“Who prized good living more than ladies’ love;”
and he even hints that Penelope’s knowledge of their real sentiments helped to account for her obduracy10. But Horace, we must remember, was a satirist11 by trade. A mere12 prosaic13 reader might be tempted14 to raise the question whether the personal charms of Penelope, irresistible15 as they might have been when Ulysses first left her for the war, must not have been somewhat impaired16 during the twenty years of his absence; and whether it was possible for a widow of that date (especially with a grown-up son continually present as a memento) to inspire such very ardent17 admiration18. These arithmetical critics have always been the pests of poetry. One very painstaking19 antiquarian—Jacob Bryant—in the course of his studies on the Iliad, made the discovery, by a comparison of mythological20 dates, that Helen herself must have been nearly a hundred years old at the taking of Troy. But the{v.ii-11} question of age has been unanimously voted impertinent by all her modern admirers: she still shines in our fancy with
which the Laureate saw in his ‘Dream of Fair Women.’ The heroic legends take no count of years. Woman is there beautiful by divine right of sex, unless in those few special instances in which, for the purposes of the story, particular persons are necessarily represented as old and decrepit23. Nor is there any ground for supposing that the suitors of Penelope, like the courtiers of Queen Elizabeth, persisted in attributing to her fictitious24 charms. She is evidently not less beautiful in the poet’s eyes than in theirs. As beauty has been happily said to be, after all, “the lover’s gift,” so also the bestowal25 of it upon whom he will must be allowed to be the privilege of the poet. The island-queen herself says, indeed, that her beauty had fled when Ulysses left her, and could only be restored by his return; but this disclaimer from the lips of a loving and mourning wife only makes her more charming, and she is not the only woman, ancient or modern, who has borrowed an additional fascination26 from her tears.
The suitors of Penelope, strange to say, are living at free quarters in the palace of the absent Ulysses. Telemachus is too young, apparently27, to assert his rights as master of the house on his own or his mother’s behalf. If the picture be true to the life—and there is no good reason to suppose it otherwise—we{v.ii-12} must assume an age of rude licence even in the midst of considerable civilisation28, when, unless a king or chief could hold his own by the strong hand, there was small chance of his rights being respected. A partial explanation may also lie in the fact that the wealth of the king was regarded as in some sort public property, and that to keep open house for all whose rank entitled them to sit at his table was probably a popular branch of the royal prerogative29. Telemachus is an only son, and he and his mother have apparently no near kinsmen30 to avenge31 any wrong or insult that may be offered. There is, besides, somewhat of weakness and tameness in his character, more than befits the son of such a father. He is a home-nurtured youth, of a gentle and kindly32 nature, a dutiful and affectionate son; but his temperament33 is far too easy for the rude and troublous times in which his lot is cast, and the roystering crew who profess5 at least to be the wooers of Penelope have not been slow to find it out. Some kindly critics (“Christopher North” among the number) have refused to see any of these shortcomings in the young prince’s character; but his father Ulysses saw them plainly. For thus it is he speaks, at a later period of the tale, under his disguise of a mendicant:—
“Had I but youth as I have heart, or were
The blameless brave Ulysses, or his son,
Then let a stranger strike me headless there,
But this is anticipating somewhat too much. We must return to the opening of the poem.{v.ii-13}
The fate of Ulysses, so far as any knowledge of it has reached his wife and son, lies yet in mystery. Only the gods know—and perhaps it were as well for Penelope not to know—in what unworthy thraldom35 he is held. He has incurred36 the anger of the great Sea-god, and therefore he is still forbidden to reach his home. He has lain captive now for seven long years in Ogygia, the enchanted37 realm of Calypso—
“Girded of ocean in an island-keep,
An island clothed with trees, the navel of the deep.
There him, still sorrowing, she doth aye enthral,
The memory of his island-realm.”
But the goddess of wisdom, who was his protecting genius throughout the perils42 of the great siege, and by whose aid, as we have seen in the Iliad, he has distanced so many formidable competitors in the race for glory, has not forgotten her favourite. The opening scene of the Odyssey43 shows us the gods in council on Olympus. Neptune44 alone is absent; he is gone to feast, like Jupiter in the Iliad, with those mysterious people, the far-off ?thiopians—
“Extreme of men, who diverse ways retire,
Some to the setting, some the rising sun.”
Minerva takes the opportunity of his absence to remind the Father of the gods of the hard fate of Ulysses, so unworthy of a hero who has deserved so{v.ii-14} well both of gods and men. It is agreed to send Mercury, the messenger of the Immortals45, to the island where Calypso holds Ulysses captive in her toils46, to announce to him that the day of his return draws near. Minerva herself, meanwhile, will go to Ithaca, and put strength into the heart of his son Telemachus, that he may rid his house of this hateful brood of revellers, and set forth48 to make search for his father. The passage in which the poet describes her visit is a fine one, and it has been finely rendered by Mr Worsley:—
“So ending, underneath49 her feet she bound
Which o’er the waters and the solid ground
Swifter than wind have borne her from of old;
Then on the iron-pointed spear laid hold,
Of heroes till her anger waxes cold;
Then from Olympus swept in eager mood,
And with the island-people in the court she stood
“Fast by the threshold of the outer gate
Of brave Odysseus: in her hand she bore
The iron-pointed spear, heavy and great,
And, waiting as a guest-friend at the door,
The hours, and sat the palace-gates before
On hides of oxen which themselves did slay—
As the young prince sits thus, an unwilling56 host in his father’s hall, meditating57, says the poet, whether or no some day that father may return suddenly and take vengeance58 on these invaders59 of his rights, against whom he himself seems powerless, he lifts his eyes{v.ii-15} and sees a stranger standing60 at the gate. With simple and high-bred courtesy—the courtesy of the old Bible patriarchs, and even now practised by the Orientals, though the march of modern civilisation has left little remnant of it in our western isles—he hastes to bid the stranger welcome, on the simple ground that he is a stranger, and will hear no word of his errand until the rights of hospitality have been paid. Eager as he is to hear possible news of his father, he restrains his anxiety to question his guest. Not until the handmaidens have brought water in the silver ewers62, and the herald63, and the carver, and the dame64 of the pantry (it is a right royal establishment, if somewhat rude) have each done their office to supply the stranger’s wants, does Telemachus ask him a single question. But when the suitors have ended their feast, they call for music and song. They compel Phemius, the household bard65, to make mirth for them. Then, while he plies66 his voice and lyre for their entertainment, the son of Ulysses whispers aside with his visitor. Who is he, and whence does he come? Is he a friend of his father’s? For many a guest, and none unwelcome, had come to those halls, as the son well knows, in his day. Above all, does he bring news of him? Then the disguised goddess tells her story, with a circumstantial minuteness of invention which befits wisdom when she condescends67 to falsehood:—
“Know, my name is hight
Mentes, the son of brave Anchialus,
And sea-famed Taphos is my regal right;
And with my comrades am I come to-night{v.ii-16}
Hither, in sailing o’er the wine-dark sea
And in my bark I bring sword-steel along with me.
“Moored is my ship beyond the city walls,
We twain do boast, each in the other’s halls,
Our fathers’ friendship from an ancient day.
Hero Laertes ask, and he will say.”
But of Ulysses’ present fate the guest declares he knows nothing; only he has a presentiment71 that he is detained somewhere in an unwilling captivity72, but that, “though he be bound with chains of iron,” he will surely find his way home again. But in any case, as his father’s friend, the supposed Mentes bids Telemachus take heart and courage, and act manfully for himself. Let him give this train of riotous73 suitors fair warning to quit the palace, and waste his substance no more; let his mother Penelope go back to her own father’s house (if she desires to wed4 again), and make her choice and hold her wedding-banquet there; and for his own part, let him at once set sail and make inquiry74 for his father round the coasts of Greece. It may be that Nestor of Pylos, or Menelaus of Sparta—the last returned of the chiefs of the expedition—can give him some tidings. If he can only hear that Ulysses is yet alive, then he may well endure to wait his return with patience; if assured of his death, it will befit him to take due vengeance on these his enemies. The divine visitor even hints a reproach of Telemachus’ present inactivity:{v.ii-17}—
“No more, with thews like these, to weakness cling.
Hast thou not heard divine Orestes’ fame,
His father, and achieved a noble name?
Thou also, friend, to thine own strength lay claim—
Thy prowess, and their children speak the same.”
The young prince duteously accepts the counsel, as from his father’s friend, and prays his guest to tarry a while. But Minerva, her mission accomplished78, suddenly changes her shape, spreads wings, and vanishes. Then Telemachus recognises the goddess, and feels a new life and spirit born within him. If we choose to admit an allegorical interpretation—more than commonly tempting79, as must be confessed, in this particular case—it is the advent80 of Wisdom and Discretion81 to the conscious heart of the youth, hitherto too little awakened82 to its responsibilities.
Telemachus returns to his place among the revellers a new man. They are still listening to the minstrel, Phemius, who chants a lay of the return of the Greek chiefs from Troy, and the sufferings inflicted83 on them during their homeward voyage by the vengeance of the gods. The sound reaches Penelope where she sits apart with her wise maidens61, like the mother of Sisera, in her “upper chamber84”—the “bower” of the ladies of medi?val chivalry85. She comes down the stair, and stands on the threshold of the banqueting-hall, attracted by the song. But the subject is too painful. She calls the bard to her, and begs him, for her sake, to choose some other theme. We must not be too angry with Telemachus because, in the first flush of his newly-{v.ii-18}awakened sense of the responsibilities of his position, he uses language, in addressing his mother, which to our ears has a sound of harshness and reproach. He bids her not presume to set limits to the inspiration of the bard—the noblest theme is ever the best. He reminds her that woman’s kingdom is the loom86 and the distaff, and that the rule over men in his father’s house now belongs to him. Viewed with reference to the tone of the age as regarded the duties of women,—compared with the parting charge of Hector in the Iliad to the wife he loved so tenderly, and even with a higher example in Scripture,—there is nothing startling or repulsive87 in such language from a son to his mother. To the young prince in his new mood, while the counsels of Minerva were yet ringing in his ears, the absence and the sufferings of his father might well seem the only theme on which he could endure to hear the minstrel descant88; it was of this, he feels, that he needed to be continually reminded. And if hitherto he has allowed this riotous company to assume that, in the absence of Ulysses, the government of his house has rested in the weak hands of a woman, it shall be so no longer. He will take his father’s place.
The mother sees the change in her son’s temper with some surprise—we may suppose, with somewhat mingled89 feelings of approval and mortification90. The boy has grown into a man on the sudden. The poet gives us but a single word as any clue to the effect upon Penelope of this evidently unaccustomed outburst of self-assertion on the part of Telemachus. “Astonished,” he says, she withdraws at once to her{v.ii-19} upper chamber, and there weeps her sorrows to sleep. Telemachus himself addresses the assembled company in a tone which is evidently as new to their ears as to those of his mother. He bids them, with a haughty courtesy, feast their fill to-night; to-morrow he will summon (as is the custom of the Homeric princes) a council of the heads of the people, and there he will give them all public warning to quit his father’s house, and feast—if they needs must feast—in each other’s houses, at their own cost. If they refuse, and still make this riot of an absent man’s wealth, he appeals from men to “the gods who live for ever” for a sure and speedy vengeance.
The careless revellers mark the change in the young man as instantly as Penelope. For a few moments they bite their lips in silence—“wondering that he spake so bold.” The first to answer him is Antinous, the most prominent ringleader of the confraternity of suitors. His character is very like that of the worst stamp of the “Cavalier” of the days of our own Charles II. Brave, bold, and insolent91, there is yet a reckless gaiety and a ready wit about him which would have made him at once a favourite in that unprincipled court. He adds to these characteristics a quality of which he might, unhappily, have also found a high example there—that of ingratitude92. He is bound by strong ties of obligation to the house of Ulysses; his father had come in former days to seek an asylum93 with the Chief of Ithaca from the vengeance of the Thesprotians, and had been kindly entertained by him until his death. The son now answers Telemachus{v.ii-20} with a taunting94 compliment upon the new character in which he has just come out. “He means to claim for himself the sovereignty of the island, as his father’s heir, no doubt; but the gods forbid that Ithaca should ever come under the rule of so fierce a despot!” Telemachus makes answer that he will at all events rule his father’s house. Upon this, Eurynomus, another leading spirit among the rivals—a smoother-tongued and more cautious individual—soothes the angry youth with what seems a plausible96 recognition of his rights, in order that he may get an answer to a question on which he feels an interest not unmixed, as we may easily understand, with some secret apprehension97. “Who was this traveller from over sea? and—did he happen to bring any news of Ulysses?” But Telemachus has learnt subtlety98 as well as wisdom from the disguised goddess. He gives the name assumed by his visitor, Mentes, an old friend of the house. But as to his father’s return, the oracles99 of the gods and the reports of men all agree in pronouncing it to have now become hopeless. So the revel47 is renewed till nightfall; and while the feasters go off to their own quarters somewhere near at hand, Telemachus retires to his chamber (separate, apparently, from the main building), where his old nurse Eurycleia tends him with a careful affection, as though he were still a child, folding and hanging up the vest of fine linen100 which he takes off when he lies down to sleep, and drawing the bolt of the chamber door through its silver ring when she leaves him.
The council of notables is summoned for the morrow.{v.ii-21} No such meeting has been held since the departure of Ulysses for Troy. As Telemachus passes to take his place there, all men remark a new majesty101 in his looks.
“So when the concourse to the full was grown,
He lifted in his hand the steely spear,
And to the council moved, but not alone,
For as he walked his swift dogs followed near.
Also Minerva did with grace endear
His form, that all the people gazed intent
And wondered, while he passed without a peer.
He makes his passionate104 protest before them all against the insufferable waste of his household by this crew of revellers, and against their own supineness in offering him no aid to dislodge them. Antinous rises to answer him, beginning, as before, with an ironical105 compliment—“the young orator’s language is as sublime106 as his spirit.” But the fault, he begs to assure him, lies not with the suitors, but with the queen herself. She has been playing fast and loose with her lovers, deluding107 them, for these three years past, with vain hopes and false promises. She had, indeed, been practising a kind of pious108 fraud upon them. She had set up a mighty109 loom, in which she wrought110 diligently111 to complete, as she professed112, a winding-sheet of delicate texture113 for her husband’s father, the aged Laertes, against the day of his death. Not until this sad task was finished, she entreated114 of them, let her be asked to choose a new bridegroom. To so much forbearance they had all assented115; but lo! they had lately discovered that what she wrought by day she carefully{v.ii-22} unwound by night, so that the task promised to be an endless one. Some of the handmaidens (who had found their own lovers, too, amongst their royal mistress’s many suitors) had betrayed her secret. Antinous is gallant116 enough to add to this recital117 of Penelope’s craft warm praises of the queen herself, even giving her full credit for the bright woman’s wit which had so long baffled them all.
“Matchless skill
To weave the splendid web; sagacious thought,
And shrewdness such as never fame ascribed
To any beauteous Greek of ancient days,
Of Jove himself, all whom th’ accomplished queen
Transcends119 in knowledge—ignorant alone
That, wooed long time, she should at last be won.”—(Cowper.)
But they will now be put off no longer—she must make her choice, or they will never leave the house so long as she remains120 there unespoused. Telemachus indignantly refuses to send his mother home to her father; and repeats his passionate appeal to the gods for vengeance against the wrongs which he is himself helpless to deal with. At once an omen22 from heaven seems to betoken121 that the appeal is heard and accepted. Two eagles are seen flying over the heads of the crowd assembled in the marketplace, where they suddenly wheel round, and tear each other furiously with beak122 and talons123. The soothsayer is at hand to interpret; the aged Halitherses, who reminds them all how he had foretold124, when Ulysses first left his own shores for Troy, the twenty years that would elapse before his return. Now, he sees by this portent125, the happy day is{v.ii-23} near at hand; nay126, in his zeal127 for his master’s house he goes so far as to urge the assembled people to take upon themselves at once the punishment of these traitors128. One of the suitors mocks at the old man’s auguries129, and threatens him for his interference. The prophet is silenced; and Telemachus, finding no support from the assembly, asks but for a ship and crew to be furnished him, that he may set forth in search of his father. One indignant voice, among the apathetic130 crowd, is raised in the young prince’s defence: it is that of Mentor131, to whom Ulysses had intrusted the guardianship134 of his rights in his absence. His name has passed into a synonym135 for all prudent guardians132 and moral counsellors, chiefly in consequence of Fénélon’s didactic tale of ‘Télémaque,’ already mentioned, in which the adventures of the son of Ulysses were “improved,” with elaborate morals, for the benefit of youth; and in which Mentor, as the young prince’s travelling tutor, played a conspicuous136 part. He vents95 his indignation here in a very striking protest against popular ingratitude:—
“Hear me, ye Ithacans;—be never king
Or righteous; but let every sceptred hand
Rule merciless, and deal in wrong alone;
Since none of all his people, whom he swayed
Remembers the divine Ulysses more.”—(Cowper.)
He, too, meets with jeers140 and mockery from the insolent nobles, and Telemachus quits the assembly to wander in melancholy141 mood along the sea-shore—the{v.ii-24} usual resort, it will be remarked, of the Homeric heroes, when they seek to calm the tumult142 of grief or anger. Such appeal to the soothing143 influence of what Homer calls the “illimitable” ocean is not less true to nature than it is characteristic of the poetical144 and imaginative temperament. Bathing his hands in the sea waves—for prayer, to the Greek as to the Hebrew mind, demanded a preparatory purification—Telemachus lifts his cry to his guardian133 goddess, Minerva. At once she stands before him there in the likeness of Mentor. She speaks to him words of encouragement and counsel. Evil men may mock at him now; but if he be determined145 to prove himself the true son of such a father, he shall not lack honour in the end. She will provide him ship and crew for his voyage. Thus encouraged by the divine Wisdom which speaks in the person of Mentor, he returns to the banquet-hall, to avoid suspicion. Yet, when Antinous greets him there with a mocking show of friendship, he wrenches146 his hand roughly from his grasp, and quits the company. Taking into his counsels his nurse Eurycleia—who is the palace housekeeper147 also—he bids her make ready good store of provisions for his voyage: twelve capacious vessels148 filled with the ripest wine, twenty measures of fine meal, and grain besides, carefully sewn up in wallets. In the dusk of this very evening, unknown to his mother, he will embark149; for the goddess (still in Mentor’s likeness) has chartered for him a galley150 with twenty stout151 rowers, which is to lie ready launched for him in the harbour at nightfall. Eurycleia vainly remonstrates152 with her nursling on his dangerous purpose{v.ii-25}—
There is no call to suffer useless pain,
Wandering always on the barren seas.’
But he: ‘Good nurse, prithee take heart again,
These things are not without a god nor vain.
Swear only that my mother shall not know
Till twelve days pass, or she herself be fain
To ask thee, or some other the tidings show,
Telemachus’s resolve is fixed156. As soon as the shadows of evening fall, Minerva sends a strange drowsiness157 on the assembled revellers in the hall of Ulysses, so that the wine-cups drop from their hands, and they stagger off early to their couches. Then, in the person of Mentor, she summons Telemachus to where the galley lies waiting for him, guides him on board, and takes her place beside him in the stern.
“Loud and clear
Behind them. By Athene’s hest he blew.
Telemachus his comrades on did cheer
To set the tackling. With good hearts the crew
Heard him, and all things ranged in goodly order true.
With ropes, the white sails stretch on twisted hide,
They ranged forth bowls crowned with dark wine, and poured
Most to the stern-eyed child of heaven’s great lord.
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1
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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2
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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3
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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4
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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5
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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6
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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7
imputes
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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9
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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10
obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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11
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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12
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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13
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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14
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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15
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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16
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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18
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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19
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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20
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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22
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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23
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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27
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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28
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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29
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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30
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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31
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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32
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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33
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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34
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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35
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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37
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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40
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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41
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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42
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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43
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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44
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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45
immortals
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| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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46
toils
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| 网 | |
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47
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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50
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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51
smites
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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53
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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54
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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55
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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56
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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57
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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58
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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59
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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60
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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61
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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62
ewers
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| n.大口水壶，水罐( ewer的名词复数 ) | |
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63
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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64
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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65
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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66
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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67
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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68
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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69
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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70
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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71
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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72
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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73
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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74
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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75
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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76
slayer
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|
| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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77
comely
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|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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78
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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79
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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80
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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81
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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82
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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83
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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85
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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86
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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87
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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88
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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89
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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90
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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91
insolent
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|
| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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92
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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93
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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94
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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95
vents
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| （气体、液体等进出的）孔、口( vent的名词复数 )； （鸟、鱼、爬行动物或小哺乳动物的）肛门； 大衣等的)衩口； 开衩 | |
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96
plausible
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|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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97
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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98
subtlety
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|
| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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99
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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100
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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101
majesty
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|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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102
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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103
reverence
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|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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104
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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105
ironical
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|
| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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106
sublime
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|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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107
deluding
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|
| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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108
pious
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|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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109
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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110
wrought
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|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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111
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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112
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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113
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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114
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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117
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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118
tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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119
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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120
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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121
betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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122
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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123
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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124
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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126
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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127
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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128
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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129
auguries
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| n.（古罗马）占卜术，占卜仪式( augury的名词复数 )；预兆 | |
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130
apathetic
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|
| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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131
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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132
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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133
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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134
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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135
synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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136
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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137
benevolent
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|
| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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138
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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139
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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140
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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141
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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142
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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143
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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144
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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145
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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146
wrenches
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| n.一拧( wrench的名词复数 )；（身体关节的）扭伤；扳手；（尤指离别的）悲痛v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的第三人称单数 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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147
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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148
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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149
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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150
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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152
remonstrates
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的第三人称单数 )；告诫 | |
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153
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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154
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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155
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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156
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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157
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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158
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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159
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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160
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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161
brace
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|
| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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162
bellying
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| 鼓出部；鼓鼓囊囊 | |
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163
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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164
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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165
everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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166
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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167
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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