black hood6. The lady was Queen Anne, to whom, in compliance7 with a superstition8 just dying a natural death, he had been taken by his mother to be touched for the king's evil. The touch was ineffectual. Perhaps, as Boswell suggested, he ought to have been presented to the genuine heirs of the Stuarts in Rome. Disease and superstition had thus stood by his cradle, and they never quitted him during life. The demon9 of hypochondria was always lying in wait for him, and could be exorcised for a time
only by hard work or social excitement. Of this we shall hear enough; but it may be as well to sum up at once some of the physical characteristics which marked him through life and greatly influenced his career.
The disease had scarred and disfigured features otherwise regular and always impressive. It had seriously injured his eyes, entirely10 destroying, it seems, the sight of one. He could not, it is said, distinguish a friend's face half a yard off, and pictures were to him meaningless patches, in which he could never see the resemblance to their objects. The statement is perhaps exaggerated; for he could see enough to condemn11 a portrait of himself. He expressed some annoyance12 when Reynolds had painted him
with a pen held close to his eye; and protested that he would not be handed down to posterity13 as "blinking Sam." It seems that habits of minute attention atoned14 in some degree for this natural defect. Boswell tells us how Johnson once corrected him as to the precise shape of a mountain; and Mrs. Thrale says that he was a close and exacting15 critic of ladies' dress, even to the accidental position of a riband. He could even lay down aesthetical canons upon such matters. He reproved her for wearing a dark dress as unsuitable to a "little creature." "What," he asked, "have not all insects gay colours?" His insensibility to music was even more pronounced than his dulness of sight. On hearing it said, in praise of a musical performance, that it was in any case difficult, his feeling comment was, "I wish it had been impossible!"
The queer convulsions by which he amazed all beholders were probably connected with his disease, though he and Reynolds ascribed them simply to habit. When entering a doorway16 with his blind companion, Miss Williams, he would suddenly desert her on the step in order to "whirl and twist about" in strange gesticulations. The performance partook of the nature of a superstitious17 ceremonial. He would stop in a street or the middle of a room to go through it correctly. Once he collected a laughing mob in Twickenham meadows by his antics; his hands imitating the motions of a jockey riding at full speed and his feet twisting in and out to make heels and toes touch alternately. He presently sat down and took out a Grotius De Veritate, over which he "seesawed18" so violently that the mob ran back to see what was the matter. Once in such a fit he suddenly twisted off the shoe of a lady who sat by him. Sometimes he seemed to be obeying some hidden impulse, which commanded him to touch every post in a street or tread on the centre of every paving-stone, and would return if his task had not been accurately19 performed.
In spite of such oddities, he was not only possessed20 of physical power corresponding to his great height and massive stature21, but was something of a proficient22 at athletic23 exercises. He was conversant24 with the theory, at least, of boxing; a knowledge probably acquired from an uncle who kept the ring at Smithfield for a year, and was never beaten in boxing or wrestling. His constitutional fearlessness would have made him a formidable antagonist25. Hawkins describes the oak staff, six feet in
length and increasing from one to three inches in diameter, which lay ready to his hand when he expected an attack from Macpherson of Ossian celebrity26. Once he is said to have taken up a chair at the theatre upon which a man had seated himself during his temporary absence, and to have tossed it and its occupant bodily into the pit. He would swim into pools said to be dangerous, beat huge dogs into peace, climb trees, and even run races and jump gates. Once at least he went out foxhunting,
and though he despised the amusement, was deeply touched by the complimentary27 assertion that he rode as well as the most illiterate28 fellow in England. Perhaps the most whimsical of his performances was when, in his fifty-fifth year, he went to the top of a high hill with his friend Langton. "I have not had a roll for a long time," said the great lexicographer29 suddenly, and, after deliberately30 emptying his pockets, he laid himself parallel to the edge of the hill, and descended31, turning over and
over till he came to the bottom. We may believe, as Mrs. Thrale remarks upon his jumping over a stool to show that he was not tired by his hunting, that his performances in this kind were so strange and uncouth32 that a fear for the safety of his bones quenched33 the spectator's tendency to laugh.
In such a strange case was imprisoned34 one of the most vigorous intellects of the time. Vast strength hampered35 by clumsiness and associated with grievous disease, deep and massive powers of feeling limited by narrow though acute perceptions, were characteristic both of soul and body. These peculiarities36 were manifested from his early infancy37. Miss Seward, a typical specimen38 of the provincial39 précieuse, attempted to trace them in an epitaph which he was said to have written at the age of three.
Here lies good master duck Whom Samuel Johnson trod on; If it had lived, it had been good luck, For then we had had an odd one. The verses, however, were really made by his father, who passed them off as the child's, and illustrate40 nothing but the paternal41 vanity. In fact the boy was regarded as something of an infant prodigy42. His great powers of memory, characteristic of a mind singularly retentive43 of all impressions, were early developed. He seemed to learn by intuition. Indolence, as in his after life, alternated with brief efforts of strenuous44 exertion45. His want of sight prevented him from sharing in the ordinary childish sports; and one of his great pleasures was in reading old romances—a taste which he retained through life. Boys of this temperament46 are generally despised by their fellows; but Johnson seems to have had the power of enforcing the respect of his companions. Three of the lads used to come for him in the morning and carry him in triumph to school, seated upon the shoulders of one and supported on each side by his companions. After learning to read at a dame-school, and from a certain Tom Brown, of whom it is only recorded that he published a spelling-book and dedicated47 it to the Universe, young Samuel was sent to the Lichfield Grammar School, and was afterwards, for a short time, apparently48 in the character of pupil-teacher, at the school of Stourbridge, in Worcestershire. A good deal of Latin was "whipped into him," and though he complained of the excessive severity of two of his teachers, he was always a believer in the virtues49 of the rod. A child, he said, who is flogged, "gets his task, and there's an end on't; whereas by exciting emulation50 and comparisons of superiority, you lay the foundations of lasting51 mischief52; you make brothers and sisters hate each other." In practice, indeed, this stern disciplinarian seems to have been specially53 indulgent to children. The memory of his own sorrows made him value their happiness, and he rejoiced greatly when he at last persuaded a schoolmaster to remit54 the old-fashioned holiday-task.
Johnson left school at sixteen and spent two years at home, probably in learning his father's business. This seems to have been the chief period of his studies. Long afterwards he said that he knew almost as much at eighteen as he did at the age of fifty-three—the date of the remark. His father's shop would give him many opportunities, and he devoured55 what came in his way with the undiscriminating eagerness of a young student. His intellectual resembled his physical appetite. He gorged56
books. He tore the hearts out of them, but did not study systematically57.
Do you read books through? he asked indignantly of some one who expected from him such supererogatory labour. His memory enabled him to accumulate great stores of a desultory58 and unsystematic knowledge.
Somehow he became a fine Latin scholar, though never first-rate as a Grecian. The direction of his studies was partly determined59 by the discovery of a folio of Petrarch, lying on a shelf where he was looking for apples; and one of his earliest literary plans, never carried out, was an edition of Politian, with a history of Latin poetry from the time of Petrarch. When he went to the University at the end of this period, he was in possession of a very unusual amount of reading.
Meanwhile he was beginning to feel the pressure of poverty. His father's affairs were probably getting into disorder60. One anecdote61—it is one which it is difficult to read without emotion—refers to this period. Many years afterwards, Johnson, worn by disease and the hard struggle of life, was staying at Lichfield, where a few old friends still survived, but in which every street must have revived the memories of the many who had long since gone over to the majority. He was missed one morning at breakfast, and did not return till supper-time. Then he told how his time had been passed. On that day fifty years before, his father, confined by illness, had begged him to take his place to sell books at a stall at Uttoxeter. Pride made him refuse. "To do away with the sin of this disobedience, I this day went in a post-chaise to Uttoxeter, and going into the market at the time of high business, uncovered my head and stood with it bare an hour before the stall which my father had formerly62
used, exposed to the sneers63 of the standers-by and the inclemency64 of the weather; a penance65 by which I trust I have propitiated66 Heaven for this only instance, I believe, of contumacy to my father." If the anecdote illustrates67 the touch of superstition in Johnson's mind, it reveals too that sacred depth of tenderness which ennobled his character. No repentance68 can ever wipe out the past or make it be as though it had not been; but the remorse69 of a fine character may be transmuted70 into a permanent source of nobler views of life and the world.
There are difficulties in determining the circumstances and duration of Johnson's stay at Oxford71. He began residence at Pembroke College in 1728. It seems probable that he received some assistance from a gentleman whose son took him as companion, and from the clergy of Lichfield, to whom his father was known, and who were aware of the son's talents. Possibly his college assisted him during part of the time. It is certain that he left without taking a degree, though he probably resided for nearly
three years. It is certain, also, that his father's bankruptcy72 made his stay difficult, and that the period must have been one of trial.
The effect of the Oxford residence upon Johnson's mind was characteristic. The lad already suffered from the attacks of melancholy73, which sometimes drove him to the borders of insanity74. At Oxford, Law's Serious Call gave him the strong religious impressions which remained through life. But he does not seem to have been regarded as a gloomy or a religious youth by his contemporaries. When told in after years that he had been described as a "gay and frolicsome76 fellow," he replied, "Ah! sir,
I was mad and violent. It was bitterness which they mistook for frolic. I was miserably77 poor, and I thought to fight my way by my literature and my wit; so I isregarded all power and all authority." Though a hearty78 supporter of authority in principle, Johnson was distinguished79 through life by the strongest spirit of personal independence and self-respect. He held, too, the sound doctrine80, deplored81 by his respectable biographer Hawkins, that the scholar's life, like the Christian's, levelled all distinctions of rank. When an officious benefactor82 put a pair of new shoes at his door, he threw them away with indignation. He seems to have treated his tutors with a contempt which Boswell politely attributed to "great fortitude83 of mind," but Johnson himself set down as "stark84 insensibility." The life of a poor student is not, one may fear, even yet exempt85 from much bitterness, and in those days the position was far more servile than at present. The servitors and sizars had much to bear from richer companions. A proud melancholy lad, conscious of great powers, had to meet with hard rebuffs, and tried to meet them by returning scorn for
scorn.
Such distresses86, however, did not shake Johnson's rooted Toryism. He fully87 imbibed88, if he did not already share, the strongest prejudices of the place, and his misery89 never produced a revolt against the system, though it may have fostered insolence90 to individuals. Three of the most eminent91 men with whom Johnson came in contact in later life, had also been students at Oxford. Wesley, his senior by six years, was a fellow of Lincoln whilst Johnson was an undergraduate, and was learning at Oxford the necessity of rousing his countrymen from the religious lethargy into which they had sunk. "Have not pride and haughtiness92 of spirit, impatience93, and peevishness94, sloth95 and indolence, gluttony and sensuality, and even a proverbial uselessness been objected to us, perhaps not always by our enemies nor wholly without ground?" So said Wesley, preaching before the University of Oxford in 1744, and the words in his mouth imply more than the preacher's formality. Adam Smith, Johnson's junior by fourteen years, was so impressed by the utter indifference96 of Oxford authorities to their duties, as to find in it an admirable illustration of the consequences of the neglect of the true principles of supply and demand implied in the endowment of learning. Gibbon, his junior by twenty-eight years, passed at Oxford the "most idle and unprofitable" months of his whole life; and was, he said, as willing to disclaim97 the university for a mother, as she could be to renounce98 him for a son. Oxford,
as judged by these men, was remarkable99 as an illustration of the spiritual and intellectual decadence100 of a body which at other times has been a centre of great movements of thought. Johnson, though his experience was rougher than any of the three, loved Oxford as though she had not been a harsh stepmother to his youth. Sir, he said fondly of his college, "we are a nest of singing-birds." Most of the strains are now pretty well forgotten, and some of them must at all times have been such as we
scarcely associate with the nightingale. Johnson, however, cherished his college friendships, delighted in paying visits to his old university, and was deeply touched by the academical honours by which Oxford long afterwards recognized an eminence101 scarcely fostered by its protection. Far from sharing the doctrines102 of Adam Smith, he only regretted that the universities were not richer, and expressed a desire which will be understood by advocates of the "endowment of research," that there were
many places of a thousand a year at Oxford.
On leaving the University, in 1731, the world was all before him. His father died in the end of the year, and Johnson's whole immediate103 inheritance was twenty pounds. Where was he to turn for daily bread? Even in those days, most gates were barred with gold and opened but to golden keys. The greatest chance for a poor man was probably through the Church. The career of Warburton, who rose from a similar position to a bishopric might have been rivalled by Johnson, and his connexions
with Lichfield might, one would suppose, have helped him to a start. It would be easy to speculate upon causes which might have hindered such a career. In later life, he more than once refused to take orders upon the promise of a living. Johnson, as we know him, was a man of the world; though a religious man of the world. He represents the secular104 rather than the ecclesiastical type. So far as his mode of teaching goes, he is rather a disciple105 of Socrates than of St. Paul or Wesley. According to him, a "tavern-chair" was "the throne of human felicity," and supplied a better arena106 than the pulpit for the utterance107 of his message to mankind.
And, though his external circumstances doubtless determined his method, there was much in his character which made it congenial. Johnson's religious emotions were such as to make habitual108 reserve almost a sanitary109 necessity. They were deeply coloured by his constitutional melancholy. Fear of death and hell were prominent in his personal creed110. To trade upon his feelings like a charlatan111 would have been abhorrent112 to his masculine character; and to give them full and frequent utterance like a
genuine teacher of mankind would have been to imperil his sanity75. If he had gone through the excitement of a Methodist conversion113, he would probably have ended his days in a madhouse.
Such considerations, however, were not, one may guess, distinctly present to Johnson himself; and the offer of a college fellowship or of private patronage114 might probably have altered his career. He might have become a learned recluse115 or a struggling Parson Adams. College fellowships were less open to talent then than now, and patrons were never too propitious116 to the uncouth giant, who had to force his way by sheer labour, and fight for his own hand. Accordingly, the young scholar tried to
coin his brains into money by the most depressing and least hopeful of employments. By becoming an usher117 in a school, he could at least turn his talents to account with little delay, and that was the most pressing consideration. By one schoolmaster he was rejected on the ground that his infirmities would excite the ridicule118 of the boys. Under another he passed some months of "complicated misery," and could never think of the school without horror and aversion. Finding this situation intolerable, he settled in Birmingham, in 1733, to be near an old schoolfellow, named Hector, who was apparently beginning to practise as a surgeon. Johnson seems to have had some acquaintances among the comfortable families in the neighbourhood; but his means of living are obscure. Some small literary work came in his way. He contributed essays to a local paper, and translated a book of Travels in Abyssinia. For this, his first publication, he received five guineas. In 1734 he made certain overtures119 to
Cave, a London publisher, of the result of which I shall have to speak presently. For the present it is pretty clear that the great problem of self-support had been very inadequately120 solved.
Having no money and no prospects121, Johnson naturally married. The attractions of the lady were not very manifest to others than her husband. She was the widow of a Birmingham mercer named Porter. Her age at the time (1735) of the second marriage was forty-eight, the bridegroom being not quite twenty-six. The biographer's eye was not fixed122 upon Johnson till after his wife's death, and we have little in the way of authentic123 description of her person and character. Garrick, who had known her, said that she was very fat, with cheeks coloured both by paint and cordials, flimsy and fantastic in dress and affected124 in her manners. She is said to have treated her husband with some contempt, adopting the airs of an antiquated125 beauty, which he returned by elaborate deference126. Garrick used his wonderful powers of mimicry127 to make fun of the uncouth caresses128 of the husband, and the courtly Beauclerc used to provoke the smiles of his audience by repeating Johnson's assertion that "it was a love-match on both sides." One incident of the wedding-day was ominous129. As the newly-married couple rode back from church, Mrs. Johnson showed her spirit by reproaching her husband for riding too fast, and then for lagging behind. Resolved "not to be made the slave of caprice," he pushed on briskly till he was fairly out of sight. When she rejoined him, as he, of course, took care that she should soon do, she was in tears. Mrs. Johnson apparently knew how to regain130 supremacy131; but, at any rate, Johnson loved her devotedly132 during life, and clung to her memory during a widowhood of more than thirty years, as fondly as if they had been the most pattern hero and heroine of romantic fiction.
Whatever Mrs. Johnson's charms, she seems to have been a woman of good sense and some literary judgment133. Johnson's grotesque134 appearance did not prevent her from saying to her daughter on their first introduction, "This is the most sensible man I ever met." Her praises were, we may believe, sweeter to him than those of the severest critics, or the most fervent135 of personal flatterers. Like all good men, Johnson loved good women, and liked to have on hand a flirtation136 or two, as warm as might be
within the bounds of due decorum. But nothing affected his fidelity137 to his Letty or displaced her image in his mind. He remembered her in many solemn prayers, and such words as "this was dear Letty's book:" or, "this was a prayer which dear Letty was accustomed to say," were found written by him in many of her books of devotion.
Mrs. Johnson had one other recommendation—a fortune, namely, of ￡800—little enough, even then, as a provision for the support of the married pair, but enough to help Johnson to make a fresh start. In 1736, there appeared an advertisement in the Gentleman's Magazine. "At Edial, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen are boarded and taught the Latin and Greek languages by Samuel Johnson." If, as seems probable, Mrs. Johnson's money supplied the funds for this venture, it was an unlucky speculation138.
Johnson was not fitted to be a pedagogue139. Success in that profession implies skill in the management of pupils, but perhaps still more decidedly in the management of parents. Johnson had little qualifications in either way. As a teacher he would probably have been alternately despotic and over-indulgent; and, on the other hand, at a single glance the rough Dominie Sampson would be enough to frighten the ordinary parent off his premises140. Very few pupils came, and they seem to have profited little, if a story as told of two of his pupils refers to this time. After some months of instruction in English history, he asked them who had destroyed the monasteries141? One of them gave no answer; the other replied "Jesus Christ." Johnson, however, could boast of one eminent pupil in David Garrick, though, by Garrick's account, his master was of little service except as affording an excellent mark for his early powers of ridicule. The school, or "academy," failed after a year and a half; and Johnson, once more at a loss for employment, resolved to try the great experiment, made so often and so often unsuccessfully. He left Lichfield to seek his fortune in London. Garrick accompanied him, and the two brought a common letter of introduction to the master of an academy from Gilbert Walmsley, registrar142 of the Prerogative143 Court in Lichfield. Long afterwards Johnson took an opportunity in the Lives of the Poets, of expressing his warm regard for the memory of his early friend, to whom he had been recommended by a community of literary tastes, in spite of party differences and great inequality of age. Walmsley says in his letter, that "one Johnson" is about to accompany Garrick to London, in order to try his fate with a tragedy and get himself employed in translation. Johnson, he adds, "is a very good scholar and poet, and I have great hopes will turn out a fine tragedy writer."
The letter is dated March 2nd, 1737. Before recording144 what is known of his early career thus started, it will be well to take a glance at the general condition of the profession of Literature in England at this period.
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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tormented
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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demon
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entirely
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condemn
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annoyance
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posterity
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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exacting
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doorway
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superstitious
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seesawed
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accurately
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possessed
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stature
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proficient
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athletic
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conversant
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antagonist
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celebrity
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complimentary
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illiterate
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lexicographer
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deliberately
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descended
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uncouth
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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imprisoned
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hampered
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peculiarities
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infancy
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specimen
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provincial
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illustrate
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paternal
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prodigy
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retentive
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strenuous
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exertion
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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47
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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50
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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51
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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52
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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53
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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54
remit
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| v.汇款，汇寄；豁免（债务），免除（处罚等） | |
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55
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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56
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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57
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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58
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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59
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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60
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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61
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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62
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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63
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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64
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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65
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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66
propitiated
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| v.劝解，抚慰，使息怒( propitiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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68
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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69
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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70
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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72
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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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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74
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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75
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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76
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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77
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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79
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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80
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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81
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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83
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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84
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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85
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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86
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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87
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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88
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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89
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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90
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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91
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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92
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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93
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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94
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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95
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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96
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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97
disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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98
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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99
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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100
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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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
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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103
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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104
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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105
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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106
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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107
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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108
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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109
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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110
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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111
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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112
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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113
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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114
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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115
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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116
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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117
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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118
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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119
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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120
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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121
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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122
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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123
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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124
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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125
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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126
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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127
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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128
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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129
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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130
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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131
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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132
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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133
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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134
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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135
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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136
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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137
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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138
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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139
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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140
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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141
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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142
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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143
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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144
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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