TO turn again to narrative1, and to far less serious thoughts.
The last eighteen months before I went to Cambridge, I wasplaced, or rather placed myself, under the tuition of Mr.
Robert Collyer, rector of Warham, a living close to Holkhamin the gift of my brother Leicester. Between my Ely tutorand myself there was but little sympathy. He was a man ofmuch refinement2, but with not much indulgence for suchaberrant proclivities3 as mine. Without my knowledge, hewrote to Mr. Ellice lamenting4 my secret recusancy, and itsmoral dangers. Mr. Ellice came expressly from London, andstayed a night at Ely. He dined with us in the cloisters,and had a long private conversation with my tutor, and,before he left, with me. I indignantly resented theclandestine representations of Mr. S., and, without a word toMr. Ellice or to anyone else, wrote next day to Mr. Collyerto beg him to take me in at Warham, and make what he could ofme, before I went to Cambridge. It may here be said that Mr.
Collyer had been my father's chaplain, and had lived atHolkham for several years as family tutor to my brothers andmyself, as we in turn left the nursery. Mr. Collyer, uponreceipt of my letter, referred the matter to Mr. Ellice; withhis approval I was duly installed at Warham. Beforedescribing my time there, I must tell of an incident whichcame near to affecting me in a rather important way.
My mother lived at Longford in Derbyshire, an old place, nowmy home, which had come into the Coke family in James I.'sreign, through the marriage of a son of Chief Justice Coke'swith the heiress of the De Langfords, an ancient family fromthat time extinct. While staying there during my summerholidays, my mother confided5 to me that she had had an offerof marriage from Mr. Motteux, the owner of considerableestates in Norfolk, including two houses - Beachamwell andSandringham. Mr. Motteux - 'Johnny Motteux,' as he wascalled - was, like Tristram Shandy's father, the son of awealthy 'Turkey merchant,' which, until better informed, Ialways took to mean a dealer6 in poultry7. 'Johnny,' likeanother man of some notoriety, whom I well remember in myyounger days - Mr. Creevey - had access to many large housessuch as Holkham; not, like Creevey, for the sake of hisscandalous tongue, but for the sake of his wealth. He had no(known) relatives; and big people, who had younger sons toprovide for, were quite willing that one of them should behis heir. Johnny Motteux was an epicure8 with the best ofCHEFS. His capons came from Paris, his salmon9 fromChristchurch, and his Strasburg pies were made to order. Oneof these he always brought with him as a present to mymother, who used to say, 'Mr. Motteux evidently thinks thenearest way to my heart is down my throat.'
A couple of years after my father's death, Motteux wrote tomy mother proposing marriage, and, to enhance his personalattractions, (in figure and dress he was a duplicate of theimmortal Pickwick,) stated that he had made his will and hadbequeathed Sandringham to me, adding that, should he diewithout issue, I was to inherit the remainder of his estates.
Rather to my surprise, my mother handed the letter to me withevident signs of embarrassment10 and distress11. My firstexclamation was: 'How jolly! The shooting's first rate, andthe old boy is over seventy, if he's a day.'
My mother apparently13 did not see it in this light. Sheclearly, to my disappointments did not care for the shooting;and my exultation14 only brought tears into her eyes.
'Why, mother,' I exclaimed, 'what's up? Don't you - don'tyou care for Johnny Motteux?'
She confessed that she did not.
'Then why don't you tell him so, and not bother about hisbeastly letter?'
'If I refuse him you will lose Sandringham.'
'But he says here he has already left it to me.'
'He will alter his will.'
'Let him!' cried I, flying out at such prospective15 meanness.
'Just you tell him you don't care a rap for him or forSandringham either.'
In more lady-like terms she acted in accordance with myadvice; and, it may be added, not long afterwards married Mr.
Ellice.
Mr. Motteux's first love, or one of them, had been LadyCowper, then Lady Palmerston. Lady Palmerston's youngest sonwas Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr. Motteux died a year or two afterthe above event. He made a codicil16 to his will, and leftSandringham and all his property to Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr.
Spencer Cowper was a young gentleman of costly17 habits.
Indeed, he bore the slightly modified name of 'ExpensiveCowper.' As an attache at Paris he was famous for hispatronage of dramatic art - or artistes rather; the votariesof Terpsichore were especially indebted to his liberality.
At the time of Mr. Motteux's demise18, he was attached to theEmbassy at St. Petersburg. Mr. Motteux's solicitors19 wroteimmediately to inform him of his accession to their lateclient's wealth. It being one of Mr. Cowper's maxims21 neverto read lawyers' letters, (he was in daily receipt of morethan he could attend to,) he flung this one unread into thefire; and only learnt his mistake through the congratulationsof his family.
The Prince Consort22 happened about this time to be in quest ofa suitable country seat for his present Majesty23; andSandringham, through the adroit24 negotiations25 of LordPalmerston, became the property of the Prince of Wales. Thesoul of the 'Turkey merchant,' we cannot doubt, will reposein peace.
The worthy26 rector of Warham St. Mary's was an odditydeserving of passing notice. Outwardly he was no Adonis.
His plain features and shock head of foxy hair, hisantiquated and neglected garb27, his copious28 jabot - muchaffected by the clergy29 of those days - were becominginvestitures of the inward man. His temper was inflammatory,sometimes leading to excesses, which I am sure he rued30 inmental sackcloth and ashes. But visitors at Holkham (unawareof the excellent motives31 and moral courage which inspired hisconduct) were not a little amazed at the austerity with whichhe obeyed the dictates32 of his conscience.
For example, one Sunday evening after dinner, when thedrawing-room was filled with guests, who more or lesspreserved the decorum which etiquette33 demands in the presenceof royalty34, (the Duke of Sussex was of the party,) CharlesFox and Lady Anson, great-grandmother of the present LordLichfield, happened to be playing at chess. When theirascible dominie beheld35 them he pushed his way through thebystanders, swept the pieces from the board, and, withrigorous impartiality36, denounced these impious desecrators ofthe Sabbath eve.
As an example of his fidelity37 as a librarian, Mr. Panizziused to relate with much glee how, whenever he was atHolkham, Mr. Collyer dogged him like a detective. One day,not wishing to detain the reverend gentleman while he himselfspent the forenoon in the manuscript library, (where not onlythe ancient manuscripts, but the most valuable of the printedbooks, are kept under lock and key,) he considerately beggedMr. Collyer to leave him to his researches. The dominiereplied 'that he knew his duty, and did not mean to neglectit.' He did not lose sight of Mr. Panizzi.
The notion that he - the great custodian38 of the nation'sliterary treasures - would snip39 out and pocket the title-pageof the folio edition of Shakespeare, or of the CoverdaleBible, tickled40 Mr. Panizzi's fancy vastly.
In spite, however, of our rector's fiery41 temperament42, orperhaps in consequence of it, he was remarkably43 susceptibleto the charms of beauty. We were constantly invited todinner and garden parties in the neighbourhood; nor was thegood rector slow to return the compliment. It must beconfessed that the pupil shared to the full theimpressibility of the tutor; and, as it happened, unknown toboth, the two were in one case rivals.
As the young lady afterwards occupied a very distinguishedposition in Oxford44 society, it can only be said that she wascelebrated for her many attractions. She was then sixteen,and the younger of her suitors but two years older. As faras age was concerned, nothing could be more compatible. Norin the matter of mutual45 inclination46 was there any disparitywhatever. What, then, was the pupil's dismay when, after adinner party at the rectory, and the company had left, thetutor, in a frantic47 state of excitement, seized the pupil byboth hands, and exclaimed: 'She has accepted me!'
'Accepted you?' I asked. 'Who has accepted you?'
'Who? Why, Miss -, of course! Who else do you suppose wouldaccept me?'
'No one,' said I, with doleful sincerity48. 'But did youpropose to her? Did she understand what you said to her?
Did she deliberately49 and seriously say "Yes?"'
'Yes, yes, yes,' and his disordered jabot and touzled hairechoed the fatal word.
'O Smintheus of the silver bow!' I groaned50. 'It is thewoman's part to create delusions51, and - destroy them! Tothink of it! after all that has passed between us these -these three weeks, next Monday! "Once and for ever." Didever woman use such words before? And I - believed them!'
'Did you speak to the mother?' I asked in a fit ofdesperation.
'There was no time for that. Mrs. - was in the carriage, andI didn't pop [the odious52 word!] till I was helping53 her onwith her cloak. The cloak, you see, made it less awkward.
My offer was a sort of OBITER DICTUM - a by-the-way, as itwere.'
'To the carriage, yes. But wasn't she taken by surprise?'
'Not a bit of it. Bless you! they always know. Shepretended not to understand, but that's a way they have.'
'And when you explained?'
'There wasn't time for more. She laughed, and sprang intothe carriage.'
'And that was all?'
'All! would you have had her spring into my arms?'
'God forbid! You will have to face the mother to-morrow,'
said I, recovering rapidly from my despondency.
'Face? Well, I shall have to call upon Mrs. -, if that'swhat you mean. A mere54 matter of form. I shall go over afterlunch. But it needn't interfere55 with your work. You can goon with the "Anabasis" till I come back. And remember -NEANISKOS is not a proper name, ha! ha! ha! The quadraticswill keep till the evening.' He was merry over hisprospects, and I was not altogether otherwise.
But there was no Xenophon, no algebra56, that day! Dire57 wasthe distress of my poor dominie when he found the mother asmuch bewildered as the daughter was frightened, by themistake. 'She,' the daughter, 'had never for a momentimagined, &c., &c.'
My tutor was not long disheartened by such caprices - so hedeemed them, as Miss Jemima's (she had a prettier name, youmay be sure), and I did my best (it cost me little now) toencourage his fondest hopes. I proposed that we should drinkthe health of the future mistress of Warham in tea, which hecheerfully acceded58 to, all the more readily, that it gave himan opportunity to vent12 one of his old college jokes. 'Yes,yes,' said he, with a laugh, 'there's nothing like tea. TEVENIENTE DIE, TE DECEDENTE CANEBAM.' Such sallies ofinnocent playfulness often smoothed his path in life. Hetook a genuine pleasure in his own jokes. Some men do. Oneday I dropped a pot of marmalade on a new carpet, and shouldcertainly have been reprimanded for carelessness, had it notoccurred to him to exclaim: 'JAM SATIS TERRIS!' and thenlaugh immoderately at his wit.
That there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out ofit, was a maxim20 he acted upon, if he never heard it. Within amonth of the above incident he proposed to another lady uponthe sole grounds that, when playing a game of chess, anexchange of pieces being contemplated59, she innocently, butincautiously, observed, 'If you take me, I will take you.'
He referred the matter next day to my ripe judgment60. As Ihad no partiality for the lady in question, I stronglyadvised him to accept so obvious a challenge, and go down onhis knees to her at once. I laid stress on the knees, as theaccepted form of declaration, both in novels and on thestage.
In this case the beloved object, who was not embarrassed byexcess of amiability61, promptly62 desired him, when he urged hissuit, 'not to make a fool of himself.'
My tutor's peculiarities63, however, were not confined to hisendeavours to meet with a lady rectoress. He sometimessurprised his hearers with the originality64 of his abstrusetheories. One morning he called me into the stable yard tojoin in consultation65 with his gardener as to the advisabilityof killing66 a pig. There were two, and it was not easy todecide which was the fitter for the butcher. The rectorselected one, I the other, and the gardener, who had nurturedboth from their tenderest age, pleaded that they should beallowed to 'put on another score.' The point was warmlyargued all round.
'The black sow,' said I (they were both sows, you must know)- 'The black sow had a litter of ten last time, and the whiteone only six. Ergo, if history repeats itself, as I haveheard you say, you should keep the black, and sacrifice thewhite.'
'But,' objected the rector, 'that was the white's firstlitter, and the black's second. Why shouldn't the white doas well as the black next time?'
'And better, your reverence67,' chimed in the gardener. 'Thenumber don't allays68 depend on the sow, do it?'
'That is neither here nor there,' returned the rector.
'Well,' said the gardener, who stood to his guns, 'if yourreverence is right, as no doubt you will be, that'll makejust twenty little pigs for the butcher, come Michaelmas.'
'We can't kill 'em before they are born,' said the rector.
'That's true, your reverence. But it comes to the samething.'
'Not to the pigs,' retorted the rector.
'To your reverence, I means.'
'A pig at the butcher's,' I suggested, 'is worth a dozenunborn.'
'No one can deny it,' said the rector, as he fingered thesmall change in his breeches pocket; and pointing with theother hand to the broad back of the black sow, exclaimed,'This is the one, DUPLEX AGITUR PER LUMBOS SPINA! She's gota back like an alderman's chin.'
'EPICURI DE GREGE PORCUS,' I assented69, and the fate of theblack sow was sealed.
Next day an express came from Holkham, to say that LadyLeicester had given birth to a daughter. My tutor jumped outof his chair to hand me the note. 'Did I not anticipate theevent'? he cried. 'What a wonderful world we live in!
Unconsciously I made room for the infant by sacrificing thelife of that pig.' As I never heard him allude70 to thedoctrine of Pythagoras, as he had no leaning to Buddhism,and, as I am sure he knew nothing of the correlation71 offorces, it must be admitted that the conception was anoriginal one.
Be this as it may, Mr. Collyer was an upright andconscientious man. I owe him much, and respect his memory.
He died at an advanced age, an honorary canon, and - abachelor.
Another portrait hangs amongst the many in my memory'spicture gallery. It is that of his successor to thevicarage, the chaplaincy, and the librarianship, at Holkham -Mr. Alexander Napier - at this time, and until his deathfifty years later, one of my closest and most cherishedfriends. Alexander Napier was the son of Macvey Napier,first editor of the 'Edinburgh Review.' Thus, associatedwith many eminent72 men of letters, he also did some goodliterary work of his own. He edited Isaac Barrow's works forthe University of Cambridge, also Boswell's 'Johnson,' andgave various other proofs of his talents and his scholarship.
He was the most delightful73 of companions; liberal-minded inthe highest degree; full of quaint74 humour and quick sympathy;an excellent parish priest, - looking upon Christianity as alife and not a dogma; beloved by all, for he had a kindthought and a kind word for every needy75 or sick being in hisparish.
With such qualities, the man always predominated over thepriest. Hence his large-hearted charity and indulgence forthe faults - nay76, crimes - of others. Yet, if taken aback byan outrage77, or an act of gross stupidity, which even theperpetrator himself had to suffer for, he would momentarilylose his patience, and rap out an objurgation that wouldstagger the straiter-laced gentlemen of his own cloth, or anoutsider who knew less of him than - the recording78 angel.
A fellow undergraduate of Napier's told me a characteristicanecdote of his impetuosity. Both were Trinity men, and hadbeen keeping high jinks at a supper party at Caius. Thefriend suddenly pointed79 to the clock, reminding Napier theyhad but five minutes to get into college before Trinity gateswere closed. 'D-n the clock!' shouted Napier, and snatchingup the sugar basin (it was not EAU SUCREE they weredrinking), incontinently flung it at the face of theoffending timepiece.
This youthful vivacity80 did not desert him in later years. Anold college friend - also a Scotchman - had become Bishop82 ofEdinburgh. Napier paid him a visit (he described it to mehimself). They talked of books, they talked of politics,they talked of English Bards83 and Scotch81 Reviewers, ofBrougham, Horner, Wilson, Macaulay, Jeffrey, of Carlyle'sdealings with Napier's father - 'Nosey,' as Carlyle callshim. They chatted into the small hours of the night, as booncompanions, and as what Bacon calls 'full' men, are wont84.
The claret, once so famous in the 'land of cakes,' had givenplace to toddy; its flow was in due measure to the flow ofsoul. But all that ends is short - the old friends had spenttheir last evening together. Yes, their last, perhaps. Itwas bed-time, and quoth Napier to his lordship, 'I tell youwhat it is, Bishop, I am na fou', but I'll be hanged if Ihaven't got two left legs.'
'I see something odd about them,' says his lordship. 'We'dbetter go to bed.'
Who the bishop was I do not know, but I'll answer for it hewas one of the right sort.
In 1846 I became an undergraduate of Trinity College,Cambridge. I do not envy the man (though, of course, oneought) whose college days are not the happiest to look backupon. One should hope that however profitably a young manspends his time at the University, it is but the preparationfor something better. But happiness and utility are notnecessarily concomitant; and even when an undergraduate'scourse is least employed for its intended purpose (as, alas85!
mine was) - for happiness, certainly not pure, but simple,give me life at a University,Heaven forbid that any youth should be corrupted86 by myconfession! But surely there are some pleasures pertainingto this unique epoch87 that are harmless in themselves, and arecertainly not to be met with at any other. These are thefirst years of comparative freedom, of manhood, ofresponsibility. The novelty, the freshness of everypleasure, the unsatiated appetite for enjoyment88, the animalvigour, the ignorance of care, the heedlessness of, orrather, the implicit89 faith in, the morrow, the absence ofmistrust or suspicion, the frank surrender to generousimpulses, the readiness to accept appearances for realities -to believe in every profession or exhibition of good will, torush into the arms of every friendship, to lay bare one'stenderest secrets, to listen eagerly to the revelations whichmake us all akin90, to offer one's time, one's energies, one'spurse, one's heart, without a selfish afterthought - these, Isay, are the priceless pleasures, never to be repeated, ofhealthful average youth.
What has after-success, honour, wealth, fame, or, power -burdened, as they always are, with ambitions, blunders,jealousies, cares, regrets, and failing health - to matchwith this enjoyment of the young, the bright, the bygone,hour? The wisdom of the worldly teacher - at least, theCARPE DIEM - was practised here before the injunction wasever thought of. DU BIST SO SCHON was the unutteredinvocation, while the VERWEILE DOCH was deemed unneedful.
Little, I am ashamed to own, did I add either to my smallclassical or mathematical attainments91. But I madefriendships - lifelong friendships, that I would not barterfor the best of academical prizes.
Amongst my associates or acquaintances, two or three of whomhave since become known - were the last Lord Derby, SirWilliam Harcourt, the late Lord Stanley of Alderley, LatimerNeville, late Master of Magdalen, Lord Calthorpe, of racingfame, with whom I afterwards crossed the Rocky Mountains, thelast Lord Durham, my cousin, Sir Augustus Stephenson, ex-solicitor to the Treasury92, Julian Fane, whose lyrics93 wereedited by Lord Lytton, and my life-long friend CharlesBarrington, private secretary to Lord Palmerston and to LordJohn Russell.
But the most intimate of them was George Cayley, son of themember for the East Riding of Yorkshire. Cayley was a youngman of much promise. In his second year he won theUniversity prize poem with his 'Balder,' and soon afterpublished some other poems, and a novel, which met withmerited oblivion. But it was as a talker that he shone. Hisquick intelligence, his ready wit, his command of language,made his conversation always lively, and sometimes brilliant.
For several years after I left Cambridge I lived with him inhis father's house in Dean's Yard, and thus made theacquaintance of some celebrities94 whom his fascinating andversatile talents attracted thither95. As I shall return tothis later on, I will merely mention here the names of suchmen as Thackeray, Tennyson, Frederick Locker96, Stirling ofKeir, Tom Taylor the dramatist, Millais, Leighton, and othersof lesser97 note. Cayley was a member of, and regularattendant at, the Cosmopolitan98 Club; where he met Dickens,Foster, Shirley Brooks99, John Leech100, Dicky Doyle, and the witsof the day; many of whom occasionally formed part of ourcharming coterie101 in the house I shared with his father.
Speaking of Tom Taylor reminds me of a good turn he once didme in my college examination at Cambridge. Whewell was thenMaster of Trinity. One of the subjects I had to take up waseither the 'Amicitia' or the 'Senectute' (I forget which).
Whewell, more formidable and alarming than ever, opened thebook at hazard, and set me on to construe102. I broke down. Heturned over the page; again I stuck fast. The truth is, Ihad hardly looked at my lesson, - trusting to my recollectionof parts of it to carry me through, if lucky, with the whole.
'What's your name, sir?' was the Master's gruff inquiry103. Hedid not catch it. But Tom Taylor - also an examiner -sitting next to him, repeated my reply, with the addition,'Just returned from China, where he served as a midshipman inthe late war.' He then took the book out of Whewell's hands,and giving it to me closed, said good-naturedly: 'Let ushave another try, Mr. Coke.' The chance was not thrown away;I turned to a part I knew, and rattled104 off as if my firstexaminer had been to blame, not I.
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narrative
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refinement
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proclivities
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lamenting
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confided
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dealer
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poultry
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epicure
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salmon
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embarrassment
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distress
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vent
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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exultation
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prospective
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codicil
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costly
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demise
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solicitors
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maxim
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maxims
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consort
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majesty
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adroit
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negotiations
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worthy
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garb
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copious
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clergy
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rued
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motives
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dictates
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etiquette
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royalty
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beheld
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impartiality
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fidelity
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custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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39
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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40
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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43
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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44
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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51
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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52
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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53
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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correlation
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| n.相互关系，相关，关连 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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85
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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88
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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92
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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93
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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94
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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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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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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98
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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100
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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101
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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102
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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103
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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104
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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