We had lived long enough in Venice to know that it was by no means worth while to explore the interior of this old palace because the outside was attractive, and so we left it; and turning a corner, found ourselves in a shallow canal, with houses on one side, and a grassy8 bank on the other. The bank sloped gently from the water up to the walls of some edifice9, on which ruin seemed to have fastened soon after the architect had begun his work. The vast walls, embracing several acres in their close, rose only some thirty or forty feet from the ground—only high enough, indeed, to join over the top of the great Gothic gates, which pierced them on two fa?ades. There must have been barracks near; for on the sward, under the walls, muskets10 were stacked, and Austrian soldiers were practicing the bayonet-exercise with long poles padded at the point. ”Ein, zwei, drei,—vorw?rts! Ein, zwei, drei,—ruckw?rts!” snarled11 the drill-sergeant, and the dark-faced Hungarian soldiers—who may have soon afterward12 prodded13 their Danish fellow-beings all the more effectively for that day’s training—stooped, writhed14, and leaped obedient. I, who had already caught sight of a little tablet in the wall bearing the name of Paolo Sarpi, could not feel the propriety15 of the military performance on that scene; yet I was very glad, dismounting from the gondola16, to get by the soldiers without being forced back at the padded point of a pole, and offered no audible objection to their presence.
So passing to the other side, I found entrance through a disused chapel17 to the interior of the convent. The gates on the outside were richly sculptured, and were reverend and clean; tufts of harsh grass grew from their arches, and hung down like the “overwhelming brows” of age. Within, at first light, I saw nothing but heaps of rubbish, piles of stone, and here and there a mutilated statue. I remember two pathetic caryatides, that seemed to have broken and sunk under too heavy a weight for their gentle beauty—and everywhere the unnamable filth18 with which ruin is always dishonored in Italy, and which makes the most picturesque19 and historic places inaccessible20 to the foot, and intolerable to the senses and the soul. I was thinking with a savage21 indignation on this incurable22 porcheria, of the Italian poor (who are guilty of such desecrations), when my eye fell upon an enclosed space in one corner, where some odd-looking boulders23 were heaped together. It was a space about six feet in depth, and twenty feet square; and the boulders, on closer inspection24, turned out to be human skulls25, nestling on piles of human bones. In any other land than Italy I think I should have turned from the grisly sight with a cowardly sickness and shuddering26; but here!—Why, heaven and earth seem to take the loss of men so good-naturedly,—so many men have died and passed away with their difficult, ambitious, and troublesome little schemes,—and the great mass of mankind is taken so small account of in the course of destiny, that the idea of death does not appear so alien and repulsive27 as elsewhere, and the presence of such evidences of our poor mortality can scarcely offend sensibility. These were doubtless the bones of the good Servite friars who had been buried in their convent, and had been digged up to make way for certain improvements now taking place within its walls. I have no doubt that their deaths were a rest to their bodies, to say nothing of their souls. If they were at all in their lives like those who have come after them, the sun baked their bald brows in Summer, and their naked feet—poor feet! clapping round in wooden-soled sandals over the frozen stones of Venice—were swollen28 and gnawed29 with chilblains in winter; and no doubt some fat friar of their number, looking all the droller in his bare feet for the spectacles on his nose, came down Calle Falier then, as now, to collect the charity of bread and fuel, far oftener than the dwellers30 in that aristocratic precinct wished to see him.
The friars’ skulls looked contented31 enough, and smiled after the hearty32 manner of skulls; and some of the leg-bones were thrust through the enclosing fence, and hung rakishly over the top. As to their spirits, I suppose they must have found out by this time that these confused and shattered tabernacles which they left behind them are not nearly so corrupt33 and dead as the monastic system which still cumbers the earth. People are building on the site of the old convent a hospital for indigent34 and decrepit35 women, where a religious sisterhood will have care of the inmates36. It is a good end enough, but I think it would be the true compensation if all the rubbish of the old cloister37 were cleared from the area of those walls, and a great garden planted in the space, where lovers might whisper their wise nonsense, and children might romp38 and frolic, till the crumbling39, masonry40 forgot its old office of imprisonment41 and the memory of its prisoners. For here, one could only think of the moping and mumming herd42 of monks43, who were certainly not worth remembering, while the fame of Paolo Sarpi, and the good which he did, refused to be localized. That good is an inheritance which has enriched the world; but the share of Venice has been comparatively small in it, and that of this old convent ground still less. I rather wondered, indeed, that I should have taken the trouble to look up the place; but it is a harmless, if even a very foolish, pastime to go seeking for the sublime44 secret of the glory of the palm in the earth where it struck root and flourished. So far as the lifelong presence and the death of a man of clear brain and true heart could hallow any scene, this ground was holy; for here Sarpi lived, and here in his cell he died, a simple Servite friar—he who had caught the bolts of excommunication launched against the Republic from Rome, and broken them in his hand,—who had breathed upon the mighty45 arm of the temporal power, and withered46 it to the juiceless stock it now remains47. And yet I could not feel that the ground was holy, and it did not make me think of Sarpi; and I believe that only those travelers who invent in cold blood their impressions of memorable places ever have remarkable48 impressions to record.
Once, before the time of Sarpi, an excommunication was pronounced against the Republic with a result as terrible as that of the later interdict49 was absurd. Venice took possession, early in the fourteenth century, of Ferrara, by virtue50 of a bargain which the high contracting parties—the Republic and an exiled claimant to the ducal crown of Ferrara—had no right to make. The father of the banished51 prince had displeased52 him by marrying late in life, when the thoughts of a good man should be turned on other things, and the son compassed the sire’s death. For this the Ferrarese drove him away, and as they would not take him back to reign53 over them at the suggestion of Venice, he resigned his rights in favor of the Republic, and the Republic at once annexed54 the city to its territories. The Ferrarese appealed to the pope for his protection, and Clement55 V., supporting an ancient but long quiescent56 claim to Ferrara on the part of the Church, called upon the Venetians to surrender the city, and, on their refusal, excommunicated them. All Christian57 peoples were commanded “to arm against the Venetians, to spoil them of their goods, as separated from the union of Christians58, and as enemies of the Roman Church.” They were driven out of Ferrara, but their troubles did not end with their loss of the city. Giustina Renier-Michiel says the nations, under the shelter of the pope’s permission and command, “exercised against them every species of cruelty; there was no wrong or violence of which they were not victims. All the rich merchandise which they had in France, in Flanders, and in other places, was confiscated59; their merchants were arrested, maltreated, and some of them killed. Woe60 to us, if the Saracens had been baptized Christians! our nation would have been utterly61 destroyed.” Such was the ruin brought upon us by this excommunication that to this day it is a popular saying, concerning a man of gloomy aspect, ”He looks as if he were bringing the excommunication of Ferrara.”
No proverb, sprung from the popular terror, commemorates62 the interdict of the Republic which took place in 1606, and which, I believe, does not survive in popular recollection at Venice. It was at first a collision of the Venetian and Papal authorities at Ferrara, and then an interference of the pope to prevent the execution of secular63 justice upon certain ecclesiastical offenders65 in Venetia, which resulted in the excommunication of the Republic, and finally in the defeat of St. Peter and the triumph of St. Mark. Chief among the ecclesiastical offenders mentioned were the worthy67 Abbate Brandolino of Narvesa, who was accused, among other things, of poisoning his own father; and the good Canonico Saraceni of Vicenza, who was repulsed68 in overtures69 made to his beautiful cousin, and who revenged himself by defaming her character, and “filthily defacing” the doors of her palace. The abbate was arrested, and the canon, on this lady’s complaint to the Ten at Venice, was thrown into prison, and the weak and furious Pope Paul V., being refused their release by the Ten, excommunicated the whole Republic.
In the same year, that is to say 1552, the bane and antidote70, Paul the Pope and Paul Sarpi the friar, were sent into the world. The latter grew in piety71, fame, and learning, and at the time the former began his quarrel with the Republic, there was none in Venice so fit and prompt as Sarpi to stand forth72 in her defense73. He was at once taken into the service of St. Mark, and his clear, acute mind fashioned the spiritual weapons of the Republic, and helped to shape the secular measures taken to annul74 the interdict. As soon as the bull of excommunication was issued, the Republic instructed her officers to stop every copy of it at the frontier, and it was never read in any church in the Venetian dominions75. The Senate refused to receive it from the Papal Nuncio. All priests, monks, and other servants of the Church, as well as all secular persons, were commanded to disregard it; and refractory76 ecclesiastics77 were forced to open their churches on pain of death. The Jesuits and Capuchins were banished; and clerical intriguers, whom Rome sent in swarms78 to corrupt social and family relations, by declaring an end of civil government in Venice, and preaching among women disobedience to patriotic79 husbands and fathers, were severely80 punished. With internal safety thus provided for, the Republic intrusted her moral, religious, and political defense entirely81 to Sarpi, who devoted82 himself to his trust with fidelity83, zeal84, and power.
It might have been expected that the friend of Galileo, and the most learned and enlightened man of his country, would have taken the short and decisive method of discarding all allegiance to Rome as the most logical resistance to the unjust interdict. But the Venetians have ever been faithful Catholics, 29 and Sarpi was (or, according to the papal writers, seemed to be) a sincere and obedient Servite friar, believing in the spiritual supremacy86 of the pope, and revering87 the religion of Rome. He therefore fought Paul inside of the Church, and his writings on the interdict remain the monument of his polemical success. He was the heart and brain of the Republic’s whole resistance,—he supplied her with inexhaustible reasons and answers,—and, though tempted88, accused, and threatened, he never swerved89 from his fidelity to her.
As he was the means of her triumph, 30 remained the object of her love. He could never be persuaded to desert his cell in the Minorite Convent for the apartments appointed him by the State; and even when his busy days were spent in council at the Ducal Palace, he returned each night to sleep in the cloister. After the harmless interdict had been removed by Paul, and the unyielding Republic forgiven, the wrath90 of Rome remained kindled91 against the friar whose logic85 had been too keen for the last reason of popes. He had been tried for heresy92 in his youth at Milan, and acquitted93; again, during the progress of St. Mark’s quarrel with Rome, his orthodoxy had been questioned; and now that all was over, and Rome could turn her attention to one particular offender64, he was entreated94, coaxed95, commanded to come to her, and put her heart at rest concerning these old accusations96. But Sarpi was very well in Venice. He had been appointed Consultor in Theology to the Republic, and had received free admission to the secret archives of the State,—a favor, till then, never bestowed97 on any. So he would not go to Rome, and Rome sent assassins to take his life. One evening, as he was returning from the Ducal Palace in company with a lay-brother of the convent, and an old patrician98, very infirm and helpless, he was attacked by these nuncios of the papal court: one of them seized the lay-brother, and another the patrician, while a third dealt Sarpi innumerable dagger99 thrusts. He fell as if dead, and the ruffians made off in the confusion.
Sarpi had been fearfully wounded, but he recovered. The action of the Republic in this affair is a comforting refutation of the saying that Republics are ungrateful, and the common belief that Venice was particularly so. The most strenuous100 and unprecedented101 efforts were made to take the assassins, and the most terrific penalties were denounced against them. What was much better, new honors were showered upon Sarpi, and extraordinary and affectionate measures were taken to provide for his safety.
And, in fine, he lived in the service of the Republic, revered102 and beloved, till his seventieth year, when he died with zeal for her good shaping his last utterance103: “I must go to St. Mark, for it is late, and I have much to do.”
Brave Sarpi, and brave Republic! Men cannot honor them enough. For though the terrors of the interdict were doubted to be harmless even at that time, it had remained for them to prove the interdict, then and forever, an instrument as obsolete104 as the catapult.
I was so curious as to make some inquiry105 among the workmen on the old convent ground, whether any stone or other record commemorative of Sarpi had been found in the demolished106 cells. I hoped, not very confidently, to gather some trace of his presence there—to have, perhaps, the spot on which he died shown me. To a man, they were utterly ignorant of Sarpi, while affecting, in the Italian manner, to be perfectly107 informed on the subject. I was passed, with my curiosity, from one to another, till I fell into the hands of a kind of foreman, to whom I put my questions anew. He was a man of Napoleonic beard, and such fair red-and-white complexion108 that he impressed me as having escaped from a show of wax-works, and I was not at all surprised to find him a wax figure in point of intelligence. He seemed to think my questions the greatest misfortunes which had ever befallen him, and to regard each suggestion of Sarpi—tempo della Repubblica—scomunica di Paolo Quinto—as an intolerable oppression. He could only tell me that on a certain spot (which he pointed6 out with his foot) in the demolished church, there had been found a stone with Sarpi’s name upon it. The padrone, who had the contract for building the new convent, had said,—“Truly, I have heard speak of this Sarpi;” but the stone had been broken, and he did not know what had become of it.
And, in fact, the only thing that remembered Sarpi, on the site of the convent where he spent his life, died, and was buried, was the little tablet on the outside of the wall, of which the abbreviated109 Latin announced that he had been Theologue to the Republic, and that his dust was now removed to the island of San Michele. After this failure, I had no humor to make researches for the bridge on which the friar was attacked by his assassins. But, indeed, why should I look for it? Finding it, could I have kept in my mind the fine dramatic picture I now have, of Sarpi returning to his convent on a mild October evening, weary with his long walk from St. Mark’s, and pacing with downcast eyes,—the old patrician and the lay-brother at his side, and the masked and stealthy assassins, with uplifted daggers110, behind him? Nay111, I fear I should have found the bridge with some scene of modern life upon it, and brought away in my remembrance an old woman with an oil-bottle, or a straggling boy with a tumbler, and a very little wine in it.
On our way home from the Servite Convent, we stopped again near the corner and bridge of Sior Antonio Rioba,—this time to go into the house of Tintoretto, which stands close at the right hand, on the same quay112. The house, indeed, might make some pretensions113 to be called a palace: it is large, and has a carved and balconied front, in which are set a now illegible114 tablet describing it as the painter’s dwelling115, and a medallion portrait of Robusti. It would have been well if I had contented myself with this goodly outside; for penetrating116, by a long narrow passage and complicated stairway, to the interior of the house, I found that it had nothing to offer me but the usual number of commonplace rooms in the usual blighting117 state of restoration. I must say that the people of the house, considering they had nothing in the world to show me, were kind and patient under the intrusion, and answered with very polite affirmation my discouraged inquiry if this were really Tintoretto’s house.
Their conduct was different from that of the present inmates of Titian’s house, near the Fondamenta Nuove, in a little court at the left of the church of the Jesuits. These unreasonable118 persons think it an intolerable bore that the enlightened traveling public should break in upon their privacy. They put their heads out of the upper windows, and assure the strangers that the house is as utterly restored within as they behold119 it without (and it is extremely restored), that it merely occupies the site of the painter’s dwelling, and that there is nothing whatever to see in it. I never myself had the heart to force an entrance after these protests; but an acquaintance of the more obdurate120 sex, whom I had the honor to accompany thither121, once did so, and came out with a story of rafters of the original Titianic kitchen being still visible in the new one. After a lapse122 of two years I revisited the house, and found that so far from having learned patience by frequent trial, the inmates had been apparently123 goaded124 into madness during the interval125. They seemed to know of our approach by instinct, and thrust their heads out, ready for protest, before we were near enough to speak. The lazy, frowzy126 women, the worthless men, and idle, loafing boys of the neighborhood, gathered round to witness the encounter; but though repeatedly commanded to ring (I was again in company with ladies), and try to force the place, I refused decidedly to do so. The garrison127 were strengthening their position by plastering and renewed renovation128, and I doubt that by this time the original rafters are no longer to be seen. A plasterer’s boy, with a fine sense of humor, stood clapping his trowel on his board, inside the house, while we debated retreat, and derisively129 invited us to enter: “Suoni pure, O signore! Questa e la famosa casa del gran pittore, l’immortale Tiziano,—suoni, signore!“ (Ring, by all means, sir. This is the famous house of the great painter, the immortal130 Titian. Ring!) Da capo. We retired131 amid the scorn of the populace. But indeed I could not blame the inhabitants of Titian’s house; and were I condemned132 to live in a place so famous as to attract idle curiosity, flushed and insolent133 with travel, I should go to the verge134 of man-traps and shot-guns to protect myself.
This house, which is now hemmed135 in by larger buildings of later date, had in the painter’s time an incomparably “lovely and delightful136 situation.” Standing137 near the northern boundary of the city, it looked out over the lagoon138,—across the quiet isle139 of sepulchres, San Michele,—across the smoking chimneys of the Murano glass-works, and the bell-towers of her churches,—to the long line of the sea-shore on the right and to the mainland on the left; and beyond the nearer lagoon islands and the faintly penciled outlines of Torcello and Burano in front, to the sublime distance of the Alps, shining in silver and purple, and resting their snowy heads against the clouds. It had a pleasant garden of flowers and trees, into which the painter descended140 by an open stairway, and in which he is said to have studied the famous tree in The Death of Peter Martyr141. Here he entertained the great and noble of his day, and here he feasted and made merry with the gentle sculptor142 Sansovino, and with their common friend, the rascal-poet Aretino. The painter’s and the sculptor’s wives knew each other, and Sansovino’s Paola was often in the house of Cecilia Vecellio; 31 and any one who is wise enough not to visit the place, can easily think of those ladies there, talking at an open window that gives upon the pleasant garden, where their husbands walk up and down together in the purple evening light.
In the palace where Goldoni was born a servant showed me an entirely new room near the roof, in which he said the great dramatist had composed his immortal comedies. As I knew, however, that Goldoni had left the house when a child, I could scarcely believe what the cicerone said, though I was glad he said it, and that he knew any thing at all of Goldoni. It is a fine old Gothic palace on a small canal near the Frari, and on the Calle del Nomboli, just across from a shop of indigestible pastry143. It is known by an inscription144, and by the medallion of the dramatist above the land-door; and there is no harm in looking in at the court on the ground-floor, where you may be pleased with the picturesque old stairway, wandering upward I hardly know how high, and adorned145 with many little heads of lions.
Several palaces dispute the honor of being Bianca Cappello’s birthplace, but Mutinelli awards the distinction to the palace at Sant’ Appollinare near the Ponte Storto. One day a gondolier vaingloriously rowed us to the water-gate of the edifice through a very narrow, damp, and uncleanly canal, pretending that there was a beautiful staircase in its court. At the moment of our arrival, however, Bianca happened to be hanging out clothes from a window, and shrilly146 disclaimed147 the staircase, attributing this merit to another Palazzo Cappello. We were less pleased with her appearance here, than with that portrait of her which we saw on another occasion in the palace of a lady of her name and blood. This lady has since been married, and the name of Cappello is now extinct.
The Palazzo Mocenigo, in which Byron lived, is galvanized into ghastly newness by recent repairs, and as it is one of the ugliest palaces on the Grand Canal, it has less claim than ever upon one’s interest. The custodian148 shows people the rooms where the poet wrote, dined, and slept, and I suppose it was from the hideous149 basket-balcony over the main door that one of his mistresses threw herself into the canal. Another of these interesting relicts is pointed out in the small butter-and-cheese shop which she keeps in the street leading from Campo Sant’ Angelo to San Paterinan: she is a fat sinner, long past beauty, bald, and somewhat melancholy150 to behold. Indeed, Byron’s memory is not a presence which I approach with pleasure, and I had most enjoyment151 in his palace when I thought of good-natured little Thomas Moore, who once visited his lordship there. Byron himself hated the recollection of his life in Venice, and I am sure no one else need like it. But he is become a cosa di Venezia, and you cannot pass his palace without having it pointed out to you by the gondoliers. Early after my arrival in the city I made the acquaintance of an old smooth-shaven, smooth-mannered Venetian, who said he had known Byron, and who told me that he once swam with him from the Port of San Nicolò to his palace-door. The distance is something over three miles, but if the swimmers came in with the sea the feat66 was not so great as it seems, for the tide is as swift and strong as a mill-race. I think it would be impossible to make the distance against the tide.
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ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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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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incurable
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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corrupt
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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inmates
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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38
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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39
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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40
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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41
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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42
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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43
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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44
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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45
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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46
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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47
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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48
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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49
interdict
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| v.限制；禁止；n.正式禁止；禁令 | |
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50
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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51
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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53
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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54
annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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55
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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56
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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57
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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58
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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59
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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61
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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62
commemorates
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| n.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的名词复数 )v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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64
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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65
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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66
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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67
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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68
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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69
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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70
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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71
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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72
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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73
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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74
annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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75
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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76
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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77
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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78
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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79
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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80
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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81
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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82
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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83
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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84
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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85
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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86
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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87
revering
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的现在分词 ) | |
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88
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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89
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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91
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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92
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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93
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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94
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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96
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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97
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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99
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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100
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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101
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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102
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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104
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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105
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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106
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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107
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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108
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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109
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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111
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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112
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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113
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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114
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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115
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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116
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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117
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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118
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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119
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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120
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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121
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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122
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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123
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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124
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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125
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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126
frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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127
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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128
renovation
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| n.革新，整修 | |
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129
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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130
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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131
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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132
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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133
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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134
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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135
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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136
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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137
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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138
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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139
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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140
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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141
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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142
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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143
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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144
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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145
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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146
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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147
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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149
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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150
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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151
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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