art merciful, hear my prayers, and enable me to trust in Thee." Years before, when wandering about the dark aisles99 with Goldsmith, he had pointed38 to the sleeping figures around, saying, "And our names may perhaps be mixed with theirs." So now he was delighted when, in answer to his question, he was told that he would be buried in Westminster Abbey. "Do not give me any more physic," he asked the doctor at the very last; "I desire to render up my soul to God unclouded."
His funeral was a very quiet one, in great contrast to Garrick's, but his executors felt that "a cathedral service with lights and music" would have been too costly100; as it was, the Dean and Chapter charged high fees, and the expenses came to more than two hundred pounds. But Boswell assures us that a "respectable number of his friends attended," and though the Abbey holds many a greater name than that of Samuel Johnson, few that sleep there carried a braver, kindlier heart throughout a life of constant suffering.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan was the son of an actor and manager who had been driven from Ireland, his native country, by a series of misfortunes, and forced to earn his living in England as a teacher of elocution. Want of money, endless debts, a wonderful power of spending freely with an entire absence of forethought, characterised the Sheridan family, and young Richard was brought up on those very happy-go-lucky principles. He was sent to Harrow, where his tutor said, "The sources of his infirmities were a scanty and precarious101 allowance from the father;" and when he left school, a handsome, brilliant, careless boy of seventeen the state of the family purse made any further education out of the question. His father had settled in Bath, and here Richard made the acquaintance of that beautiful girl and wonderful singer, Elizabeth Lindley "the link between an angel and a woman," as an Irish bishop102 called her, whose father also taught music and gave concerts in Bath. She was very unhappy, as her relations wished to force her into a marriage with a rich but elderly gentleman whom she disliked, and in her despair she confided103 her troubles to Richard Sheridan, the one among her many admirers to whom she had given her heart. To make a long story short, the young couple fled together "on a matrimonial expedition," as the London Chronicle worded it; and in spite of all opposition104 they married, and took up their abode105 in London, near Portman Square. Though neither of them had any private fortune, Sheridan refused to allow his wife to sing in public. This action of his was warmly discussed by Dr. Johnson's friends, some of whom said that as the young gentleman had not a shilling in the world, he was foolishly delicate or foolishly proud. The Doctor, however, applauded him roundly. "He is a brave man. He resolved wisely and nobly. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife singing publicly for him? No, sir, there can be no doubt here." But Sheridan had another surprise in store for his friends, and suddenly it became known that he had written a play called "The Rivals," with which the manager of Covent Garden Theatre was entranced, a light, fresh comedy, bearing on fashionable life in Bath. It was produced, and in spite of its many faults, chiefly arising from its having been written in such hot haste, it made a reputation for its author, which prepared the way for his great triumph two years later, when he brought out "The School for Scandal," still the most popular of English comedies. With it he leapt into fame, and though barely twenty-five, he became the man whose name was in everybody's mouth. With characteristic airiness and vagueness in money matters, he took upon himself the responsible duties of manager to Drury Lane Theatre after Garrick retired106, and brilliant though he was, his recklessness and want of any business habits, soon brought about a serious state of chaos and rebellion there. This, however, seemed to disturb him but little, and he turned his attention to politics; for at the Literary Club he had made many political friends, including Fox, and he proposed going into Parliament as an independent member, though he believed that "either ministry107 or opposition would be happy to engage him." He found a seat at Stafford, and freely promised employment in Drury Lane Theatre to those who voted for him; while the necessary money for the election, which of course Sheridan did not possess, was provided by a gentleman in return for a share in the Opera House. His first speech was not a success, but though disappointed he was not daunted108.
"It is in me, however," he declared, "and it shall come out."
Within a very short time the House of Commons listened to him as it would listen to no one else. By constant practice he had trained himself to speak perfectly109 and true to his Irish blood, he had a rich store of language, a fund of wit and humour, and the power of handling every emotion. His great speech in the Warren Hastings case lasted six hours, during the whole of which time he held the House in the hollow of his hand, and when he continued his attack in Westminster Hall, people paid twenty guineas a day to hear him. "I cannot tell you," wrote his devoted wife to her sister, "the adoration110 that he has excited in the breasts of every class of people. Every party prejudice has been overcome by such a display of genius, eloquence111, and goodness."
Sheridan indeed was at the height of his glory; but fame is a dangerous pinnacle112 for the strongest of men, and Sheridan had no foundation-stones of strength or stability. His wife's death was the beginning of his fall, debt and drink did the rest. All sense of honour seems to have left him where money was concerned. His actors could get no payments save in fair words; he kept the money which resulted from special benefits; he borrowed where he could, and then plunged113 the more deeply into debt, but he never curbed114 his extravagances, or went without anything he desired, no matter to what means he had to resort. His buoyancy never failed him. Even when his theatre was burnt to the ground with a loss to him of ￡200,000, his ready wit did not desert him. He sat drinking his wine in a coffee-house from where he could see the flames, merely remarking to a sympathetic friend, "A man likes to take a glass of wine by his own fireside." All the latter part of his life is painfully sad; debt, poverty, and dishonour115 hemmed116 him in, and excessive drinking brought on his last illness. A few days before his death he was discovered almost starving in an unfurnished room. Even then the bailiffs were about to carry him away to the debtors117' gaol118, and only the doctor, who stayed and nursed him to the end, prevented this last disgrace. The news of his destitution119 horrified120 those who remembered him in the days of his dazzling triumphs, and in one paper an eloquent121 appeal was made to the public generosity122, "that we may prefer ministering in the chamber123 of sadness to ministering at the splendid sorrows which adorn124 the hearse." In response, crowds of people, royal dukes included, flocked to leave delicacies125 at his lodging126. But it was too late; the fitful life with all its successes and failures was over, the shining eyes of which he had been so proud were closed for ever now, the man who had "done everything perfectly" was no more: the greatest orator1 of his day was silent.
He had always hoped to be buried in Westminster Abbey, "where there is very snug127 lying," and if possible next to Fox and Pitt. Moreover, he had desired that his passage to the grave should be quiet and simple. But his friend, Peter Moore, determined that he should have a splendid funeral; every one was invited and every one came. The procession was of great length, and "such an array of rank, so great a number of distinguished persons" had never before assembled within the memory of the beholders. There was just room for a single grave near to where David Garrick lay, and here Sheridan was buried. While lest his name should be all too soon forgotten, a simply worded tablet was immediately prepared—the last tribute of Peter Moore.
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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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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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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40
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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41
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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42
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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43
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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44
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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46
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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47
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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48
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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49
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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50
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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51
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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52
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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53
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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54
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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56
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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57
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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58
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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59
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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60
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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61
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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62
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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63
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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66
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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68
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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69
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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72
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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73
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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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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80
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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81
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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82
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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83
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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84
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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85
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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86
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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88
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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89
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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93
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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97
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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98
touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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99
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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100
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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101
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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102
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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103
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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104
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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105
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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106
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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107
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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108
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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110
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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111
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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112
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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113
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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114
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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116
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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117
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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118
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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119
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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120
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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121
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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122
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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123
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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124
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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125
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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126
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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127
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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