In his delightful23 exordium to Elizabeth as to his reasons for proposing to her, he says—
“‘My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly24, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness; and, thirdly, which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended25 to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh’s footstool—that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for my sake, and for your own; let her be an active useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way.’”
And when, after his marriage with her friend, Elizabeth goes to stay with them, and is invited to dine with them at the Rosings, Lady Catherine’s place, he thus encourages her—
“‘Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance26 of dress in us which becomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest, there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.’”
In the case of Mr. Collins, the patron happened to be a lady, but the instances were numberless in which [37] clergymen spent all their time toadying27 and drinking with a fox-hunting squire28.
Arthur Young says of the French clergy—
“One did not find among them poachers or fox-hunters, who, having spent the morning scampering29 after hounds, dedicate the evening to the bottle, and reel from inebriety30 to the pulpit,” from which we may infer that many English clergymen did.
Cowper’s satire31 on the way in which preferment is secured is worth quoting in full—
“Church-ladders are not always mounted best
By learned clerks and Latinists professed32.
The exalted33 prize demands an upward look,
Not to be found by poring on a book.
Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek,
Is more than adequate to all I seek.
Let erudition grace him or not grace,
I give the bauble34 but the second place;
His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend
Subsist35 and centre in one point—a friend.
A friend whate’er he studies or neglects,
Shall give him consequence, heal all defects.
His intercourse36 with peers and sons of peers—
There dawns the splendour of his future years;
In that bright quarter his propitious37 skies
Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise.
‘Your lordship’ and ‘Your Grace,’ what school can teach
A rhetoric38 equal to those parts of speech?
What need of Homer’s verse or Tully’s prose,
Sweet interjections! if he learn but those?
Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke40,
Who starve upon a dog-eared pentateuch,
The parson knows enough who knows a duke.”
At the end of the eighteenth century the Church was at its deadest, enthusiasm there was none. Torpid41 is the only word that fitly describes the spiritual condition of the majority of the clergy. Secker says, “An open and professed disregard of religion is become, through a variety of unhappy causes, the distinguishing character [38] of the present age”; and the clergy, as the salt of the earth, had certainly lost their savour, and did little or nothing to resist an apathy42 which, too commonly, extended to themselves.
The duties of clergymen were therefore almost as light as they chose to make them. One service on Sunday, and the Holy Communion three times yearly, at Christmas, Easter, and Whitsuntide, was considered enough.
“A sacrament might easily be interposed in the long interval43 between Christmas and Whitsuntide, and the usual season for it, the Feast of St. Michael, is a very proper time, and if afterwards you can advance from a quarterly communion to a monthly one, I make no doubt you will.” (Secker.)
Baptisms, marriages, and funerals were looked on as nuisances; the clergyman ran them together as much as possible, and often arrived at the last minute, flinging himself off his smoking horse to gabble through the service with the greatest possible speed; children were frequently buried without any service at all.
The churches were for the most part damp and mouldy; there were, of course, none of the present conveniences for heating and lighting44. Heavy galleries cut off the little light that struggled through the cobwebby windows. There were mouse-eaten hassocks, curtains on rods thick with dust, a general smell of mouldiness and disuse, and a cold, but ill-ventilated, atmosphere.
In some old country churches there still survive the family pews, which were like small rooms, and in which the occupants could read or sleep without being seen by anyone; in one or two cases there are fire-grates in these; and in one strange example at Langley, in Bucks45, the pew is not only roofed in, but it has a lattice in front, with painted panels which can be [39] opened and shut at the occupants’ pleasure, and there is a room in connection with it in which is a library of books, so that it would be quite possible for anyone to retire for a little interlude without the rest of the congregation’s being aware of it!
The church, only opened as a rule once a week, was left for the rest of the time to the bats and birds. Compare this with one of the neat, warm, clean churches to be found almost everywhere at present; churches with polished wood pews, shining brass46 fittings, tessellated floor in place of uneven47 bricks, a communion table covered by a cloth worked by the vicar’s wife, and bearing white flowers placed by loving hands. A pulpit of carved oak, alabaster48, or marble, instead of a dilapidated old three-decker in which the parish clerk sat below and gave out the tunes49 in a droning voice.
Organs were of course very uncommon50 at the end of the eighteenth century in country parishes, and though there might be at times a little local music, as an accompaniment, the hymns51 were generally drawled out without music at all. This is Horace Walpole’s idea of church in 1791: “I have always gone now and then, though of late years rarely, as it was most unpleasant to crawl through a churchyard full of staring footmen and apprentices52, clamber a ladder to a hard pew, to hear the dullest of all things, a sermon, and croaking53 and squalling of psalms54 to a hand organ by journey-men brewers and charity children.”
The sermons were peculiarly dry and dull, and it would have taken a clever man to suck any spiritual nourishment55 therefrom. They were generally on points of doctrine56, read without modulation57; and if, as was frequently the case, the clergyman had not the energy to prepare his own, a sermon from any dreary58 collection sufficed. The black gown was used in the pulpit.
[40]
Cowper gives a picture of how the service was often taken—
“I venerate59 the man whose heart is warm;
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life
Coincident, exhibit lucid60 proof
That he is honest in the sacred cause.
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold61 the picture! Is it like? Like whom?
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,
And then skip down again; pronounce a text,
Cry, ahem! and reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle62 up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper, close the scene.”
In this dismal63 account the average only is taken, and there were many exceptions; we have no reason to suppose, for instance, that the Rev39. George Austen marred64 his services by slovenliness65 or indifference66, though no doubt the most earnest man would find it hard to struggle against the disadvantages of his time, and the damp mouldy church must have been a sore drawback to church-going.
Twining’s Country Clergyman gives us a picture of an amiable67 sort of man of a much pleasanter type than those of Cowper or Crabbe.
We gain an idea of a man of a genial68, pleasant disposition69, cultured enough, and fond of the classics; who kept his house and garden well ordered, who enjoyed a tour throughout England in company with his wife, who thoroughly70 appreciated the lines in which his lot was cast, but who looked upon the living as made for him, and not he for the parishioners. A writer in the Cornhill some years ago gives a series of pleasant little pen-pictures of typical clergymen of this date. “Who cannot see it all—the curate-in-charge himself sauntering up and down the grass on a fine summer morning, his hands in the pockets of his black or drab [41] ‘small clothes,’ his feet encased in broad-toed shoes, his white neckcloth voluminous and starchless, his low-crowned hat a little on one side of his powdered head, his eye wandering about from tree to flower, and from bird to bush, as he chews the cud of some puzzling construction in Pindar, or casts and recasts some favourite passage in his translation of Aristotle.”
There was the fox-hunter who in the time not devoted71 to sport was always “welcome to the cottager’s wife at that hour in the afternoon when she had made herself tidy, swept up the hearth72, and was sitting down before the fire with the stockings of the family before her. He would chat with her about the news of the village, give her a friendly hint about her husband’s absence from church, and perhaps, before going, would be taken out to look at the pig.”
Or “the pleasant genial old gentleman in knee-breeches and sometimes top-boots, who fed his poultry73, and went into the stable to scratch the ears of his favourite cob, and round by the pig-stye to the kitchen garden, where he took a turn for an hour or two with his spade or his pruning74 knife, or sauntered with his hands in his pockets in the direction of the cucumbers ... coming in to an early dinner.”
Mr. Austen seems to have been a mixture of the first and third of these types, for he was certainly a good scholar, and yet some of his chief interests in life were connected with his pigs and his sheep.
But though these are charming sketches75, and their counterparts were doubtless to be found, we fear they are too much idealised to be a true representation of the generality of the clergy of that time; and, charming as they are, there is an easy freedom from the responsibility of office which is strange to modern ideas.
Livings, many of which are bad enough now, were [42] then even worse paid; ￡25 a year was the ordinary stipend76 for a curate who did most of the work. Massey (History of England in the Reign77 of George II.) estimates that there were then five thousand livings under ￡80 a year in England; consequently pluralism was oftentimes almost a necessity. Gilbert White, the naturalist78, was a shining light among clergymen; he was vicar of Selborne, in Hampshire, until his death in 1793; but while he was curate of Durley, near Bishop’s Waltham, the actual expenses of the duty exceeded the receipts by nearly twenty pounds in the one year he was there. To reside at all was a great thing for a clergyman to do, and we may be sure, from what we gather, that the Rev. George Austen had this virtue79, for he resided all the time at Steventon.
But though the clergy frequently left all the work to their curates, they always took care to receive the tithes80 themselves. In the picture engraved81 by T. Burke after Singleton, in the period under discussion, we see the fat and somewhat cross-looking vicar receiving these tithes in kind from the little boy, who brings his basket containing a couple of ducks and a sucking pig into the vicarage study.
THE VICAR RECEIVING HIS TITHES
Hannah More gives us an account of the usual state of things in regard to non-residence—
“The vicarage of Cheddar is in the gift of the Dean of Wells; the value nearly fifty pounds per annum. The incumbent is a Mr. R., who has something to do, but I cannot find out what, in the University of Oxford, where he resides. The curate lives at Wells, twelve miles distant. They have only service once a week, and there is scarcely an instance of a poor person being visited or prayed with. The living of Axbridge ... annual value is about fifty pounds. The incumbent about sixty years of age. Mr. G. is intoxicated82 about [43] six times a week, and very frequently is prevented from preaching by two black eyes, honestly earned by fighting.”
“We have in this neighbourhood thirteen adjoining parishes without so much as even a resident curate.”
“No clergyman had resided in the parish for forty years. One rode over three miles from Wells to preach once on a Sunday, but no weekly duty was done or sick persons visited; and children were often buried without any funeral service. Eight people in the morning, and twenty in the afternoon, was a good congregation.”
She evidently means that the service was sometimes held in the morning, and sometimes in the afternoon, as she says there were not two services.
She also speaks of it as an exceptionally disinterested83 action of Dr. Kennicott that he had resigned a valuable living because his learned work would not allow him to reside in the parish.
By far the best account of what was expected from a contemporary clergyman is to be gathered from Jane Austen’s own books. It is one of her strong points that she wrote only of what she knew, and as her own father and two of her brothers were clergymen, we cannot suppose that she was otherwise than favourably84 inclined to the class. Her sketch19 of Mr. Collins is no doubt something of a caricature, but it serves to illustrate85 very forcibly one great error in the system then in vogue—that of local patronage.
The other clergymen in her books are numerous: we have Mr. Elton in Emma, Edmund Bertram and Dr. Grant in Mansfield Park, Henry Tilney in Northanger Abbey, and Edward Ferrars in Sense and Sensibility.
It is impossible to deny that Edmund Bertram is a prig, or perhaps, to put it more mildly, is inclined to be [44] sententious, so sometimes one almost sympathises with the gay Miss Crawford, whose ideas so shocked him and Fanny; yet though those ideas only reflected the current opinion of the times, they were reprehensible86 enough. When Miss Crawford discovers, to her chagrin87, that Edmund, whom she is inclined to like more than a little, is going to be a clergyman, she asks—
“‘But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought that was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to choose before him!’
“‘Do you think the Church itself never chosen, then?’
“‘Never is a black word. But yes, in the never of conversation which means not very often, I do think it. For what is to be done in the Church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the Church. A clergyman is nothing.’”
And in reply to Edmund’s defence, she continues—
“‘You assign greater consequence to a clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend. One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how can it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week, even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense to prefer Blair’s to his own, do all that you speak of, govern the conduct and fashion and manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit!’
“‘You are speaking of London, I am speaking of the nation at large.’”
But it is noteworthy that even Edmund, who is upheld as a bright example, does not in his defence assert anything relative to the careful looking after the [45] lives of his flock which nowadays is a chief part of a parish clergyman’s duty. He speaks of conduct, and declares that “as the clergy are or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation,” but all the retort he wins from the girl he so much admires is that she is just as much surprised at his choice as ever, and that he really is fit for something better!
In another place, where the same discussion is reopened, she says: “‘It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed—indolence and love of ease—a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination88 to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but to be slovenly89 and selfish, read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.’”
This type is exemplified in the same book by Dr. Grant, who is not drawn90 vindictively91, but is described by his own sister-in-law, Miss Crawford, as “‘an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of anyone; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.’”
And when Edmund is about to enter on the living, Henry Crawford gaily92 observes, “‘I apprehend93 he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as, of course, he will still live at home, it will be all for his menus plaisirs; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.’”
[46]
After all this, it is pleasant to know that some upright and serious men, even in those days, thought differently of the life and duties of a clergyman, for Jane makes Sir Thomas Bertram reply—
“‘A parish has wants and claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no proxy94 can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and preach without giving up Mansfield Park; he might ride over every Sunday to a house nominally95 inhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not. He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove himself by constant attention to be their well-wisher and friend, he does very little either for their good or his own.’”
It is also striking to see how very much the taking of Orders depended upon some living to be obtained; there seems to have been no special idea of suitability, and still less of preparation, only the merest and most perfunctory examination was demanded of the candidate for Orders. There is a story of this date of one examination for ordination96 where only two questions were asked, one of which was, “What is the Hebrew for a skull97?”
In an entertaining book on Jane Austen by Miss Constance Hill, published in 1902, there is a quotation98 from a letter anent the ordination examination of Mr. Lefroy, who married Anna, Jane’s niece. “The Bishop only asked him two questions, first if he was the son of Mrs. Lefroy of Ashe, and secondly if he had married a Miss Austen.”
[47]
It is said also that Brownlow North, Bishop of Winchester, examined his candidates for ordination in a cricket-field during a match. One candidate is described by Boswell as having read no books of divinity, not even the Greek Testament99. There were, of course, serious and learned bishops100 enough; Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, who lived from 1643 to 1715, was horrified101 at the ignorance of candidates, who apparently102 had never read the Old Testament and hardly knew what was in the New. “They cry, and think it a sad disgrace to be denied Orders, though the ignorance of some is such that in a well-regulated state of things they would appear not to know enough to be admitted to the Holy Sacrament.”
It is probable that the Bishops judged a great deal more, on the whole, by the appearance and manners of the man before them, and the prospects103 he had of holding a living, than by his own knowledge, and in the case of a well-born, serious-minded man like Edmund Bertram there would be no difficulty whatever about his lack of divinity.
Of Henry Tilney’s duties in Northanger Abbey, very little can be said or gathered, he never appears like a clergyman at all. We are told that the parsonage was a “new built, substantial stone house.” We know that he had to go there, much to Catherine Morland’s distress104, when she was a guest at his father’s house, Northanger Abbey, because the engagements of his curate at Woodston obliged him to leave on Saturday for a couple of nights. But at all events he does seem to have spent most of his time at the parsonage, though he still kept on his room at home.
Of Edward Ferrars’ clerical avocations105 we also hear so very little that he might almost as well have been of any other profession.
[48]
The only other clergyman in the novels is Mr. Elton, a specimen106 not quite so egregious107 as Mr. Collins, but sufficiently108 so to be very amusing. On him the waves of Emma’s match-making break with force—
“‘Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa! I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him, and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably that it would be a shame to have him single any longer; and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him!’”
Emma thinks he will do admirably for her somewhat ambiguously placed friend Harriet Smith, while Mr. Elton himself fixes his eyes on the heiress Emma. A nice little illustration of the social status of the cleric, who would not have been thought entirely109 out of the question for the heiress, though doubtless a little beneath her. Mr. Elton is represented as a handsome, ingratiating, debonair110 young man, who spends his time playing the gallant111, reading aloud, making charades112 with the young ladies, and preaching sermons that please everybody. However, he meets his match in the dashing and vulgar Mrs. Elton, whom he picks up, soon after his rejection113 by Emma, at a watering place, and thereafter they spend their time in a blissful state of mutual114 admiration115.
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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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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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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8
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obviating
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的现在分词 ) | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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enjoins
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| v.命令( enjoin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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incumbents
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| 教区牧师( incumbent的名词复数 )； 教会中的任职者 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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manor
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketched
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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delightful
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secondly
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condescended
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elegance
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toadying
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| v.拍马，谄媚( toady的现在分词 ) | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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inebriety
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satire
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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exalted
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bauble
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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intercourse
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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rhetoric
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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45
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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46
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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47
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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48
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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49
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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50
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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51
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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52
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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53
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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54
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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55
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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56
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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57
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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58
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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62
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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63
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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64
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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65
slovenliness
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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73
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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74
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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75
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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80
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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82
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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83
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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84
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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85
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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90
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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93
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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95
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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96
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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97
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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98
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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99
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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100
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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101
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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102
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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103
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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104
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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105
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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106
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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107
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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108
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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109
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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110
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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111
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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112
charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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113
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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114
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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115
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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