The battle of Naseby was, perhaps, the anticipative preventive of an English “French Revolution.” The difference between Cromwell’s Ironsides and the gay Frondeurs measures the difference between the English people and the French.
Charles I. aimed to be in England what Louis XIV. was in France. Both fully1 believed in the divine right of Kings; both quoted as their favorite text of Scripture2, “Where the word of a King is there is power; and who may say unto him ‘What doest thou?’” But Louis dealt with the fickle3 Frondeurs and Charles with Cromwell’s Ironsides; and this racial difference had as divergent results—absolutism for Louis le Grand and the block for Charles Stuart.
There will always be difference of opinion as to Cromwell’s place in history. Was he liberator4 or tyrant5, Christian6 ruler or barbarously fanatic7 despot? There can be but one opinion as to the injustice8 of the trial, condemnation9, and death of Charles. The Rump Parliament was certainly not representative of England. It was Cromwell’s creature as arbitrarily as ever the Star Chamber10 was Charles’.
“Must crimes be punished but by other crimes, and greater criminals?”—Byron.
But as a force in favor of constitutional government and civic11 liberty, however abused in immediate12 practice; and as a threatening protest against the abuse of power in high places; and as a veiled challenge of defiance13 to every absolute monarch14—the battle fought June 14, 1645, at Naseby, Northamptonshire,[115] between the Royalists under Charles I. and the Parliamentarians under Fairfax must ever be considered a victory decisive and for all time advantageous15.
Queen Henrietta Maria.
Henrietta Maria was the daughter of Henry IV. of France, the first Bourbon, and his second wife, Maria de Medici. At the age of fifteen she was married to Charles I. of England; and her best and happiest years as wife, mother, and Queen were spent in England.
In this princess many of the leading Italian, French and English characteristics were met and happily blended. Her dark, lithe16 beauty (as shown in her portrait by Van Dyke17), her musical ability, instrumental and vocal18, her fiery-hearted fidelity19 to the religion of her mother, were, perhaps, her heritage from sunny Italy; the France of Richelieu might, as an environment, conduce favorably to that diplomatic waywardness which, in early years, invariably won for the sweet girl-wife whatsoever20 her heart might desire; but perhaps from England, land of realism, chilly21 fogs, and Cromwellian barbarity, she imbibed22 her sturdy spirit of fortitude23 and heroic endurance of sorrow.
“To bear is to conquer our fate”, and to refuse to bear and to apparently24 end all by self-destruction, is to fail to conquer our fate.
The hopes and promises of religion are of inestimable value as an aid in the endurance of sorrows. When the dread25 culmination26 of all earthly fears and horrors—the beheading of Charles I.—clashed full upon the widowed heart of Queen Henrietta Maria, she withdrew at once from the court of Paris and sought solace27 in seclusion28 and prayer. The convent, not the court; the divine, not the human; the hopes and promises of religion as red-glowed in the sanctuary29 of a Carmelite convent[116] chapel30, held the balm that soothed31 her wounded soul in that awful culminant woe32.
Which is better—to bear or to fail to bear? to hope and endure or despair and die? to pray and bless God saying, The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord, or to wither33 away in cursing and impotent hate? to believe and grow strongly peaceful in the belief that God is good and all is for the best; that all is little and short that passes away with time; that God’s explanation shall exultingly34 explain forever and ever—or to doubt, negative, deny, and bitterly live and despairingly die? Even as a matter of merely human wisdom, it is well to believe in the hopes and promises of religion.
The monastic sanctuaries35 that arise wherever the Catholic Church flourishes, and that lure36 into their prayerful solitudes37 the “hearts that are heavy with losses and weary with dragging the crosses too heavy for mortals to bear” are surely indicative of a far higher and happier state of society than that whose godless defiance finds suicidal expression in the insidious38 drug, the deadly acid, the desperate bullet.
The houses of Euthanasia of the near Socialistic future are surely as stones unto bread in comparison with the monastic sanctuaries of the Middle Ages.
Wonders of Portraits.
How wonderful is the art which can impress upon canvas and so preserve from generation to generation and from century to century, a lifelike presentment of men and women whose flesh and blood realities have long since mouldered39 dust with dust! The canvas endures; the man dies?—Ah, no! he has but shuffled40 off the earth-garment and left it earth with earth; he lives.
The Van Dyke portraits of Queen Henrietta Maria, Charles I. and the children of Charles I. are mutely eloquent41. The well-known[117] picture, “Baby Stuart”, a detail from the group, “Children of Charles I.” suggests the high tide of love and happiness in the life of Queen Henrietta Maria. She was then surrounded by everything that heart could desire,—wealth, honor, power, a husband’s unbounded love and confidence and three beautiful and most promising42 children. They were Mary, who later married William, Prince of Orange; Charles, who, at the Restoration, became the “Merry Monarch” of England, and James, the baby Stuart, who later became the unfortunate James II., the monarch who lost his crown, and whose daughter Mary, wedded44 to her cousin, William, Prince of Orange, son of that sister Mary, who, in the portrait, stands at his side, abetted45 the deposition46 of her father and wore his crown.
There is something eloquently47 pathetic in the portraits of men and women who have fallen victims to a tragic48 fate. The principle of contrast is, doubtless, here at work, setting side by side with the hour of portrayal49 that other hour of bitter death. Marie Antoinette and her children, as fixed50 upon canvas by the court painter, Madame Vigee LeBrun, derive51 their rich tonal qualities—warm grays and reds, their charm of evanescence, their magically somber52 fascination53, from the shadows of the Conciergerie and the guillotine.
The portrait of Charles I. as painted by Van Dyke, must ever suggest to the thoughtful student of history that scene, disgraceful alike to the English nation and to human nature which took place on the scaffold just outside Whitehall Palace.
Yes; there are two sides to every question, and one is a ruler exercising arbitrary power and impregnated with belief in the divine right of kings and claiming it his prerogative54 to break up his parliament and govern alone; the other is an assembly of men, nominally55 a parliament, so narrowly fanatic and steeped in human hate that they demanded as condition under which they would agree to levy56 taxes for Charles I. to use in aid of[118] Protestant Holland, that he should first order every Catholic priest in his own realm to be put to death and the property of all Catholics to be confiscated58. Charles refused. This side of the cause of the rupture59 between Charles I. and his Parliament has not the historic prominence60 of the other side. Why? Not very hard to tell why if one considers attentively61 the writers of the history of that period.
“I hope to meet my end with calmness. Do not let us speak of the men into whose hands I have fallen. They thirst for my blood, they shall have it. God’s will be done, I give Him thanks. I forgive them all sincerely, but let us say no more about them”—these words addressed to Bishop62 Juxon by Charles a few days before his death attest63 the inherent nobility of his nature. Whatever the life of Charles I. may have been, his death was kingly; and if death is the echo of life then, too, his life must have been vocal with virtues64. But what virtue65 can outshine or even illumine the black chaos66 of creed-fanaticism, odium, obloquy67? What power can break up and restore to their original settings the half-truths, untruths, errors and lies glitteringly crystalized in history, drama, story and song? Does time right ancient wrongs, readjust and make-whole torn, century-scattered68 truths? We dream so; we say so; but at deepest heart we whisper No.
With unruffled calmness, with dignity, with kingly grace, Charles I. stepped from the opening of what had been in happier days his banqueting hall and advanced upon the scaffold. In the words of Agnes Strickland:
“It was past 1 o’clock before the grisly attendants and apparatus69 of the scaffold were ready. Colonel Hacker70 led the king through his former banqueting hall, one of the windows of which had originally been contrived71 to support stands for public pageantries; it had been taken out and led to the platform raised in the street. The noble bearing of the King as he[119] stepped on the scaffold, his beaming eyes and high expression, were noticed by all who saw him. He looked on all sides for his people, but dense72 masses of soldiery only presented themselves far and near. He was out of hearing of any persons but Juxon and Herbert, save those who were interested in his destruction. The soldiers preserved a dead silence; this time they did not insult him. The distant populace wept, and occasionally raised mournful cries in blessings73 and prayers for him. The king uttered a short speech, to point out that every institute of the original constitution of England had been subverted74 with the sovereign power. While he was speaking someone touched the axe57, which was laid enveloped76 in black crepe on the block. The king turned round hastily and exclaimed, ‘Have a care of the axe. If the edge is spoiled it will be the worse for me.’
“The king put up his flowing hair under a cap; then, turning to the executor asked, ‘Is any of my hair in the way?’ ‘I beg your majesty77 to push it more under your cap,’ replied the man, bowing. The bishop assisted his royal master to do so and observed to him: ‘There is but one stage more, which, though turbulent and troublesome, is yet a very short one. Consider, it will carry you a great way—even from earth to heaven.’ ‘I go,’ replied the king, ‘from a corruptible78 to an incorruptible crown.’
“He unfastened his cloak and took off the medallion of the order of the Garter. The latter he gave to Juxon, saying with emphasis, ‘Remember!’ Beneath the medallion of St. George was a secret spring which removed a plate ornamented80 with lilies, under which was a beautiful miniature of his Henrietta. The warning word, which has caused many historical surmises81, evidently referred to the fact that he only had parted with the portrait of his beloved wife at the last moment of his existence. He then took off his coat and put on his cloak, and pointing to[120] the block, said to the executioner: ‘Place it so that it will not shake.’ ‘It is firm, sir,’ replied the man. ‘I shall say a short prayer,’ said the king, ‘and when I hold out my hand thus, strike.’ The king stood in profound meditation82, said a few words to himself, looked upward on the heavens, then knelt and laid his head on the block. In about a minute he stretched out his hands, and his head was severed83 at one blow.”
Sorrow.
News travelled slowly in the days of long ago; and the trial, death and burial of Charles I. were over long before intelligence of the dire84 happenings in England had been carried into France. Queen Henrietta Maria, then in the Louvre Palace, Paris, had just received into her motherly arms her second son, James, who had successfully passed through the belligerent85 lines and reached safety in Paris. This joy was soon dulled into woe.
Ominous86 whispers among the Louvre circle and pitying glances caused the queen to make inquiries87. The worst was soon told. The queen had expected imprisonment88, perhaps even deposition and exile, but death, the official beheading of an English sovereign—had not once entered into her mind as among the possibilities. The queen sat silent and tearless among her sympathizing English attendants. Pere Gamache approached. She received him apathetically89. Her aunt, the Duchess de Vendome, took her hand and held it caressingly—but the Queen seemed in a state of frozen woe; no moan, no sigh, no tear. Pere Gamache withdrew unobserved and searching through the royal chambers90 he found the little Princess Henriette, the four-year-old idol91 of the once happy Stuart home. Leading the child gently by the hand, he returned to the scene of grief.
At the touch of baby hands, the impress of childish kisses,[121] the unhappy Queen seemed slowly to come back to life even as it was, and clasping her little daughter in rapturous tenderness to her breast she wept. Long and wildly she wept and the frightened child weeping responsively and clinging helplessly to her bosom92 saved her at last to sanity93 and to heroic endurance.
Tennyson has beautifully expressed this power of childish love and helplessness to save a mother from despair:
Home they brought her warrior94 dead;
She nor swoon’d, nor utter’d cry,
All her maidens96, watching said,
“She must weep or she will die.”
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy97 to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe98;
Yet she neither spoke99 nor moved.
Stole a maiden95 from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept
Took the face-cloth from his face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee—
Like summer tempest came her tears—
“Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
A few days later the Queen withdrew from the French court for a brief period of retirement100 and prayer in the Carmelite Convent.
Milton.
While the drama in high places was playing before the world, a more enduring side scene was enacting101 in a quiet English home. John Milton, in political disgrace, in sorrow of soul, and in total blindness was dictating102 to his daughters the lines of “Paradise Lost.” Cromwell and his Roundheads, the Merry Monarch and his dissolute court, James II. and his sorrows,[122] passed away; the visions seen by the blind old bard103 remain.
As literary immortality104 is the highest prize that fate holds for mortals it is fitting that the cost of attainment105 should be proportionately high. And in this adjustment fate is inexorable. Heart’s blood and tears wrought106 into a book give it enduring qualities: much, much; little, little; some, some; none, none. The dictum of Horace in the olden day, Si vis me flere, etc., is still the exponent107 of an author’s power.
That poem by Mrs. Browning, “A Musical Instrument,” has fixed in rainbow evanescence—a Thoughts’ Niagara Bridal Veil—ten thousand blending, blinding truths and beauties that prose could never hold or catch.
Is the prize worth the price? In itself, No; but in the soul-growth that its mastery implies and in the soul-wealth that it makes one’s own forever and ever, Yes. Then, too, they to whom Fame shines as an ever luring108 star, urging on, on, incessantly109 even through blood and tears, are so formed by their fate that the prize seems to them worth while; its winning seems life’s only good, its loss, life’s supreme110 sorrow. “The attractions are proportional to the destinies.”
So who shall judge his unknown neighbor? Who shall justly say, Thou fool to the man who must needs follow his fate? Who shall justly pity him whose poverty, disgrace, bitterness of heart, and blindness of soul and body—lead to the star-luring heights of literary immortality?
Milton was Latin secretary under Oliver Cromwell and a man of great influence at the court. He shared in the amnesty proclaimed by Charles II. at the Restoration. Milton’s remaining years were spent in retirement and literary labors111.
The return of the Stuarts shattered all his hopes, religious and political. He seemed to see in the Stuart restoration the[123] first gathering112 gloom of a darkness which should overwhelm himself, England, and all the earth. Subjectively113 this was true. Milton never saw beyond that gathering cloud; and when the culminant blackness of his own blindness closed in upon him, then, too, into a common gloom sank Milton, England and all the earth.
“And darkness shows us worlds by night
We never see by day.”
Would Paradise Lost have been born into literature if Milton had not become blind?
Would we of today find congenial that Milton of the old Puritanical114 day? Do we admire the Miltonic God? Milton liked best his Lucifer, and that liking115 elusively116 throbs117 through Paradise Lost and elicits118 response.
Charles II.
There must have been a great measure of compensation to Charles I. in the filial devotion of his household. It is related that Prince Charles, eldest119 son, and heir apparent to the throne, sent to his father, when in prison, a document carte blanche signed with his name. And in a letter enclosed the Prince assured his father that whatever conditions he should see fit to make with Cromwell and his followers120 relative to the succession would be agreeable to him, in token whereof he had signed his name to the document. There was something heroic in that, and something even more magnanimously heroic in the response of Charles I. He at once tore the document to pieces, fearing that the enemy might get possession of it and make use of it against Prince Charles. He wrote tenderly to his son, admitting the pleasure his generous offer had given, but declaring that death would be preferable to any act whereby the rights of his children should be tampered121 with or signed away.
[124]
It is well to note these nobler actions and emotions in the lives of kings: the ambitious selfishness and cruelty of a Macbeth, a King John, a Richard III. are pedestaled for all the world to see; why not the mutual122 magnanimity of the Stuarts? Truly the evil that men do lives after them, the good is oftimes interred123 with their bones.
At the death of Cromwell, after a five years’ stormy reign75 as Lord Protector of England, and after a twelve years’ exile of the family of Charles I., the people of England unanimously welcomed the restoration of the Stuarts. Charles II.—known in France under this title since the death of Charles I.—was crowned King of England.
The times were troubled. Roundhead and Cavalier still stood at misunderstanding enmity one directly opposed to the other and never the twain might meet. The pendulum124 swung with bewildering rapidity from harshly somber Cromwellian Puritanism to the excessive dissipation of the Court of the Merry Monarch: the country followed the pendulum.
Charles II., while humane125 on the whole, and more inclined to ease and pleasure than to troublesome revenge, yet displayed a touch of the savage126 in his treatment of the body of Oliver Cromwell. He ordered that it be disinterred and the head struck off. This was done; and the ghastly head of the man who had ruled England with a rod of iron for five years, was fastened to the gibbet at Tyburn.
Horrible is the hate which pursues its victim beyond death and wreaks127 vengeance128 upon an unresisting mass of putrefaction129! All such excesses, no matter by whom committed or under what provocation130, are atavistic expressions of the jackal and the tiger in the heart of man.
Truly there is no eye that can foresee the future! Cromwell, passing for the thousandth time through the thoroughfare of[125] Tyburn, saw not there his own head fastened to a gibbet. Charles I., at the stately banquet board of Whitehall Palace, saw not the great end window of the hall opening upon the scaffold. And we, secure in the hour, see not that other hour of fatal import that yet shall be; and—’tis well.
Death of Queen Henrietta.
Queen Henrietta Maria was not present at the scenes of acclamation which welcomed the return of her son, Charles II. She was at that time happily absorbed in the forth-coming marriage of her charming daughter, the Princess Henriette Maria, to Philip, Duke of Orleans, brother of Louis XIV.
Some time later Queen Henrietta Maria went to England. She resided there three years, but her heart’s best interests were in sunny France where her idolized daughter, the Duchess of Orleans, moved amid the gay court of Versailles as its chief honor and ornament79. Charles II. and his wife, Catherine, of Braganza, reluctantly bade farewell to the Queen-mother after accompanying her as far as the Nore; but doubtless there was secret joy in the heart of Henrietta Maria as the foggy shores of England receded131 from view and France arose in expectancy132.
Then, too, all seemed calm in England; Charles II. and his wife were high in popular favor. Her second son, James, Duke of York, was happily married and surrounded by a promising family. James’ eldest daughter, the Lady Mary, later Queen Mary II. of England, was a great favorite with the affectionate grandmother, Henrietta Maria. Anne, James’ second daughter, afterward133 Queen Anne of England, was also attached to the kindly134 old Queen-mother.
The old-age years of Henrietta Maria rolled on in comparative happiness. Some lives seem to have their sorrows scattered uniformly over the years, a gentle drizzle135, never dazzling[126] sunlight; other lives are marked by dynamic contrasts—brilliancy, ecstatic light suddenly blackened by tornado136 blasts and torn by lurid137 lightning, and after that, calm again and even the bright light.
Queen Henrietta Maria’s tornado blast and searing lightning flash came full upon her when her husband was beheaded; her later years were calmly happy. In philanthropic labors, in the exercise of all the gentle charities of the Christian heart, in the hopeful fulfilment of religious obligations, the old age years drifted calmly to the great Calm.
It chanced that at that time the use of opium138 as a sedative139, narcotic140, and harmless medicine was in vogue141 at the court. M. Valot, favorite physician of Louis XIV., ordered it for the Queen. In the best of spirits and laughing at the supposed wonderful qualities of the new panacea142, Henrietta Maria took the prescribed drug. An hour later she fell into a peaceful slumber143; the night passed and the day passed, and still she slept. Alarm was felt, her son-in-law, the Duke of Orleans, was soon at her bedside; the little granddaughter, Anne, was brought near in hopes of arousing the dormant144 sensibilities—but in vain. Queen Henrietta had sunk into the calm; it was too good to leave; she stayed, sank deeper, deeper, and with a little sigh of relief she died.
Bossuet’s Sermon.
Jacques Benigne Bossuet, the eloquent pulpit orator145 of the court of Louis XIV., added a classic to French literature in his masterly discourse146 at the obsequies of Henrietta Maria. It was delivered in the convent chapel of the nuns147 of the Visitation of Chaillot, whom the late Queen particularly favored, and for whom she had founded the convent.
The nobility of France were gathered together on this occasion, the “most illustrious assembly of the world” sat spell-bound[127] under the eloquence148 of the “Eagle of Meaux.” Bossuet had proved equal to his opportunity.
Perhaps, though, Bossuet is better known today by that other funeral oration43 delivered some months later at the obsequies of Queen Henrietta Maria’s youngest daughter, Henriette of England, Duchess of Orleans.
When the old die, well—there can be no Shelleyan lamentation149.
“Grief made the young Spring wild,
And she threw down her opening buds
As if she autumn were and they dead leaves.”
—Shelley.
The young spring may, indeed, thus lavishly151 lament150 for the young, but not for the old. When a poet Keats, aged152 twenty-six, lies brokenheartedly and beautifully dead; when a queenly woman, wife and bereaved153 mother, aged twenty-eight, lies pathetically dead—oh, then, all that Shelley may poetically154 declare, all that Bossuet may magically proclaim, seem fitting and just and true. We understand the young Spring tantrums; and the sobbings of the buds as roughly sundered155 from the grief-swept trees, seem strangely familiar, as though ages ago we ourselves had thus wildly wept when the world was young.
Wealth, station, honor, health, happiness, youth, beauty, love—today; and the tomb tomorrow! This contrast has ever most forcefully appealed to the human heart. Bossuet knew full well the force of this appeal and again the orator and the occasion were well met.
“O vanity,” he exclaimed, “O nothingness! O mortals, ignorant of their destiny! Ten months ago would she have believed it? And you, my hearers, would you have thought, while she was shedding so many tears in this place, while I was discharging a like office for the Queen, her mother—that she would so soon assemble you here to deplore156 her own loss? ‘Vanity of[128] vanities; all is vanity.’ Nothing is left for me to say but that that is the only sentiment which, in presence of so strange a casualty, grief so well grounded and so poignant157 permits me to indulge. No; after what we have just seen, health is but a name, life is but a dream, glory is but a shadow, charms and pleasures are but a dangerous diversion.”
Reflections.
“Keep cool, it will be all one in a hundred years.” So we say to others, so we try to persuade ourselves; but the tempestuous158 teapot seems fatally fixed over the live coals of life and the teapot tempest must as fatally follow. So mightily159 important, so imperative160, so irresistibly161 puissant162 where those seeming geyser-forces in their day; perhaps we who laugh at their spent spray would more wisely learn the lessons they may teach us.
But just as a matter of spent spray and evanishing iridescence163, those struggles of the long ago seem magically beautiful; and the men and women who figured prominently in them seem to peer through the mist even as flame-light from which flame has fled, even as pictured pain, reflex sorrows, unrealities—spray-shrouded, color-clouded. Cleopatra, nobly dead, a Queen forever; ugly old Socrates growing humanly dear and beautiful to all the ages as he drinks the poison-hemlock; Marie Antoinette, in the tumbrel, at the guillotine, under the glittering blade; Charles I. upon the scaffold, on the block awaiting the headsman’s blow—these things have been, but now they are not; yet they endure.
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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2
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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liberator
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| 解放者 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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8
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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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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10
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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apparently
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dread
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culmination
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solace
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seclusion
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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chapel
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soothed
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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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33
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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34
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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35
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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36
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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37
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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38
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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39
mouldered
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| v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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40
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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41
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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42
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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43
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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44
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
abetted
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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46
deposition
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| n.免职，罢官；作证；沉淀；沉淀物 | |
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47
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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48
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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49
portrayal
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| n.饰演；描画 | |
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50
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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51
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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52
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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53
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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54
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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55
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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56
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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57
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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58
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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60
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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61
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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62
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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63
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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64
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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65
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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66
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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67
obloquy
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| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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68
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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69
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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70
hacker
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| n.能盗用或偷改电脑中信息的人，电脑黑客 | |
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71
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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72
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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73
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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74
subverted
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| v.颠覆，破坏（政治制度、宗教信仰等）( subvert的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某人）道德败坏或不忠 | |
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75
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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76
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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78
corruptible
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| 易腐败的，可以贿赂的 | |
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79
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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80
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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82
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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83
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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84
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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85
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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86
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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87
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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88
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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89
apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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90
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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91
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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94
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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95
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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96
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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97
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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98
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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99
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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100
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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101
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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102
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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103
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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104
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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105
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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106
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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107
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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108
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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109
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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110
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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111
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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112
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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113
subjectively
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| 主观地； 臆 | |
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114
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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115
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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116
elusively
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| adv.巧妙逃避地，易忘记地 | |
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117
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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118
elicits
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| 引出，探出( elicit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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120
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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121
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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122
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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123
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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125
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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126
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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127
wreaks
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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129
putrefaction
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| n.腐坏，腐败 | |
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130
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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131
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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132
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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133
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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134
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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135
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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136
tornado
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| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
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137
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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138
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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139
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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140
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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141
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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142
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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143
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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144
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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145
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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146
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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147
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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148
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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149
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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150
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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151
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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152
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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153
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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154
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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155
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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157
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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158
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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159
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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160
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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161
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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162
puissant
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| adj.强有力的 | |
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163
iridescence
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| n.彩虹色；放光彩；晕色；晕彩 | |
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