Under all the circumstances of the case, the conduct of the Whig Cabinet, in their final propositions, cannot be described as deficient11 either in boldness or prudence. The policy which they recommended was in itself a sagacious and spirited policy; but they erred12 in supposing that, at the period it was brought forward, any measure promoted by the Whigs could have obtained general favour in the country. The Whigs were known to be feeble; they were looked upon as tricksters. The country knew they were opposed by a powerful party; and though there certainly never was any authority for the belief, the country did believe that that powerful party were influenced by great principles; had in their view a definite and national policy; and would secure to England, instead of a feeble administration and fluctuating opinions, energy and a creed13.
The future effect of the Whig propositions of ‘41 will not be detrimental14 to that party, even if in the interval15 they be appropriated piecemeal16, as will probably be the case, by their Conservative successors. But for the moment, and in the plight17 in which the Whig party found themselves, it was impossible to have devised measures more conducive18 to their precipitate19 fall. Great interests were menaced by a weak government. The consequence was inevitable20. Tadpole21 and Taper22 saw it in a moment. They snuffed the factious23 air, and felt the coming storm. Notwithstanding the extreme congeniality of these worthies24, there was a little latent jealousy25 between them. Tadpole worshipped Registration26: Taper, adored a Cry. Tadpole always maintained that it was the winnowing27 of the electoral lists that could alone gain the day; Taper, on the contrary, faithful to ancient traditions, was ever of opinion that the game must ultimately be won by popular clamour. It always seemed so impossible that the Conservative party could ever be popular; the extreme graciousness and personal popularity of the leaders not being sufficiently28 apparent to be esteemed29 an adequate set-off against the inveterate30 odium that attached to their opinions; that the Tadpole philosophy was the favoured tenet in high places; and Taper had had his knuckles31 well rapped more than once for manoeuvring too actively32 against the New Poor-law, and for hiring several link-boys to bawl33 a much-wronged lady’s name in the Park when the Court prorogued34 Parliament.
And now, after all, in 1841, it seemed that Taper was right. There was a great clamour in every quarter, and the clamour was against the Whigs and in favour of Conservative principles. What Canadian timber-merchants meant by Conservative principles, it is not difficult to conjecture35; or West Indian planters. It was tolerably clear on the hustings36 what squires37 and farmers, and their followers38, meant by Conservative principles. What they mean by Conservative principles now is another question: and whether Conservative principles mean something higher than a perpetuation39 of fiscal40 arrangements, some of them impolitic, none of them important. But no matter what different bodies of men understood by the cry in which they all joined, the Cry existed. Taper beat Tadpole; and the great Conservative party beat the shattered and exhausted41 Whigs.
Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Coningsby could not be altogether insensible to the political crisis. In the political world of course he never mixed, but the friends of his boyhood were deeply interested in affairs, and they lost no opportunity which he would permit them, of cultivating his society. Their occasional fellowship, a visit now and then to Sidonia, and a call sometimes on Flora42, who lived at Richmond, comprised his social relations. His general acquaintance did not desert him, but he was out of sight, and did not wish to be remembered. Mr. Ormsby asked him to dinner, and occasionally mourned over his fate in the bow window of White’s; while Lord Eskdale even went to see him in the Temple, was interested in his progress, and said, with an encouraging look, that, when he was called to the bar, all his friends must join and get up the steam. Coningsby had once met Mr. Rigby, who was walking with the Duke of Agincourt, which was probably the reason he could not notice a lawyer. Mr. Rigby cut Coningsby.
Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebecque accurate details as to the cause of Coningsby being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallen fortunes may still be described as a hero, had mentioned to Lord Eskdale his sorrow that his grandfather had died in anger with him; but Lord Eskdale, without dwelling43 on the subject, had assured him that he had reason to believe that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would have been different. He had altered the disposition44 of his property at a moment of great and general irritation45 and excitement; and had been too indolent, perhaps really too indisposed, which he was unwilling46 ever to acknowledge, to recur47 to a calmer and more equitable48 settlement. Lord Eskdale had been more frank with Sidonia, and had told him all about the refusal to become a candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; the communication of Rigby to Lord Monmouth, as to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the castle, and the love of Coningsby for his sister; all these details, furnished by Villebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been truly transferred by that nobleman to his co-executor; and Sidonia, when he had sufficiently digested them, had made Lady Wallinger acquainted with the whole history.
The dissolution of the Whig Parliament by the Whigs, the project of which had reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and yet in which nobody believed to the last moment, at length took place. All the world was dispersed49 in the heart of the season, and our solitary50 student of the Temple, in his lonely chambers51, notwithstanding all his efforts, found his eye rather wander over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered that the great event to which he had so looked forward was now occurring, and he, after all, was no actor in the mighty52 drama. It was to have been the epoch53 of his life; when he was to have found himself in that proud position for which all the studies, and meditations54, and higher impulses of his nature had been preparing him. It was a keen trial of a man. Every one of his friends and old companions were candidates, and with sanguine55 prospects57. Lord Henry was certain for a division of his county; Buckhurst harangued58 a large agricultural borough59 in his vicinity; Eustace Lyle and Vere stood in coalition60 for a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank solicited61 the suffrages62 of an important manufacturing constituency. They sent their addresses to Coningsby. He was deeply interested as he traced in them the influence of his own mind; often recognised the very expressions to which he had habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, no unimpassioned critic had time to canvass63 the language of an address to an isolated64 constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on the movements of political parties might have detected in these public declarations some intimation of new views, and of a tone of political feeling that has unfortunately been too long absent from the public life of this country.
It was the end of a sultry July day, the last ray of the sun shooting down Pall65 Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd round the doors of the Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now and then an express arrived with the agitating66 bulletin of a fresh defeat or a new triumph. Coningsby was walking up Pall Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford67 and Cambridge Club, the only club on whose list he had retained his name, that he might occasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or Cambridge friend without the annoyance68 of encountering any of his former fashionable acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, both of whom he knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. Tadpole, more good-natured, bestowed69 on him a rough nod, not unmarked by a slight expression of coarse pity.
Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening papers, where he learnt the return of Vere and Lyle; and read a speech of Buckhurst denouncing the Venetian Constitution, to the amazement70 of several thousand persons, apparently71 not a little terrified by this unknown danger, now first introduced to their notice. Being true Englishmen, they were all against Buckhurst’s opponent, who was of the Venetian party, and who ended by calling out Buckhurst for his personalities72.
Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a waiter brought up a third edition of the Sun, with electioneering bulletins from the manufacturing districts to the very latest hour. Some large letters which expressed the name of Darlford caught his eye. There seemed great excitement in that borough; strange proceedings73 had happened. The column was headed, ‘Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal74 of the Liberal Candidate! Two Tory Candidates in the field!!!’
His eye glanced over an animated75 speech of Mr. Millbank, his countenance76 changed, his heart palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned the representation of the town, but not from weakness; his avocations77 demanded his presence; he had been requested to let his son supply his place, but his son was otherwise provided for; he should always take a deep interest in the town and trade of Darlford; he hoped that the link between the borough and Hellingsley would be ever cherished; loud cheering; he wished in parting from them to take a step which should conciliate all parties, put an end to local heats and factious contentions78, and secure the town an able and worthy79 representative. For these reasons he begged to propose to them a gentleman who bore a name which many of them greatly honoured; for himself, he knew the individual, and it was his firm opinion that whether they considered his talents, his character, or the ancient connection of his family with the district, he could not propose a candidate more worthy of their confidence than HARRY80 CONINGSBY, ESQ.
This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which occasionally bursts out in the most civilised communities. The contest between Millbank and Rigby was equally balanced, neither party was over-confident. The Conservatives were not particularly zealous81 in behalf of their champion; there was no Marquess of Monmouth and no Coningsby Castle now to back him; he was fighting on his own resources, and he was a beaten horse. The Liberals did not like the prospect56 of a defeat, and dreaded82 the mortification83 of Rigby’s triumph. The Moderate men, who thought more of local than political circumstances, liked the name of Coningsby. Mr. Millbank had dexterously84 prepared his leading supporters for the substitution. Some traits of the character and conduct of Coningsby had been cleverly circulated. Thus there was a combination of many favourable85 causes in his favour. In half an hour’s time his image was stamped on the brain of every inhabitant of the borough as an interesting and accomplished86 youth, who had been wronged, and who deserved to be rewarded. It was whispered that Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath87 and his mob offered Mr. Millbank’s committee to throw Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burn down his hotel, in case he was prudent88 enough not to show. Mr. Rigby determined89 to fight to the last. All his hopes were now staked on the successful result of this contest. It were impossible if he were returned that his friends could refuse him high office. The whole of Lord Monmouth’s reduced legacy90 was devoted91 to this end. The third edition of the Sun left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting to address an infuriated populace.
Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! When his grandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was not verging92 on greater vicissitudes93. He rose from his seat, and was surprised that all the silent gentlemen who were about him did not mark his agitation94. Not an individual there that he knew. It was now an hour to midnight, and to-morrow the almost unconscious candidate was to go to the poll. In a tumult95 of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to his chambers. He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had been twice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, and had reached Darlford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He set off instantly to London, and left at his friend’s chambers a rapid narrative96 of what had happened, with information that he should call on him again on the morrow at nine o’clock, when they were to repair together immediately to Darlford in time for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one entertained a doubt of his triumph.
Coningsby did not sleep a wink97 that night, and yet when he rose early felt fresh enough for any exploit, however difficult or hazardous98. He felt as an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after its elevation99 had been despaired of. At the very lowest ebb100 of his fortunes, an event had occurred which seemed to restore all. He dared not contemplate101 the ultimate result of all these wonderful changes. Enough for him, that when all seemed dark, he was about to be returned to Parliament by the father of Edith, and his vanquished102 rival who was to bite the dust before him was the author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance103, Justice, the glorious pride of having acted rightly, the triumphant104 sense of complete and absolute success, here were chaotic105 materials from which order was at length evolved; and all subsided107 in an overwhelming feeling of gratitude108 to that Providence109 that had so signally protected him.
There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They embraced. It seemed that Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, his manner was energetic.
‘We must talk it all over during our journey. We have not a minute to spare.’
During that journey Coningsby learned something of the course of affairs which gradually had brought about so singular a revolution in his favour. We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thorough knowledge of the circumstances which had occasioned and attended the disinheritance of Coningsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, first by letter, afterwards in more detail on her arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had conferred with her husband. She was not surprised at the goodness of Coningsby, and she sympathised with all his calamities110. He had ever been the favourite of her judgment111, and her romance had always consisted in blending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was a judicious112 man, who never cared to commit himself; a little selfish, but good, just, and honourable113, with some impulses, only a little afraid of them; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, and gave them the right direction. They were both absolutely impressed with Coningsby’s admirable conduct, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should express to others the convictions which he acknowledged in unison114 with herself. Sir Joseph spoke115 to Mr. Millbank, who stared; but Sir Joseph spoke feebly. Lady Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence, and all her impressions, to Oswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked with his father, who, making no admissions, listened with interest, inveighed116 against Lord Monmouth, and condemned117 his will.
After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries118 about Coningsby, took an interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he was called to the bar, his friends would have an opportunity to evince their sincerity119. Affairs remained in this state, until Oswald thought that circumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his father on the subject. The position which Oswald had assumed at Millbank had necessarily made him acquainted with the affairs and fortune of his father. When he computed120 the vast wealth which he knew was at his parent’s command, and recalled Coningsby in his humble121 chambers, toiling122 after all his noble efforts without any results, and his sister pining in a provincial123 solitude124, Oswald began to curse wealth, and to ask himself what was the use of all their marvellous industry and supernatural skill? He addressed his father with that irresistible125 frankness which a strong faith can alone inspire. What are the objects of wealth, if not to bless those who possess our hearts? The only daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebted for his life, here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, and both are unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without prejudice, for he was already convinced. But he felt some interest in the present conduct of Coningsby. A Coningsby working for his bread was a novel incident for him. He wished to be assured of its authenticity126. He was resolved to convince himself of the fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet for a little time, and watched the progress of the experiment, already interested and delighted by what had reached him, had not the dissolution brought affairs to a crisis. The misery127 of Oswald at the position of Coningsby, the silent sadness of Edith, his own conviction, which assured him that he could do nothing wiser or better than take this young man to his heart, so ordained128 it that Mr. Millbank, who was after all the creature of impulse, decided129 suddenly, and decided rightly. Never making a single admission to all the representations of his son, Mr. Millbank in a moment did all that his son could have dared to desire.
This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had occurred at Millbank and Hellingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch130 of the enchanting131 intelligence that Oswald conveyed to Coningsby during their rapid travel. When they arrived at Birmingham, they found a messenger and a despatch132, informing Coningsby, that at mid-day, at Darlford, he was at the head of the poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. Rigby had resigned. He was, however, requested to remain at Birmingham, as they did not wish him to enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so he was to arrive there in the morning. At Birmingham, therefore, they remained.
There was Oswald’s election to talk of as well as Coningsby’s. They had hardly had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. Men must have been at school together, to enjoy the real fun of meeting thus, and realising boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had talked of these things, and assumed these results; but those were words and dreams, these were positive facts; after some doubts and struggles, in the freshness of their youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby were members of the British Parliament; public characters, responsible agents, with a career.
This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy an afternoon as usually falls to the lot of man. Both of these companions were labouring under that degree of excitement which is necessary to felicity. They had enough to talk about. Edith was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful subject. There was rapture133 in their again meeting under such circumstances. Then there were their friends; that dear Buckhurst, who had just been called out for styling his opponent a Venetian, and all their companions of early days. What a sudden and marvellous change in all their destinies! Life was a pantomime; the wand was waved, and it seemed that the schoolfellows had of a sudden become elements of power, springs of the great machine.
A train arrived; restless they sallied forth134, to seek diversion in the dispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, a little inquisitive135, even impertinent, if we must confess it, with which one greets a stranger when he emerges from a public conveyance136, were lounging on the platform. The train arrived; stopped; the doors were thrown open, and from one of them emerged Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who had dined, was greatly tempted137 to take off his hat and make him a bow, but he refrained. Their eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evidently used up; a man without a resource; the sight of Coningsby his last blow; he had met his fate.
‘My dear fellow,’ said Coningsby, ‘I remember I wanted you to dine with my grandfather at Montem, and that fellow would not ask you. Such is life!’
About eleven o’clock the next morning they arrived at the Darlford station. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, who received Coningsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered138 him into a car covered with satin and blue ribbons, and drawn139 by six beautiful grey horses, caparisoned in his colours, and riden by postilions, whose very whips were blue and white. Triumphant music sounded; banners waved; the multitude were marshalled; the Freemasons, at the first opportunity, fell into the procession; the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. Preceded and followed by thousands, with colours flying, trumpets140 sounding, and endless huzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every window, and every balcony filled with dames141 and maidens142 bedecked with his colours, Coningsby was borne through enthusiastic Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from Macedon. Uncovered, still in deep mourning, his fine figure, and graceful143 bearing, and his intelligent brow, at once won every female heart.
The singularity was, that all were of the same opinion: everybody cheered him, every house was adorned144 with his colours. His triumphal return was no party question. Magog Wrath and Bully145 Bluck walked together like lambs at the head of his procession.
The car stopped before the principal hotel in the High Street. It was Mr. Millbank’s committee. The broad street was so crowded, that, as every one declared, you might have walked on the heads of the people. Every window was full; the very roofs were peopled. The car stopped, and the populace gave three cheers for Mr. Millbank. Their late member, surrounded by his friends, stood in the balcony, which was fitted up with Coningsby’s colours, and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic letters formed of dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of Coningsby caught the form of Edith, who was leaning on her father’s arm.
The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here, after a while, Coningsby was carried, and, stepping from his car, took up his post to address, for the first time, a public assembly. Anxious as the people were to hear him, it was long before their enthusiasm could subside106 into silence. At length that silence was deep and absolute. He spoke; his powerful and rich tones reached every ear. In five minutes’ time every one looked at his neighbour, and without speaking they agreed that there never was anything like this heard in Darlford before.
He addressed them for a considerable time, for he had a great deal to say; not only to express his gratitude for the unprecedented146 manner in which he had become their representative, and for the spirit in which they had greeted him, but he had to offer them no niggard exposition of the views and opinions of the member whom they had so confidingly147 chosen, without even a formal declaration of his sentiments.
He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed148 and popular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wavered. His lively illustrations kept them often in continued merriment. But when, towards his close, he drew some picture of what he hoped might be the character of his future and lasting149 connection with the town, the vast throng150 was singularly affected151. There were a great many present at that moment who, though they had never seen Coningsby before, would willingly have then died for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, for he had spoken from his own. His spirit had entirely152 magnetised them. Darlford believed in Coningsby: and a very good creed.
And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He walked through the crowd. The progress was slow, as every one wished to shake hands with him. His friends, however, at last safely landed him. He sprang up the stairs; he was met by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatest warmth, and offered his hearty153 congratulations.
‘It is to you, dear sir, that I am indebted for all this,’ said Coningsby.
‘No,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘it is to your own high principles, great talents, and good heart.’
After he had been presented by the late member to the principal personages in the borough, Mr. Millbank said,
‘I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come with me,’ he added, ‘here is some one who will be very glad to see you.’
Speaking thus, he led our hero a little away, and placing his arm in Coningsby’s with great affection opened the door of an apartment. There was Edith, radiant with loveliness and beaming with love. Their agitated154 hearts told at a glance the tumult of their joy. The father joined their hands, and blessed them with words of tenderness.
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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doomed
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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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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piecemeal
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plight
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conducive
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precipitate
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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tadpole
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| n.[动]蝌蚪 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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factious
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| adj.好搞宗派活动的，派系的，好争论的 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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jealousy
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registration
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winnowing
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sufficiently
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esteemed
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inveterate
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knuckles
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actively
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bawl
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prorogued
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conjecture
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hustings
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squires
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followers
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perpetuation
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fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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exhausted
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42
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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43
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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44
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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45
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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46
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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47
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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48
equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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49
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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50
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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51
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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52
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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54
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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55
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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56
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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57
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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58
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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60
coalition
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| n.结合体，同盟，结合，联合 | |
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61
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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62
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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63
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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64
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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65
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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66
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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67
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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68
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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69
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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71
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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72
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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73
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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74
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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75
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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76
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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77
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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78
contentions
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| n.竞争( contention的名词复数 )；争夺；争论；论点 | |
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79
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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80
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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81
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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82
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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83
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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84
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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85
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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86
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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87
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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88
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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91
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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92
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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93
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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94
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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95
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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96
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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97
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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98
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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99
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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100
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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101
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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102
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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103
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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104
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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105
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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106
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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107
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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108
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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109
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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110
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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111
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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112
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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113
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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114
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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115
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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116
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
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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118
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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119
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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120
computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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122
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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123
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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124
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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125
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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126
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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127
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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128
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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129
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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130
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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131
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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132
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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133
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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134
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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135
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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136
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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137
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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138
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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140
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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141
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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142
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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143
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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144
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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145
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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146
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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147
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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148
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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149
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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150
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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151
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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152
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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153
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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154
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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