The doctrine1 is, of course, perfectly2 outrageous3, and specially4 calculated to shock people who like to keep it for their private use, instead of proclaiming it in public. But it is a good expression of that huge contempt for the foppery of high-flown sentiment which, as is not uncommon5 with Johnson, passes into something which would be cynical6 if it were not half-humorous. In this case it implies also the contempt of the professional for the amateur. Johnson despised gentlemen who dabbled7 in his craft, as a man whose life is devoted8 to music or painting despises the ladies and gentlemen who treat those arts as fashionable accomplishments9. An author was, according to him, a man who turned out books as a bricklayer turns out houses or a tailor coats. So long as he supplied a good article and got a fair price, he was a fool to grumble10, and a humbug11 to affect loftier motives12.
Johnson was not the first professional author, in this sense, but perhaps the first man who made the profession respectable. The principal habitat of authors, in his age, was Grub Street—a region which, in later years, has ceased to be ashamed of itself, and has adopted the more pretentious13 name Bohemia. The original Grub Street, it is said, first became associated with authorship during the increase of pamphlet literature, produced by the civil wars. Fox, the martyrologist, was one of its original inhabitants. Another of its heroes was a certain Mr. Welby, of whom the sole record is, that he "lived there forty years without being seen of any." In fact, it was a region of holes and corners, calculated to illustrate14 that great advantage of London life, which a friend of Boswell's described by saying, that a man could there be always "close to his burrow15." The "burrow" which received the luckless wight, was indeed no pleasant refuge. Since poor Green, in the earliest generation of dramatists, bought his "groat'sworth of wit with a million of repentance16," too many of his brethren had trodden the path which led to hopeless misery17 or death in a
tavern18 brawl19. The history of men who had to support themselves by their pens, is a record of almost universal gloom. The names of Spenser, of Butler, and of Otway, are enough to remind us that even warm contemporary recognition was not enough to raise an author above the fear of dying in want of necessaries. The two great dictators of literature, Ben Jonson in the earlier and Dryden in the later part of the century, only kept their heads above water by help of the laureate's pittance20, though
reckless imprudence, encouraged by the precarious21 life, was the cause of much of their sufferings. Patronage22 gave but a fitful resource, and the author could hope at most but an occasional crust, flung to him from better provided tables.
In the happy days of Queen Anne, it is true, there had been a gleam of prosperity. Many authors, Addison, Congreve, Swift, and others of less name, had won by their pens not only temporary profits but permanent places. The class which came into power at the Revolution was willing for a time, to share some of the public patronage with men distinguished23 for intellectual eminence24. Patronage was liberal when the funds came out of other men's pockets. But, as the system of party government eveloped, it soon became evident that this involved a waste of power. There were enough political partisans25 to absorb all the comfortable sinecures26 to be had; and such money as was still spent upon literature, was given in return for services equally degrading to giver and receiver. Nor did the patronage of literature reach the poor inhabitants of Grub Street. Addison's poetical27 power might suggest or justify28 the gift of a place from his elegant friends; but a man like De Foe29, who really looked to his pen for great part of his daily subsistence, was below the region of such prizes, and was obliged in later years not only to write inferior books for money, but to sell himself and act as a spy upon his fellows. One great man, it is true, made an independence by literature. Pope received some ￡8000 for his translation of Homer, by the then popular mode of subscription31—a kind of compromise between the systems of patronage and public support. But his success caused little pleasure in Grub Street. No love was lost between the poet and the dwellers32 in this dismal33 region. Pope was its deadliest enemy, and carried on an internecine34 warfare35 with its inmates36, which has enriched our language with a great satire38, but which wasted his powers upon low objects, and tempted39 him into disgraceful artifices40. The life of the unfortunate victims, pilloried41 in the Dunciad and accused of the unpardonable sins of poverty and dependence30, was too often one which might have extorted42 sympathy even from a thin-skinned poet and critic.
Illustrations of the manners and customs of that Grub Street of which Johnson was to become an inmate37 are only too abundant. The best writers of the day could tell of hardships endured in that dismal region. Richardson went on the sound principle of keeping his shop that his shop might keep him. But the other great novelists of the century have painted from life the miseries43 of an author's existence. Fielding, Smollett, and Goldsmith have described the poor wretches44 with a vivid force which gives sadness to the reflection that each of those great men was drawing upon his own experience, and that they each died in distress45. The Case of Authors by Profession to quote the title of a pamphlet by Ralph, was indeed a wretched one, when the greatest of their number had an incessant46 struggle to keep the wolf from the door. The life of an author resembled the proverbial existence of the flying-fish, chased by enemies in sea and in air; he only escaped from the slavery of the bookseller's garret, to fly from the bailiff or rot in the debtor's ward47 or the spunging-house. Many strange half-pathetic and half-ludicrous anecdotes49 survive to recall the sorrows and the recklessness of the luckless scribblers who, like one of Johnson's acquaintance, "lived in London and hung loose upon society." There was Samuel Boyse, for example, whose poem on the Deity51 is quoted with high praise by Fielding. Once Johnson had generously exerted himself for his comrade in misery, and collected enough money by
sixpences to get the poet's clothes out of pawn52. Two days afterwards, Boyse had spent the money and was found in bed, covered only with a blanket, through two holes in which he passed his arms to write. Boyse, it appears, when still in this position would lay out his last half-guinea to buy truffles and mushrooms for his last scrap53 of beef. Of another scribbler Johnson said, "I honour Derrick for his strength of mind. One night when Floyd (another poor author) was wandering about the streets at
night, he found Derrick fast asleep upon a bulk. Upon being suddenly awaked, Derrick started up; 'My dear Floyd, I am sorry to see you in this destitute54 state; will you go home with me to my lodgings55?'" Authors in such circumstances might be forced into such a wonderful contract as that which is reported to have been drawn57 up by one Gardner with Rolt and Christopher Smart. They were to write a monthly miscellany, sold at sixpence, and to have a third of the profits; but they were to write nothing else, and the contract was to last for ninety-nine years. Johnson himself summed up the trade upon earth by the lines in which Virgil describes the entrance to hell; thus translated by Dryden:— Just in the gate and in the jaws58 of hell, Revengeful cares and sullen59 sorrows dwell. And pale diseases and repining age, Want, fear, and
famine's unresisted rage: Here toils61 and Death and Death's half-brother, Sleep— Forms, terrible to view, their sentry62 keep.
"Now," said Johnson, "almost all these apply exactly to an author; these are the concomitants of a printing-house."
Judicious63 authors, indeed, were learning how to make literature pay. Some of them belonged to the class who understood the great truth that the scissors are a very superior implement64 to the pen considered as a tool of literary trade. Such, for example, was that respectable Dr. John Campbell, whose parties Johnson ceased to frequent lest Scotchmen should say of any good bits of work, "Ay, ay, he has learnt this of Cawmell." Campbell, he said quaintly66, was a good man, a pious67 man. "I am afraid he has not been in the inside of a church for many years; but he never passes a
church without pulling off his hat. This shows he has good principles,"—of which in fact there seems to be some less questionable68 evidence. Campbell supported himself by writings chiefly of the Encyclopedia69 or Gazetteer70 kind; and became, still in Johnson's phrase, "the richest author that ever grazed the common of literature." A more singular and less reputable character was that impudent71 quack72, Sir John Hill, who, with his insolent73 attacks upon the Royal Society, pretentious botanical and medical compilations74, plays, novels, and magazine articles, has long sunk into utter oblivion. It is said of him that he pursued every branch of literary quackery75 with greater contempt of character than any man of his time, and that he made as much as ￡1500 in a year;—three times as much, it is added, as any one writer ever made in the same period.
The political scribblers—the Arnalls, Gordons, Trenchards, Guthries, Ralphs, and Amhersts, whose names meet us in the notes to the Dunciad and in contemporary pamphlets and newspapers—form another variety of the class. Their general character may be estimated from Johnson's classification of the "Scribbler for a Party" with the "Commissioner76 of Excise," as the "two lowest of all human beings." "Ralph," says one of the notes to the Dunciad, "ended in the common sink of all such writers, a
political newspaper." The prejudice against such employment has scarcely died out in our own day, and may be still traced in the account of Pendennis and his friend Warrington. People who do dirty work must be paid for it; and the Secret Committee which inquired into Walpole's administration reported that in ten years, from 1731 to 1741, a sum of ￡50,077 18s. had been paid to writers and printers of newspapers. Arnall, now remembered chiefly by Pope's line,— Spirit of Arnall, aid me whilst I lie!
had received, in four years, ￡10,997 6s. 8d. of this amount. The more successful writers might look to pensions or preferment. Francis, for example, the translator of Horace, and the father, in all probability, of the most formidable of the whole tribe of such literary gladiators, received, it is said, 900l. a year for his work, besides being appointed to a rectory and the chaplaincy of Chelsea.
It must, moreover, be observed that the price of literary work was rising during the century, and that, in the latter half, considerable sums were received by successful writers. Religious as well as dramatic literature had begun to be commercially valuable. Baxter, in the previous century, made from 60l. to 80l. a year by his pen. The copyright of Tillotson's Sermons was sold, it is said, upon his death for ￡2500. Considerable sums were made by the plan of publishing by subscription. It is said that 4600 people subscribed77 to the two posthumous78 volumes of Conybeare's Sermons. A few poets trod in Pope's steps. Young made more than ￡3000 for the Satires79 called the Universal Passion, published, I think, on the same plan; and the Duke of Wharton is said, though the report is doubtful, to have given him ￡2000 for the same work. Gay made ￡1000 by his Poems; ￡400 for the copyright of the Beggar's Opera, and three times as much for its second part, Polly. Among historians, Hume seems to have received ￡700 a volume; Smollett made ￡2000 by his catchpenny rival publication; Henry made ￡3300 by his history; and Robertson, after the booksellers had made ￡6000 by his History of Scotland, sold his Charles V. for ￡4500. Amongst the novelists, Fielding received ￡700 for Tom Jones and ￡1000 for Amelia; Sterne, for the second edition of the first part of Tristram Shandy and for two additional volumes, received ￡650; besides which Lord Fauconberg gave him a living (most inappropriate acknowledgment, one would say!), and Warburton a purse of gold. Goldsmith received 60 guineas for the immortal80 Vicar, a fair price, according to Johnson, for a work by a then unknown author. By each of his plays he made about ￡500, and for the eight volumes of his Natural History he received 800 guineas. Towards the end of the century, Mrs. Radcliffe got ￡500 for the Mysteries of Udolpho, and ￡800 for her last work, the Italian. Perhaps the largest sum given for a single book was ￡6000 paid to Hawkesworth for his account of the South Sea Expeditions. Horne Tooke received from ￡4000 to ￡5000 for the Diversions of Purley; and it is added by his biographer, though it seems to be incredible, that Hayley received no less than ￡11,000 for the Life of Cowper. This was, of course, in the present century, when we are already approaching the period of Scott and Byron.
Such sums prove that some few authors might achieve independence by a successful work; and it is well to remember them in considering Johnson's life from the business point of view. Though he never grumbled81 at the booksellers, and on the contrary, was always ready to defend them as liberal men, he certainly failed, whether from carelessness or want of skill, to turn them to as much profit as many less celebrated82 rivals. Meanwhile, pecuniary83 success of this kind was beyond any reasonable hopes. A man who has to work like his own dependent Levett, and to make the "modest toil60 of every day" supply "the wants of every day," must discount his talents until he can secure leisure for some more sustained effort. Johnson, coming up from the country to seek for work, could have but a slender prospect84 of rising above the ordinary level of his Grub Street companions and rivals. One publisher to whom he applied85 suggested to him that it would be his wisest course to buy a porter's knot and carry trunks; and, in the struggle which followed, Johnson must sometimes have been tempted to regret that the advice was not taken.
The details of the ordeal86 through which he was now to pass have naturally vanished. Johnson, long afterwards, burst into tears on recalling the trials of this period. But, at the time, no one was interested in noting the history of an obscure literary drudge87, and it has not been described by the sufferer himself. What we know is derived88 from a few letters and incidental references of Johnson in later days. On first arriving in London he was almost destitute, and had to join with Garrick in raising a loan of five pounds, which, we are glad to say, was repaid. He dined for eight-pence at an ordinary: a cut of meat for sixpence, bread for a penny, and a penny to the waiter, making out the charge. One of his acquaintance had told him that a man might live in London for thirty pounds a year. Ten pounds would pay for clothes; a garret might be hired for eighteen-pence a week; if any one asked for an address, it was easy to reply, "I am to be found at such a place." Threepence laid out at a coffee-house would enable him to pass some hours a day in good company; dinner might be had for sixpence, a bread-and-milk breakfast for a penny, and supper was superfluous89. On clean shirt day you might go abroad and pay visits. This leaves a surplus of nearly one pound from the thirty.
Johnson, however, had a wife to support; and to raise funds for even so ascetic90 a mode of existence required steady labour. Often, it seems, his purse was at the very lowest ebb91. One of his letters to his employer is signed impransus; and whether or not the dinnerless condition was in this case accidental, or significant of absolute impecuniosity93, the less pleasant interpretation94 is not improbable. He would walk the streets all night with his friend, Savage95, when their combined funds could not pay
for a lodging56. One night, as he told Sir Joshua Reynolds in later years, they thus perambulated St. James's Square, warming themselves by declaiming against Walpole, and nobly resolved that they would stand by their country.
Patriotic96 enthusiasm, however, as no one knew better than Johnson, is a poor substitute for bed and supper. Johnson suffered acutely and made some attempts to escape from his misery. To the end of his life, he was grateful to those who had lent him a helping97 hand. "Harry98 Hervey," he said of one of them shortly before his death, "was a vicious man, but very kind to me. If you call a dog Hervey, I shall love him." Pope was impressed by the excellence99 of his first poem, London, and induced Lord Gower to write to a friend to beg Swift to obtain a degree for Johnson from the University of Dublin. The terms of this circuitous100 application, curious, as bringing into connexion three of the most eminent101 men of letters of the day, prove that the youngest of them was at the time (1739) in deep distress. The object of the degree was to qualify Johnson for a mastership of ￡60 a year, which would make him happy for life. He would rather, said Lord Gower, die upon the road to Dublin if an examination were necessary, "than be starved to death in translating for booksellers, which has been his only subsistence for some time past." The application failed, however, and the want of a degree was equally fatal to another application to be admitted to practise at Doctor's Commons.
Literature was thus perforce Johnson's sole support; and by literature was meant, for the most part, drudgery102 of the kind indicated by the phrase, "translating for booksellers." While still in Lichfield, Johnson had, as I have said, written to Cave, proposing to become a contributor to the Gentleman's Magazine. The letter was one of those which a modern editor receives by the dozen, and answers as perfunctorily as his conscience will allow. It seems, however, to have made some impression upon Cave, and possibly led to Johnson's employment by him on his first arrival in London. From 1738 he was employed both on the Magazine and in some jobs of translation.
Edward Cave, to whom we are thus introduced, was a man of some mark in the history of literature. Johnson always spoke103 of him with affection and afterwards wrote his life in complimentary104 terms. Cave, though a clumsy, phlegmatic105 person of little cultivation106, seems to have been one of those men who, whilst destitute of real critical powers, have a certain instinct for recognizing the commercial value of literary wares107. He had become by this time well-known as the publisher of a magazine which
survives to this day. Journals containing summaries of passing events had already been started. Boyer's Political State of Great Britain began in 1711. The Historical Register, which added to a chronicle some literary notices, was started in 1716. The Grub Street Journal was another journal with fuller critical notices, which first appeared in 1730; and these two seem to have been superseded108 by the Gentleman's Magazine, started by Cave in the next year. Johnson saw in it an opening for the employment of his literary talents; and regarded its contributions with that awe109 so natural in youthful aspirants110, and at once so comic and pathetic to writers of a little experience. The names of many of Cave's staff are preserved in a note to Hawkins. One or two of them, such as Birch and Akenside, have still a certain interest for students of literature; but few have heard of the great Moses Browne, who was regarded as the great poetical light of the magazine. Johnson looked up to him as a leader in his craft, and was graciously taken by Cave to an alehouse in Clerkenwell, where, wrapped in a horseman's coat, and "a great bushy uncombed wig," he saw Mr. Browne sitting at the end of a long table, in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, and felt the satisfaction of a true hero-worshipper.
It is needless to describe in detail the literary task-work done by Johnson at this period, the Latin poems which he contributed in praise of Cave, and of Cave's friends, or the Jacobite squibs by which he relieved his anti-ministerialist feelings. One incident of the period doubtless refreshed the soul of many authors, who have shared Campbell's gratitude111 to Napoleon for the sole redeeming112 action of his life—the shooting of a bookseller. Johnson was employed by Osborne, a rough specimen113 of the trade, to make a catalogue of the Harleian Library. Osborne offensively reproved him for negligence114, and Johnson knocked him down with a folio. The book with which the feat115 was performed (Biblia Graeca Septuaginta, fol. 1594, Frankfort) was in existence in a bookseller's shop at Cambridge in 1812, and should surely have been placed in some safe author's museum.
The most remarkable116 of Johnson's performances as a hack117 writer deserves a brief notice. He was one of the first of reporters. Cave published such reports of the debates in Parliament as were then allowed by the jealousy118 of the Legislature, under the title of The Senate of Lilliput. Johnson was the author of the debates from Nov. 1740 to February 1742. Persons were employed to attend in the two Houses, who brought home notes of the speeches, which were then put into shape by Johnson. Long afterwards, at a dinner at Foote's, Francis (the father of Junius) mentioned a speech of Pitt's as the best he had ever read, and superior to anything in Demosthenes. Hereupon Johnson replied, "I wrote that speech in a garret in Exeter Street." When the company applauded not only his eloquence119 but his impartiality120, Johnson replied, "That is not quite true; I saved appearances tolerably well, but I took care that the Whig dogs should not have the best of it." The speeches passed for a time as accurate; though, in truth, it has been proved and it is easy to observe, that they are, in fact, very vague reflections of the original. The editors of Chesterfield's Works published two of the speeches, and, to Johnson's considerable amusement, declared that one of them resembled Demosthenes and the other Cicero. It is plain enough to the modern reader that, if so, both of the ancient orators121 must have written true Johnsonese; and, in fact, the style of the true author is often as plainly marked in many of these compositions as in the Rambler or Rasselas. For this deception122, such as it was, Johnson expressed penitence123 at the end of his life, though he said that he had ceased to write when he found that they were taken as genuine. He would not be "accessory to the propagation of falsehood."
Another of Johnson's works which appeared in 1744 requires notice both for its intrinsic merit, and its autobiographical interest. The most remarkable of his Grub-Street companions was the Richard Savage already mentioned. Johnson's life of him written soon after his death is one of his most forcible performances, and the best extant illustration of the life of the struggling authors of the time. Savage claimed to be the illegitimate son of the Countess of Macclesfield, who was divorced from her husband in the year of his birth on account of her connexion with his supposed father, Lord Rivers. According to the story, believed by Johnson, and published without her contradiction in the mother's lifetime, she not only disavowed her son, but cherished an unnatural125 hatred126 for him. She told his father that he was dead, in order that he might not be benefited by the father's will; she tried to have him kidnapped and sent to the plantations127; and she did her best to prevent him from receiving a pardon when he had been sentenced to death for killing128 a man in a tavern brawl. However this may be, and there are reasons for doubt, the story was
generally believed, and caused much sympathy for the supposed victim. Savage was at one time protected by the kindness of Steele, who published his story, and sometimes employed him as a literary assistant. When Steele became disgusted with him, he received generous help from the actor Wilks and from Mrs. Oldfield, to whom he had been introduced by some dramatic efforts. Then he was taken up by Lord Tyrconnel, but abandoned by him after a violent quarrel; he afterwards called himself a volunteer laureate, and received a pension of 50l. a year from Queen Caroline; on her death he was thrown into deep distress, and helped by a subscription to which Pope was the chief contributor, on condition of retiring to the country. Ultimately he quarrelled with his last protectors, and ended by dying in a debtor's prison. Various poetical
works, now utterly129 forgotten, obtained for him scanty130 profit. This career sufficiently131 reveals the character. Savage belonged to the very common type of men, who seem to employ their whole talents to throw away their chances in life, and to disgust every one who offers them a helping hand. He was, however, a man of some talent, though his poems are now hopelessly unreadable, and seems to have had a singular attraction for Johnson. The biography is curiously132 marked by Johnson's constant effort to put the best face upon faults, which he has too much love of truth to conceal133. The explanation is, partly, that Johnson conceived himself to be avenging134 a victim of cruel oppression. "This mother," he says, after recording135 her vindictiveness136, "is still alive, and may perhaps even yet, though her malice137 was often defeated, enjoy the pleasure of reflecting that the life, which she often endeavoured to destroy, was at last shortened by her maternal138 offices; that though she could not transport
her son to the plantations, bury him in the shop of a mechanic, or hasten the hand of the public executioner, she has yet had the satisfaction of embittering139 all his hours, and forcing him into exigencies140 that hurried on his death."
But it is also probable that Savage had a strong influence upon Johnson's mind at a very impressible part of his career. The young man, still ignorant of life and full of reverent141 enthusiasm for the literary magnates of his time, was impressed by the varied142 experience of his companion, and, it may be, flattered by his intimacy143. Savage, he says admiringly, had enjoyed great opportunities of seeing the most conspicuous144 men of the day in their private life. He was shrewd and inquisitive145 enough to
use his opportunities well. "More circumstances to constitute a critic on human life could not easily concur146." The only phrase which survives to justify this remark is Savage's statement about Walpole, that "the whole range of his mind was from obscenity to politics, and from politics to obscenity." We may, however, guess what was the special charm of the intercourse147 to Johnson. Savage was an expert in that science of human nature, learnt from experience not from books, upon which Johnson set so high a value, and of which he was destined148 to become the authorized149 expositor. There were, moreover, resemblances between the two men. They were both admired and sought out for their conversational151 powers. Savage, indeed, seems to have lived chiefly by the people who entertained him for talk, till he had disgusted them by his insolence152 and his utter disregard of time and propriety153. He would, like Johnson, sit up talking beyond midnight, and next day decline to rise till dinner-time, though his favourite drink was not, like Johnson's, free from intoxicating154 properties. Both of them had a lofty pride, which Johnson heartily155 commends in Savage, though he has difficulty in palliating some of its manifestations156. One of the stories reminds us of an anecdote48 already related of Johnson himself. Some clothes had been left for Savage at a coffee-house by a person who, out of delicacy157, concealed158 his name. Savage, however, resented some want of ceremony, and refused to enter the house again till the clothes had been removed.
What was honourable159 pride in Johnson was, indeed, simple arrogance160 in Savage. He asked favours, his biographer says, without submission161, and resented refusal as an insult. He had too much pride to acknowledge, not not too much to receive, obligations; enough to quarrel with his charitable benefactors162, but not enough to make him rise to independence of their charity. His pension would have sufficed to keep him, only that as soon as he received it he retired163 from the sight of all his acquaintance, and came back before long as penniless as before. This conduct, observes his biographer, was "very particular." It was hardly so singular as bjectionable; and we are not surprised to be told that he was rather a "friend of goodness" than himself a good man. In short, we may say of him as Beauclerk said of a friend of Boswell's that, if he had excellent principles, he did not wear them out in practice.
There is something quaint50 about this picture of a thorough-paced scamp, admiringly painted by a virtuous164 man; forced, in spite of himself, to make it a likeness165, and striving in vain to make it attractive. But it is also pathetic when we remember that Johnson shared some part at least of his hero's miseries. "On a bulk, in a cellar, or in a glass-house, among thieves and beggars, was to be found the author of The Wanderer, the man of exalted166 sentiments, extensive views, and curious observations; the man whose remarks on life might have assisted the statesman, whose ideas of virtue167 might have enlightened the moralist, whose eloquence might have influenced senators, and whose delicacy might have polished courts." Very shocking, no doubt, and yet hardly surprising under the circumstances! To us it is more interesting to remember that the author of the Rambler was not only a sympathizer, but a fellow-sufferer with the author of the Wanderer, and shared the queer "lodgings" of his
friend, as Floyd shared the lodgings of Derrick. Johnson happily came unscathed through the ordeal which was too much for poor Savage, and could boast with perfect truth in later life that "no man, who ever lived by literature, had lived more independently than I have done." It was in so strange a school, and under such questionable teaching that Johnson formed his character of the world and of the conduct befitting its inmates. One characteristic conclusion is indicated in the opening passage of the life. It has always been observed, he says, that men eminent by nature or fortune are not generally happy: "whether it be that apparent superiority incites168 great designs, and great designs are naturally liable to fatal miscarriages169; or that the general lot of mankind is misery, and the misfortunes of those, whose eminence drew upon them an universal attention, have been more carefully recorded because they were more generally observed, and have in reality been only more conspicuous than those of others, not more frequent or more severe."
The last explanation was that which really commended itself to Johnson. Nobody had better reason to know that obscurity might conceal a misery as bitter as any that fell to the lot of the most eminent. The gloom due to his constitutional temperament170 was intensified171 by the sense that he and his wife were dependent upon the goodwill172 of a narrow and ignorant tradesman for the scantiest173 maintenance. How was he to reach some solid standing-ground above the hopeless mire150 of Grub Street? As a journeyman author he could make both ends meet, but only on condition of incessant labour. Illness and misfortune would mean constant dependence upon charity or bondage174 to creditors175. To get ahead of the world it was necessary to distinguish himself in some way from the herd176 of needy177 competitors. He had come up from Lichfield with a play in his pocket, but the play did not seem at present to have much chance of emerging. Meanwhile he published a poem which did something to give him a general reputation.
London—an imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal—was published in May, 1738. The plan was doubtless suggested by Pope's imitations of Horace, which had recently appeared. Though necessarily following the lines of Juvenal's poem, and conforming to the conventional fashion of the time, both in sentiment and versification, the poem has a biographical significance. It is indeed odd to find Johnson, who afterwards thought of London as a lover of his mistress, and who despised nothing more heartily than the cant92 of Rousseau and the sentimentalists, adopting in this poem the ordinary denunciations of the corruption178 of towns, and singing the praises of an innocent country life. Doubtless, the young writer was like other young men, taking up a strain still imitative and artificial. He has a quiet smile at Savage in the life, because in his retreat to Wales, that enthusiast179 declared that he "could not debar himself from the happiness which was to be found in the calm of a cottage, or lose the opportunity of listening without intermission to the melody of the nightingale, which he believed was to be heard from every bramble, and which he did not fail to mention as a very important part of the happiness of a country life." In London, this insincere cockney adopts Savage's view. Thales, who is generally supposed to represent Savage (and this coincidence seems to confirm the opinion), is to retire "from the dungeons180 of the Strand," and to end a healthy life in pruning181 walks and twining bowers182 in his garden.
There every bush with nature's music rings, There every breeze bears health upon its wings.
Johnson had not yet learnt the value of perfect sincerity183 even in poetry. But it must also be admitted that London, as seen by the poor drudge from a Grub Street garret, probably presented a prospect gloomy enough to make even Johnson long at times for rural solitude184. The poem reflects, too, the ordinary talk of the heterogeneous185 band of patriots186, Jacobites, and disappointed Whigs, who were beginning to gather enough strength to threaten Walpole's long tenure187 of power. Many references to contemporary politics illustrate Johnson's sympathy with the inhabitants of the contemporary Cave of Adullam.
This poem, as already stated, attracted Pope's notice, who made a curious note on a scrap of paper sent with it to a friend. Johnson is described as "a man afflicted188 with an infirmity of the convulsive kind, that attacks him sometimes so as to make him a sad spectacle." This seems to have been the chief information obtained by Pope about the anonymous189 author, of whom he had said, on first reading the poem, this man will soon be déterré. London made a certain noise; it reached a second edition in a
week, and attracted various patrons, among others, General Oglethorpe, celebrated by Pope, and through a long life the warm friend of Johnson. One line, however, in the poem printed in capital letters, gives the moral which was doubtless most deeply felt by the author, and which did not lose its meaning in the years to come. This mournful truth, he says,— Is everywhere confess'd, Slow rises worth by poverty depress'd.
Ten years later (in January, 1749) appeared the Vanity of Human Wishes, an imitation of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal. The difference in tone shows how deeply this and similar truths had been impressed upon its author in the interval190. Though still an imitation, it is as significant as the most original work could be of Johnson's settled views of life. It was written at a white heat, as indeed Johnson wrote all his best work. Its strong Stoical morality, its profound and melancholy191 illustrations of the old and ever new sentiment, Vanitas Vanitatum, make it perhaps the most impressive poem of the kind in the language. The lines on the scholar's fate show that the iron had entered his soul in the interval. Should the scholar succeed beyond expectation in his labours and escape melancholy and disease, yet, he says,— Yet hope not life from grief and danger free, Nor think the doom192 of man reversed on thee; Deign193 on the passing world to turn thine eyes And pause awhile from letters, to be wise; There mark what ills the scholar's life assail194, Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail; See nations, slowly wise and meanly just, To buried merit raise the tardy195 bust196. If dreams yet flatter, once again attend. Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end.
For the "patron," Johnson had originally written the "garret." The change was made after an experience of patronage to be presently described in connexion with the Dictionary.
For London Johnson received ten guineas, and for the Vanity of Human Wishes fifteen. Though indirectly197 valuable, as increasing his reputation, such work was not very profitable. The most promising198 career in a pecuniary sense was still to be found on the stage. Novelists were not yet the rivals of dramatists, and many authors had made enough by a successful play to float them through a year or two. Johnson had probably been determined199 by his knowledge of this fact to write the tragedy of
Irene. No other excuse at least can be given for the composition of one of the heaviest and most unreadable of dramatic performances, interesting now, if interesting at all, solely200 as a curious example of the result of bestowing201 great powers upon a totally uncongenial task. Young men, however, may be pardoned for such blunders if they are not repeated, and Johnson, though he seems to have retained a fondness for his unlucky performance, never indulged in play writing after leaving Lichfield. The best thing connected with the play was Johnson's retort to his friend Walmsley, the Lichfield registrar202. "How," asked Walmsley, "can you contrive203 to plunge204 your heroine into deeper calamity205?" "Sir," said Johnson, "I can put her into the spiritual court." Even Boswell can only say for Irene that it is "entitled to the praise of superior excellence," and admits its entire absence of dramatic power. Garrick, who had become manager of Drury Lane, produced his friend's work in 1749. The play was carried through nine nights by Garrick's friendly zeal206, so that the author had his three nights' profits. For this he received ￡195 17s. and for the copy he had ￡100. People probably attended, as they attend modern representations of legitimate124 drama, rather from a sense of duty, than in the hope of pleasure. The heroine originally had to speak two lines with a bowstring round her neck. The situation produced cries of murder, and she had to go off the stage alive. The objectionable passage was removed, but Irene was on the whole a failure, and has never, I imagine, made another appearance. When asked how he felt upon his ill-success, he replied "like the monument," and indeed he made it a principle throughout life to accept the decision of the public like a sensible man without murmurs207.
Meanwhile, Johnson was already embarked208 upon an undertaking209 of a
very different kind. In 1747 he had put forth210 a plan for an English Dictionary, addressed at the suggestion of Dodsley, to Lord Chesterfield, then Secretary of State, and the great contemporary Maecenas. Johnson had apparently211 been maturing the scheme for some time. "I know," he says in the "plan," that "the work in which I engaged is generally considered as drudgery for the blind, as the proper toil of artless industry, a book that requires neither the light of learning nor the activity of genius, but may be successfully performed without any higher quality than that of bearing burdens with dull patience, and beating the track of the alphabet with sluggish212 resolution." He adds in a sub-sarcastic tone, that although princes and statesmen had once thought it honourable to patronize dictionaries, he had considered such benevolent213 acts to be "prodigies214, recorded rather to raise wonder than expectation," and he was accordingly pleased and surprised to find that Chesterfield took an interest in his undertaking. He proceeds to lay down the general principles upon which he intends to frame his work, in order to invite timely suggestions
and repress unreasonable215 expectations. At this time, humble216 as his aspirations217 might be, he took a view of the possibilities open to him which had to be lowered before the publication of the dictionary. He shared the illusion that a language might be "fixed218" by making a catalogue of its words. In the preface which appeared with the completed work, he explains very sensibly the vanity of any such expectation. Whilst all human affairs are changing, it is, as he says, absurd to imagine that the language which repeats all human thoughts and feelings can remain unaltered.
A dictionary, as Johnson conceived it, was in fact work for a "harmless drudge," the definition of a lexicographer219 given in the book itself. Etymology220 in a scientific sense was as yet non-existent, and Johnson was not in this respect ahead of his contemporaries. To collect all the words in the language, to define their meanings as accurately221 as might be, to give the obvious or whimsical guesses at Etymology suggested by previous writers, and to append a good collection of illustrative passages was the sum of his ambition. Any systematic222 training of the historical processes by which a particular language had been developed was unknown, and of course the result could not be anticipated. The work, indeed, required a keen logical faculty223 of definition, and wide reading of the English literature of the two preceding centuries; but it could of course give no play either for the higher literary faculties224 on points of scientific investigation225. A dictionary in Johnson's sense was the highest kind of work to which a literary journeyman could be set, but it was still work for a journeyman, not for an artist. He was not adding to literature, but providing a useful implement for future men of letters.
Johnson had thus got on hand the biggest job that could be well undertaken by a good workman in his humble craft. He was to receive fifteen hundred and seventy-five pounds for the whole, and he expected to finish it in three years. The money, it is to be observed, was to satisfy not only Johnson but several copyists employed in the mechanical part of the work. It was advanced by instalments, and came to an end before the conclusion of the book. Indeed, it appeared when accounts were settled,
that he had received a hundred pounds more than was due. He could, however, pay his way for the time, and would gain a reputation enough to ensure work in future. The period of extreme poverty had probably ended when Johnson got permanent employment on the Gentleman's Magazine. He was not elevated above the need of drudgery and economy, but he might at least be free from the dread226 of neglect. He could command his market—such as it was. The necessity of steady labour was probably unfelt in repelling227 his fits of melancholy. His name was beginning to be known, and men of reputation were seeking his acquaintance. In the winter of 1749 he formed a club, which met weekly at a "famous beef-steak house" in Ivy228 Lane. Among its members were Hawkins, afterwards his biographer, and two friends, Bathurst a physician, and
Hawkesworth an author, for the first of whom he entertained an unusually strong affection. The Club, like its more famous successor, gave Johnson an opportunity of displaying and improving his great conversational powers. He was already dreaded229 for his prowess in argument, his dictatorial230 manners and vivid flashes of wit and humour, the more effective from the habitual231 gloom and apparent heaviness of the discourser.
The talk of this society probably suggested topics for the Rambler, which appeared at this time, and caused Johnson's fame to spread further beyond the literary circles of London. The wit and humour have, indeed, left few traces upon its ponderous232 pages, for the Rambler marks the culminating period of Johnson's worst qualities of style. The pompous233 and involved language seems indeed to be a fit clothing for the melancholy reflections which are its chief staple234, and in spite of its unmistakable power it is as heavy reading as the heavy class of lay-sermonizing to which it belongs. Such literature, however, is often strangely popular in England, and the Rambler, though its circulation was limited, gave to Johnson his position as a great practical moralist. He took his literary title, one may say, from the Rambler, as the more familiar title was derived from the Dictionary.
The Rambler was published twice a week from March 20th, 1750, to March 17th, 1752. In five numbers alone he received assistance from friends, and one of these, written by Richardson, is said to have been the only number which had a large sale. The circulation rarely exceeded 500, though ten English editions were published in the author's lifetime, besides Scotch65 and Irish editions. The payment, however, namely, two guineas a number, must have been welcome to Johnson, and the friendship of many distinguished men of the time was a still more valuable reward. A quaint story illustrates235 the hero-worship of which Johnson now became the object. Dr. Burney, afterwards an intimate friend, had introduced himself to Johnson by letter in consequence of the Rambler, and the plan of the Dictionary. The admiration236 was shared by a friend of Burney's, a Mr. Bewley, known—in Norfolk at least—as the "philosopher of Massingham." When Burney at last gained the honour of a personal interview, he wished to procure237 some "relic238" of Johnson for his friend. He cut off some bristles239 from a hearth-broom in the doctor's chambers240, and sent them in a letter to his fellow-enthusiast. Long afterwards Johnson was pleased to hear of this simple-minded homage241, and not only sent a copy of the Lives of the Poets to the rural philosopher, but deigned242 to grant him a personal interview.
Dearer than any such praise was the approval of Johnson's wife. She told him that, well as she had thought of him before, she had not considered him equal to such a performance. The voice that so charmed him was soon to be silenced for ever. Mrs. Johnson died (March 17th, 1752) three days after the appearance of the last Rambler. The man who has passed through such a trial knows well that, whatever may be in store for him in the dark future, fate can have no heavier blow in reserve. Though Johnson once acknowledged to Boswell, when in a placid243 humour, that happier days had come to him in his old age than in his early life, he would probably have added that though fame and friendship and freedom from the harrowing cares of poverty might cause his life to be more equably happy, yet their rewards could represent but a faint and mocking reflection of the best moments of a happy marriage. His strong mind and tender nature reeled under the blow. Here is one pathetic little note written to the friend, Dr. Taylor, who had come to him in his distress. That which first announced the calamity, and which, said Taylor, "expressed grief in the strongest manner he had ever read," is lost.
"Dear Sir,—Let me have your company and instruction. Do not live away from me. My distress is great.
"Pray desire Mrs. Taylor to inform me what mourning I should buy for my mother and Miss Porter, and bring a note in writing with you.
"Remember me in your prayers, for vain is the help of man.
"I am, dear sir,
"SAM. JOHNSON."
We need not regret that a veil is drawn over the details of the bitter agony of his passage through the valley of the shadow of death. It is enough to put down the wails244 which he wrote long afterwards when visibly approaching the close of all human emotions and interests:— "This is the day on which, in 1752, dear Letty died. I have now uttered a prayer of repentance and contrition245; perhaps Letty knows that I prayed for her. Perhaps Letty is now praying for me. God help me. Thou, God,
art merciful, hear my prayers and enable me to trust in Thee.
"We were married almost seventeen years, and have now been parted thirty."
It seems half profane246, even at this distance of time, to pry247 into grief so deep and so lasting248. Johnson turned for relief to that which all sufferers know to be the only remedy for sorrow—hard labour. He set to work in his garret, an inconvenient249 room, "because," he said, "in that room only I never saw Mrs. Johnson." He helped his friend Hawkesworth in the Adventurer, a new periodical of the Rambler kind; but his main work was the Dictionary, which came out at last in 1755. Its appearance was the occasion of an explosion of wrath250 which marks an epoch251 in our literature.
Johnson, as we have seen, had dedicated252 the Plan to Lord Chesterfield; and his language implies that they had been to some extent in personal communication. Chesterfield's fame is in curious antithesis253 to Johnson's. He was a man of great abilities, and seems to have deserved high credit for some parts of his statesmanship. As a Viceroy in Ireland in particular he showed qualities rare in his generation. To Johnson he was known as the nobleman who had a wide social influence as an acknowledged arbiter254 elegantiarum, and who reckoned among his claims some of that literary polish in which the earlier generation of nobles had certainly been superior to their successors. The art of life expounded255 in his Letters differs from Johnson as much as the elegant diplomatist differs from the rough intellectual gladiator of Grub Street. Johnson spoke his mind of his rival without reserve. "I thought," he said, "that this man had been a Lord among wits; but I find he is only a wit among Lords." And of the Letters he said more keenly that they taught the morals of a harlot and the manners of a dancing-master. Chesterfield's opinion of Johnson is indicated by the description in his Letters of a "respectable Hottentot, who throws his meat anywhere but down his throat. This absurd person," said Chesterfield, "was not only uncouth256 in manners and warm in dispute, but behaved exactly in the same way to superiors, equals, and inferiors; and therefore, by a necessary consequence, absurdly to two of the three. Hinc illae lacrymae!"
Johnson, in my opinion, was not far wrong in his judgment257, though it would be a gross injustice258 to regard Chesterfield as nothing but a fribble. But men representing two such antithetic types were not likely to admire each other's good qualities. Whatever had been the intercourse between them, Johnson was naturally annoyed when the dignified259 noble published two articles in the World—a periodical supported by such polite personages as himself and Horace Walpole—in which the need of a dictionary was set forth, and various courtly compliments described Johnson's fitness for a dictatorship over the language. Nothing could be more prettily260 turned; but it meant, and Johnson took it to mean, I should like to have the dictionary dedicated to me: such a compliment would add a feather to my cap, and enable me to appear to the world as a patron of literature as well as an authority upon manners. "After making pert professions," as Johnson said, "he had, for many years, taken no notice of me; but when my Dictionary was coming out, he fell a scribbling261 in the World about it." Johnson therefore bestowed262 upon the noble earl a piece of his mind in a letter which was not published till it came out in Boswell's biography.
"My Lord,—I have been lately informed by the proprietor263 of the World that two papers, in which my Dictionary is recommended to the public, were written by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge.
"When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your Lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment264 of your address; and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself, le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre—that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride nor modesty265 would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your Lordship in public, I had exhausted266
all the arts of pleasing which a wearied and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little.
"Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms and was repulsed267 from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge268 of publication without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, and one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. "The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks.
"Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached the ground encumbers269 him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary270, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity271 not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling272 that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron which Providence273 has enabled me to do for myself.
"Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, should loss be possible, with loss; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation274, my Lord, "Your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, "SAM. JOHNSON."
The letter is one of those knock-down blows to which no answer is possible, and upon which comment is superfluous. It was, as Mr. Carlyle calls it, "the far-famed blast of doom proclaiming into the ear of Lord Chesterfield and through him, of the listening world, that patronage should be no more."
That is all that can be said; yet perhaps it should be added that Johnson remarked that he had once received ￡10 from Chesterfield, though he thought the assistance too inconsiderable to be mentioned in such a letter. Hawkins also states that Chesterfield sent overtures275 to Johnson through two friends, one of whom, long Sir Thomas Robinson, stated that, if he were rich enough (a judicious clause) he would himself settle ￡500 a year upon Johnson. Johnson replied that if the first peer of the
realm made such an offer, he would show him the way downstairs. Hawkins is startled at this insolence, and at Johnson's uniform assertion that an offer of money was an insult. We cannot tell what was the history of the ￡10; but Johnson, in spite of Hawkins's righteous indignation, was in fact too proud to be a beggar, and owed to his pride his escape from the fate of Savage.
The appearance of the Dictionary placed Johnson in the position described soon afterwards by Smollett. He was henceforth "the great Cham of Literature"—a monarch276 sitting in the chair previously277 occupied by his namesake, Ben, by Dryden, and by Pope; but which has since that time been vacant. The world of literature has become too large for such authority. Complaints were not seldom uttered at the time. Goldsmith has urged that Boswell wished to make a monarchy278 of what ought to be a republic. Goldsmith, who would have been the last man to find serious fault with the dictator, thought the dictatorship objectionable. Some time indeed was still to elapse before we can say that Johnson was firmly seated on the throne; but the Dictionary and the Rambler had given him a position not altogether easy to appreciate, now that the Dictionary has been superseded and the Rambler gone out of fashion. His name was the highest at this time (1755) in the ranks of pure literature. The fame of Warburton possibly bulked larger for the moment, and one of his flatterers was comparing him to the Colossus which bestrides the petty world of contemporaries. But Warburton had subsided280 into episcopal repose281, and literature had been for him a stepping-stone rather than an ultimate aim. Hume had written works of far more enduring influence than Johnson; but they were little read though generally abused, and scarcely belong to the purely282 literary history. The first volume of his History of England had appeared (1754), but had not succeeded. The second was just coming out. Richardson was still giving laws to his little seraglio of adoring women; Fielding had died (1754), worn out by labour and dissipation; Smollett was active in the literary trade, but not in such a way as to increase his own dignity or that of his employment; Gray was slowly writing a few lines of exquisite283 verse in his retirement284 at Cambridge; two young Irish adventurers, Burke and Goldsmith, were just coming to London to try their fortune; Adam Smith made his first experiment as an author by reviewing the Dictionary in the Edinburgh Review; Robertson had not yet appeared as a historian; Gibbon was at Lausanne repenting285 of his old brief lapse279 into Catholicism as an act of undergraduate's folly286; and Cowper, after three years of "giggling287 and making giggle288" with
Thurlow in an attorney's office, was now entered at the Temple and amusing himself at times with literature in company with such small men of letters as Colman, Bonnell Thornton, and Lloyd. It was a slack tide of literature; the generation of Pope had passed away and left no successors, and no writer of the time could be put in competition with the giant now known as "Dictionary Johnson."
When the last sheet of the Dictionary had been carried to the publisher, Millar, Johnson asked the messenger, "What did he say?" "Sir," said the messenger, "he said, 'Thank God I have done with him.'" "I am glad," replied Johnson, "that he thanks God for anything." Thankfulness for relief from seven years' toil seems to have been Johnson's predominant feeling: and he was not anxious for a time to take any new labours upon his shoulders. Some years passed which have left few traces either upon
his personal or his literary history. He contributed a good many reviews in 1756-7 to the Literary Magazine, one of which, a review of Soame Jenyns, is amongst his best performances. To a weekly paper he contributed for two years, from April, 1758, to April, 1760, a set of essays called the Idler, on the old Rambler plan. He did some small literary cobbler's work, receiving a guinea for a prospectus289 to a newspaper and ten pounds for correcting a volume of poetry. He had advertised in 1756 a new edition of Shakspeare which was to appear by Christmas, 1757: but he dawdled290 over it so unconscionably that it did not appear for nine years; and then only in consequence of taunts291 from Churchill, who accused him with too much plausibility292 of cheating his subscribers.
He for subscribers baits his hook; And takes your cash: but where's the book? No matter where; wise fear, you know Forbids the robbing of a foe; But what to serve our private ends Forbids the cheating of our friends?
In truth, his constitutional indolence seems to have gained advantages over him, when the stimulus293 of a heavy task was removed. In his meditations294, there are many complaints of his "sluggishness295" and resolutions of amendment296. "A kind of strange oblivion has spread over me," he says in April, 1764, "so that I know not what has become of the last years, and perceive that incidents and intelligence pass over me without leaving any impression."
It seems, however, that he was still frequently in difficulties. Letters are preserved showing that in the beginning of 1756, Richardson became surety for him for a debt, and lent him six guineas to release him from arrest. An event which happened three years later illustrates his position and character. In January, 1759, his mother died at the age of ninety. Johnson was unable to come to Lichfield, and some deeply pathetic letters to her and her stepdaughter, who lived with her, record his emotions. Here is the last sad farewell upon the snapping of the most sacred of human ties.
"Dear Honoured Mother," he says in a letter enclosed to Lucy Porter, the step-daughter, "neither your condition nor your character make it fit for me to say much. You have been the best mother, and I believe the best woman in the world. I thank you for your indulgence to me, and beg forgiveness of all that I have done ill, and of all that I have omitted to do well. God grant you His Holy Spirit, and receive you to everlasting297 happiness for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen. Lord Jesus receive your spirit. I am, dear, dear mother, "Your dutiful son, "SAMUEL JOHNSON."
Johnson managed to raise twelve guineas, six of them borrowed from his printer, to send to his dying mother. In order to gain money for her funeral expenses and some small debts, he wrote the story of Rasselas. It was composed in the evenings of a single week, and sent to press as it was written. He received ￡100 for this, perhaps the most successful of his minor298 writings, and ￡25 for a second edition. It was widely translated and universally admired. One of the strangest of literary oincidences is the contemporary appearance of this work and Voltaire's Candide; to which, indeed, it bears in some respects so strong a resemblance that, but for Johnson's apparent contradiction, we would suppose that he had at least heard some description of its design. The two stories, though widely differing in tone and style, are among the most powerful expressions of the melancholy produced in strong intellects by the sadness and sorrows of the world. The literary excellence of Candide has secured for
it a wider and more enduring popularity than has fallen to the lot of Johnson's far heavier production. But Rasselas is a book of singular force, and bears the most characteristic impression of Johnson's peculiar299 temperament.
A great change was approaching in Johnson's circumstances. When George III. came to the throne, it struck some of his advisers300 that it would be well, as Boswell puts it, to open "a new and brighter prospect to men of literary merit." This commendable301 design was carried out by offering to Johnson a pension of three hundred a year. Considering that such men as Horace Walpole and his like were enjoying sinecures of more than twice as many thousands for being their father's sons, the bounty302 does not strike one as excessively liberal. It seems to have been really intended as some set-off against other pensions bestowed upon various hangers-on of the Scotch prime minister, Bute. Johnson was coupled with the contemptible303 scribbler, Shebbeare, who had lately been in the pillory304 for a Jacobite libel (a "he-bear" and a "she-bear," said the facetious305 newspapers), and when a few months afterwards a pension of ￡200 a year was given to the old actor, Sheridan, Johnson growled306 out that it was time for him to resign his own. Somebody kindly307 repeated the remark to Sheridan, who would never afterwards speak to Johnson.
The pension, though very welcome to Johnson, who seems to have been in real distress at the time, suggested some difficulty. Johnson had unluckily spoken of a pension in his Dictionary as "generally understood to mean pay given to a State hireling for treason to his country." He was assured, however, that he did not come within the definition; and that the reward was given for what he had done, not for anything that he was expected to do. After some hesitation308, Johnson consented to accept the payment thus offered without the direct suggestion of any obligation, though it was probably calculated that he would in case of need, be the more ready, as actually happened, to use his pen in defence of authority. He had not compromised his independence and might fairly laugh at angry comments. "I wish," he said afterwards, "that my pension were twice as large, that they might make twice as much noise." "I cannot now curse the House of Hanover," was his phrase on another occasion: "but I think that the pleasure of cursing the House of Hanover and drinking King James's health, all amply overbalanced by three hundred pounds a year." In truth, his Jacobitism was by this time, whatever it had once been, nothing more than a humorous crotchet, giving opportunity for the expression of Tory prejudice.
"I hope you will now purge309 and live cleanly like a gentleman," was Beauclerk's comment upon hearing of his friend's accession of fortune, and as Johnson is now emerging from Grub Street, it is desirable to consider what manner of man was to be presented to the wider circles that were opening to receive him.
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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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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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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repentance
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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tavern
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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pittance
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21
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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22
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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23
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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24
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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25
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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26
sinecures
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| n.工作清闲但报酬优厚的职位，挂名的好差事( sinecure的名词复数 ) | |
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27
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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28
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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29
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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30
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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31
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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32
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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33
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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34
internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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35
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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36
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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37
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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38
satire
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|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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39
tempted
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|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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40
artifices
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|
| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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41
pilloried
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|
| v.使受公众嘲笑( pillory的过去式和过去分词 )；将…示众；给…上颈手枷；处…以枷刑 | |
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42
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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43
miseries
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|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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44
wretches
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|
| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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45
distress
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|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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46
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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47
ward
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|
| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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48
anecdote
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|
| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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49
anecdotes
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|
| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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50
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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51
deity
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|
| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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52
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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53
scrap
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|
| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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54
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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55
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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56
lodging
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|
| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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58
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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59
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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60
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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61
toils
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| 网 | |
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62
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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63
judicious
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|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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64
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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65
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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66
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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67
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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68
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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69
encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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70
gazetteer
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| n.地名索引 | |
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71
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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72
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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73
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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74
compilations
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| n.编辑，编写( compilation的名词复数 )；编辑物 | |
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75
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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76
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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77
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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78
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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79
satires
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| 讽刺，讥讽( satire的名词复数 )； 讽刺作品 | |
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80
immortal
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|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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81
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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82
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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83
pecuniary
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|
| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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84
prospect
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|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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85
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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86
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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87
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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88
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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89
superfluous
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|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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90
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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91
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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92
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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93
impecuniosity
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|
| n.（经常）没有钱，身无分文，贫穷 | |
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94
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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95
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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96
patriotic
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|
| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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97
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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98
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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99
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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100
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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101
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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102
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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103
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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104
complimentary
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|
| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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105
phlegmatic
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|
| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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106
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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107
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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108
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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109
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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110
aspirants
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|
| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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111
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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112
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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113
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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114
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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115
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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116
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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117
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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118
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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119
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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120
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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121
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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122
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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123
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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124
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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125
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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126
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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127
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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128
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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129
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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130
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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131
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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132
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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133
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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134
avenging
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|
| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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135
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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136
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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137
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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138
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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139
embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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140
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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141
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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142
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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143
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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144
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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145
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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146
concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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147
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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148
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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149
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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150
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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151
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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152
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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153
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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154
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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155
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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156
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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157
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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158
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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159
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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160
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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161
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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162
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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163
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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164
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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165
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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166
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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167
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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168
incites
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169
miscarriages
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| 流产( miscarriage的名词复数 ) | |
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170
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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171
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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173
scantiest
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的最高级 ) | |
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174
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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175
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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176
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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177
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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178
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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179
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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180
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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181
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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182
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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183
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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184
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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185
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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186
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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187
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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188
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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190
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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191
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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192
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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193
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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194
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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195
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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196
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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197
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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198
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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199
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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200
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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201
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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202
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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203
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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204
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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205
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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206
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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207
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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208
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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209
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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210
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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211
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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212
sluggish
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|
| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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213
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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214
prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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215
unreasonable
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|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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216
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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217
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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218
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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219
lexicographer
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| n.辞典编纂人 | |
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220
etymology
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| n.语源；字源学 | |
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221
accurately
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|
| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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222
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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223
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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224
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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225
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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226
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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227
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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228
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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229
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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230
dictatorial
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|
| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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231
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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232
ponderous
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|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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233
pompous
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|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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234
staple
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|
| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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235
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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236
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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237
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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238
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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239
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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240
chambers
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|
| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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241
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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242
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
placid
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|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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244
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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245
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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246
profane
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|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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247
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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248
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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249
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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250
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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251
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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252
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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253
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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254
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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255
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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257
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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258
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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259
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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260
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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261
scribbling
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|
| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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262
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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263
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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264
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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265
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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266
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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267
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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268
verge
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|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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269
encumbers
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的第三人称单数 ) | |
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270
solitary
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|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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271
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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272
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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273
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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274
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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275
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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276
monarch
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|
| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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277
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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278
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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279
lapse
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|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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280
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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281
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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282
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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283
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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284
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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285
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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286
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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287
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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288
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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289
prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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290
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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291
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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292
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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293
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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294
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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295
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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296
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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297
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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298
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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299
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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300
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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301
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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302
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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303
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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304
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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305
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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306
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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307
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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308
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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309
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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