‘Friend, thou remind’st me of exceeding pain,{v.ii-28}
Which we, the Achaians of unconquered might,
There, and in ships along the clouded main,
Led by Achilleus to the spoil, did drain,
Of Priam king. There all our best were slain—
There the brave Aias and Achilleus lie;
Patroclus there, whose wisdom matched the gods on high.
“‘There too Antilochus my son doth sleep,
Who in his strength was all so void of blame—
Nestor shows the same love of story-telling which marks his character in the Iliad. Modern critics who are inclined to accuse the old chief of garrulity20 should remember that, in an age in which there were no daily newspapers with their “special correspondents,” a good memory and a fluent tongue were very desirable qualifications of old age. The old campaigner in his retirement21 was the historian of his own times. Unless he told his story often and at length amongst the men of a younger generation when they met at the banquet, all memory of the gallant22 deeds of old would be lost, and even the professional bard23 would have lacked the data on which to build his lay. Many a Nestor must have been ready—in season and out of season—to
before any Homer could have sung of the Trojan war. Even now, we are ready to listen readily to the veteran’s reminiscences of a past generation, whether in war or peace, who has a retentive25 memory and a pleasant style—only he now commonly tells his story in print.
Nestor proceeds to tell his guests how the gods, after Troy was taken, had stirred up strife26 between{v.ii-29} the brother-kings Agamemnon and Menelaus; and how, in consequence, the fleet had divided, Menelaus with one division sailing straight for home, while the rest had waited with Agamemnon in the hope of appeasing27 the wrath28 of heaven. Ulysses, who had at first set sail with Menelaus, had turned back and rejoined his leader. Of his subsequent fate Nestor knows nothing; but he bids the young man take courage. He has heard of the troubles that beset29 him at home; but if Minerva vouchsafes30 to the son the love and favour which (as was known to all the Greeks) she bore to his father, all will go well with him yet. Neither Nestor nor Telemachus are aware (though the reader is) that the Wisdom which had made Ulysses a great name was even now guiding the steps of his son. One thing yet the youth longs to hear from the lips of his father’s ancient friend—the terrible story of Agamemnon’s death by the hands of his wife and her paramour, and the vengeance31 taken by his son Orestes. It is a tale which he has heard as yet but darkly, but has dwelt upon in his heart ever since the goddess, at her visit under the shape of Mentes, made such significant reference to the story. Nestor tells it now at length—the bloody32 legend which, variously shaped, became the theme of the poet and the dramatist from generation to generation of Greek literature. In Homer’s version we miss some of the horrors which later writers wove into the tale; and it is not unlikely that, in the simpler form in which it is here given, we have the main facts of an actual domestic tragedy. During Agamemnon’s long absence in the Trojan war, his queen Clytemnes{v.ii-30}tra, sister of Helen, had been seduced33 from her marriage faith by her husband’s cousin ?gisthus. In vain had the household bard, faithful to the trust committed to him by his lord in his absence, counselled and warned his lady against the peril34; and ?gisthus at last, hopeless of his object so long as she had these honest eyes upon her, had caused him to be carried to a desert island to perish with hunger. So she fell, and ?gisthus ruled palace and kingdom. At last Agamemnon returned from the weary siege, and, landing on the shore of his kingdom, knelt down and kissed the soil in a transport of joyful35 tears. It is probably with no conscious imitation, but merely from the correspondence of the poet’s mind, that Shakespeare attributes the very same expression of feeling to his Richard II.:—
“I weep for joy
To stand upon my kingdom once again.
As a long-parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting,
So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favour with my royal hands.”
Agamemnon meets with as tragical39 a reception from the usurper40 of his rights as did Richard Plantagenet:—
When through the mist of his long-hoped delight
He saw the lovely land before him spread.
Him from high watch-tower marked the watchman wight
Set by ?gisthus to watch day and night,
Two talents of pure gold his promised hire.
Unheeded, and remember his old fire;
And bade rich banquets close at hand prepare.
Then he with horses and with chariots met
The king, and welcomed him with fair words, yet
With fraud at heart, and to the feast him led;
For seven years the adulterer and usurper reigned48 in security at Mycen?. But meanwhile the boy Orestes, stolen away from the guilty court by his elder sister, was growing up to manhood, the destined49 avenger of blood, at Athens. In the seventh year he came back in disguise to his father’s house, slew50 ?gisthus, and recovered his inheritance. There was a darker shadow still thrown over Agamemnon’s death by later poets, which finds no place in Homer. The tragic38 interest in the dramas of ?schylus and Sophocles, which are founded on this story, lies in their representing Clytemnestra herself as the murderess of her husband, and Orestes, as his father’s avenger, not hesitating to become the executioner of his mother as well as of her paramour.
Nestor has finished his story, and the travellers offer to return to their vessel51 and continue their quest; but the old chieftain will not hear of it. That night, at least, they must remain as his guests—on the morrow he will send them on to the court of Menelaus at Sparta, where they may chance to learn the latest tidings of Ulysses. Telemachus’s guardian bids him accept the invitation, then suddenly spreads wings, and takes to flight in the likeness52 of a sea-eagle; and both Nestor and Telemachus recognise at last that, in the{v.ii-32} shape of Mentor, the goddess of wisdom has been so long his guide. A sacrifice is forthwith offered in her honour—a heifer, with horns overlaid with gold; a public banquet is held as before, and then, according to promise, Telemachus is sped on his journey. A pair of swift and strong-limbed horses—the old chief knew what a good horse was, and charged his sons specially53 to take the best in his stalls—are harnessed for the journey, and good provision of corn and wine, “such as was fit for princes,” stored in the chariot. Pisistratus himself mounts beside his new friend as driver. Their first day’s stage is Pher?, where they are hospitably54 entertained by Nestor’s friend, Diocles; and, after driving all the following day, they reach the palace gates of Menelaus, in Sparta, when the sun has set upon the yellow harvest fields, “and all the ways are dim.”
At Sparta, too, as at Pylos, the city is holding high festival on the evening of their arrival. A double marriage is being celebrated55 in the halls of Menelaus. Hermione, his sole child by Helen, is leaving her parents to become the bride of Neoptolemus (otherwise known as Pyrrhus, the “red-haired”), son of the great Achilles; and at the same time the young Megapenthes, Menelaus’s son by a slave wife, is to be married in his father’s house. There is music and dancing in the halls when the travellers arrive; but Menelaus, like Nestor, will ask no questions of the strangers until the bath, and food, and wine in plenty, have refreshed them, and their horses have good barley-meal and rye set before them in the mangers. The magnificence of{v.ii-33} Menelaus’s palace, as described by the poet, is a very remarkable56 feature in the tale. It reads far more like a scene from the ‘Arabian Nights’ than a lay of early Greece. The lofty roofs fling back a flashing light as the travellers enter, “like as the splendour of the sun or moon.” Gold, silver, bronze, ivory, and electrum, combine their brilliancy in the decorations. The guests wash in lavers of silver, and the water is poured from golden ewers57. Telemachus is struck with wonder at the sight, and can compare it to nothing earthly.
Haply may gleam the Olympian halls divine!”
The palaces of Sparta, as seen in Homer’s vision, contrast remarkably59 with the estimate formed of them by the Greek historian of a later age. Thucydides speaks of the city as having no public buildings of any magnificence, such as would impress a stranger with an idea of its real power, but wearing rather the appearance of a collection of villages. It is difficult to conceive that the actual Sparta of a much earlier age could have contained anything at all corresponding to this Homeric ideal of splendour; and the question arises, whether we have here an indistinct record of an earlier and extinct civilisation, or whether the poet drew an imaginary description from his own recollections of the gorgeous barbaric splendour of some city in the further East, which he had visited in his travels. If this be nothing more than a poet’s exaggerated and idealised view of an actual state of higher civilisation, which once really existed in the old Greek kingdoms, and{v.ii-34} disappeared under the Dorian Heraclids, it is a singular record of a backward step in a nation’s history; and the Homeric poems become especially valuable as preserving the memorials of a state of society which would otherwise have passed altogether into oblivion. There is less difficulty in believing the possible existence of an ante-historical civilisation which afterwards became extinct, if we remember the splendours of Solomon’s court, as to which the widespread traditions of the East only corroborate60 the records of Scripture61, and all which passed away almost entirely62 with its founder63. It is remarkable that in the ancient Welsh poem, ‘Y Gododin,’ by Aneurin Owen, of which the supposed date is A.D. 570, there are very similar properties and scenery: knights64 in “armour of gold” and “purple plumes,” mounted on “thick-maned chargers,” with “golden spurs,” who must—if ever they rode the Cambrian mountains—have been a very different race from the wild Welsh who held Edward Longshanks at bay. Are we to look upon this as merely the common language of all poets? and, if so, how comes it to be common to all? Were the Welsh who fought in the half-mythical battle of Cattraeth as far superior, in the scale of civilisation, to their successors who fell at Conway, as the Spartans66 under Menelaus (if Homer’s picture of them is to be trusted) were to the Spartans under Leonidas? or was there some remote original, Oriental or other, whence this ornate military imagery passed into the poetry of such very different nations?
So, too, when Helen—now restored to her place in Menelaus’s household—comes forth44 to greet the{v.ii-35} strangers, her whole surroundings are rather those of an Eastern sultana than of any princess of Spartan65 race.
Like gold-bowed Dian: and Adraste came
Her carpet’s fine-wrought fleece Alcippe bore,
Phylo her basket bright with silver ore,
Gift of the wife of Polybus, who swayed
His wife Alcandra, from her treasured store,
A golden spindle to fair Helen bore,
And a bright silver basket, on whose round
These elaborate preparations for her “work”—which is some delicate fabric72 of wool tinged73 with the costly74 purple dye—have little in common with the household loom75 of Penelope. Here, as in the Iliad, refinement76 and elegance77 of taste are the distinctive78 characteristics of Helen; and they help to explain, though they in no way excuse, the fascination79 exercised over her by Paris, the accomplished80 musician and brilliant converser81, rich in all the graces which Venus, for her own evil purposes, had bestowed82 on her favourite. Helen is still, as in the Iliad, emphatically “the lady;” the lady of rank and fashion, as things were in that day, with all the fashionable faults, and all the fashionable good qualities: selfish, and luxurious83, gracious and fascinating. Her transgressions84, and the seemingly lenient85 view which the poet takes of them, have been discussed sufficiently86 in the Iliad. They are all now condoned87. She has recovered from her miserable88 infatuation; and if we are inclined to despise Menelaus for his easy{v.ii-36} temper as a husband, we must remember the medi?val legends of Arthur and Guinevere, to whom Helen bears, in many points of character, a strong resemblance. The readiness which Arthur shows to have accepted at any time the repentance89 of his queen is almost repulsive90 to modern feeling, but was evidently not so to the taste of the age in which those legends were popular; nor is it at all clear that such forgiveness is less consonant91 with the purest code of morality than the stern implacability towards such offences which the laws of modern society would enjoin92. Menelaus has forgiven Helen, even as Arthur—though not Mr Tennyson’s Arthur—would have forgiven Guinevere. But she has not forgiven herself, and this is a strong redeeming93 point in her character; “shameless” is still the uncompromising epithet94 which she applies to herself, as in the Iliad, even in the presence of her husband and his guests.
They, too, have been wanderers since the fall of Troy, like the lost Ulysses. The king tells his own story before he interrogates95 his guest:—
“Hardly I came at last, in the eighth year,
Home with my ships from my long wanderings.
Ph?nice, Egypt, did the waves me bear.
Sidon and Ethiopia I have seen,
Even to Erembus roamed, and Libya, where
The lambs are full-horned from their birth, I ween,
And in the rolling year the fruitful flocks thrice yean.”
He has grown rich in his travels, and would be happy, but for the thought of his brother Agamemnon’s miserable end. Another grief, too, lies very close to his{v.ii-37} heart—the uncertainty97 which still shrouds98 the fate of his good comrade Ulysses.
“His was the fate to suffer grievous woe,
And mine to mourn without forgetfulness,
And he yet absent, and I comfortless.
Whether he live or die we cannot guess.
And to Telemachus the hours are spent
In sadness, whom he left new-born when first he went.”
The son is touched at the reminiscence, and drops a quiet tear, while for a moment he covers his eyes with his robe. It is at this juncture103 that Helen enters the hall. Her quick thought seizes the truth at once; as she had detected the father through his disguise of rags when he came as a spy into Troy, so now she recognises the son at once by his strong personal resemblance. Then Menelaus, too, sees the likeness, and connects it with the youth’s late emotion. Young Pisistratus at once tells him who his friend is, and on what errand they are travelling together. Warm is the greeting which the King of Sparta bestows104 on the son of his old friend. There shall be no more lamentation105 for this night; all painful subjects shall be at least postponed106 until the morrow. But still, as the feast goes on, the talk is of Ulysses. Helen has learnt, too, in her wanderings, some of the secrets of Egyptian pharmacy107. She has mixed in the wine a potent108 Eastern drug, which raises the soul above all care and sorrow{v.ii-38}—
“Which so cures heartache and the inward stings,
That men forget all sorrow wherein they pine.
Weeps not that day, although his mother die
Or father, or cut off before his eyen
Hewn by the pitiless sword, he sitting silent by.”
The “Nepenthes” of Helen has obtained a wide poetical111 celebrity112. Some allegorical interpreters of the poem would have us understand that it is the charms of conversation which have this miraculous113 power to make men forget their grief. Without at all questioning their efficacy, it may be safely assumed that the poet had in his mind something more material. The drug has been supposed to be opium114; but the effects ascribed to the Arabian “haschich”—a preparation of hemp—correspond very closely with those said to be produced by Helen’s potion. Sir Henry Halford thought it might more probably be the “hyoscyamus,” which he says is still used at Constantinople and in the Morea under the name of “Nebensch.”[30]
Not till the next morning does Telemachus discuss with Menelaus the object of his journey. What little the Spartan king can tell him of the fate of his father is so far reassuring115, that there is good hope he is yet alive. But he is—or was—detained in an enchanted116 island. There the goddess Calypso holds him an unwilling117 captive, and forces her love upon him. He longs sore for his home in Ithaca; but the spells of the enchantress are too strong. So much has Menelaus learnt, during his own wanderings, while wind-bound{v.ii-39} at Pharos in Egypt, from Proteus, “the old man of the sea”—
“Who knows all secret things in ocean pent.”
The knowledge had to be forced from him by stratagem118. Proteus was in the habit of coming up out of the sea at mid-day to sleep under the shadow of the rocks, with his flock of seals about him. Instructed by his daughter Eidothea—who had taken pity on the wanderers—Menelaus and some of his comrades had disguised themselves in seal-skins[31] (though much disturbed, as he confesses, by the “very ancient and fish-like smell”), and had seized the ancient sea-god as he lay asleep on the shore. Proteus, like the genie119 in the Arabian tale, changed himself rapidly into all manner of terrible forms; but Menelaus held him fast until he was obliged to resume his own, when, confessing himself vanquished120 by the mortal, the god proceeded in recompense to answer his questions as to his own fate, and that of his companion chiefs, the wanderers on their way home from Troy. The transformations121 of Proteus have much exercised the ingenuity122 of the allegorists. The pliancy123 of such principles of interpretation124 becomes amusingly evident, when one authority explains to us that here are symbolised the wiles{v.ii-40} of sophistry—another, that it is the inscrutability of truth, ever escaping from the seeker’s grasp; while others, again, see in Proteus the versatility125 of nature, the various ideals of philosophers, or the changes of the atmosphere. From such source had the king learnt the terrible end of his brother Agamemnon, and the ignoble126 captivity127 of Ulysses; but for himself, the favourite of heaven, a special exemption128 has been decreed from the common lot of mortality. It is thus that Proteus reads the fates for the husband of Helen:—
“Thee to Elysian fields, earth’s farthest end,
Where Rhadamanthus dwells, the gods shall send;
Where mortals easiest pass the careless hour;
No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower,
But ocean ever, to refresh mankind,
The grand lines of Homer are thus grandly rendered by Abraham Moore. Homer repeats the description of the Elysian fields, the abode130 of the blest, in a subsequent passage of the poem, which has been translated almost word for word—yet as only a poet could translate it—by the Roman Lucretius. Mr Tennyson has the same great original before him when he makes his King Arthur see, in his dying thought,
“The island-valley of Avilion,
Where falls not hail nor rain nor any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea.”
The calm sweet music of these lines has charmed{v.ii-41} many a reader who never knew that the strain had held all Greece enchanted two thousand years ago. It has been scarcely possible to add anything to the quiet beauty of the original Greek, but the English poet has at least shown exquisite132 skill in the setting of the jewel. But Homer has always been held as common property by later poets. Milton’s classical taste had previously133 adopted some of the imagery; the “Spirit” in the ‘Masque of Comus’ speaks of the happy climes which are his proper abode:—
“There eternal summer dwells,
And west winds, with musky wing,
Nard and cassia’s balmy smells.”
Gladly would Menelaus have kept the son of his old comrade with him longer as a guest, but Telemachus is impatient to rejoin his galley136, which waits for him at Pylos. His host reluctantly dismisses him, not without parting gifts; but the gift which the king would have had him take—a chariot and yoke137 of three swift horses—the island-prince will not accept. Ithaca has no room for horse-coursing, and he loves his rocky home all the better.
“With me no steeds to Ithaca shall sail.
Such leave I here—thy grace, thy rightful vaunt,
Lord of a level land, where never fail
Lotus, and rye, and wheat, and galingale:
No room hath Ithaca to course, no mead—
Goat-haunted, dearer than horse-feeding vale.”
There is much consternation138 in the palace of Ulysses when the absence of Telemachus is at last discovered.{v.ii-42} Antinous and his fellow-revellers are struck with astonishment139 at the bold step he has suddenly taken, and with alarm at the possible result. Antinous will man a vessel at once, and waylay140 him in the straits on his return. The revelation of this plot to Penelope by Medon, the herald141, one of the few faithful retainers of Ulysses’ house, makes her for the first time aware of her son’s departure; for old Eurycleia has kept her darling’s secret safe even from his mother. In an agony of grief she sits down amidst her sympathising maidens142, and bewails herself as “twice bereaved,” of son and husband. She lifts her prayer to Minerva, and the goddess hears. When Penelope has wept herself to sleep, there stands at the head of her couch what seems the form of her sister Iphthimè, and assures her of her son’s safety: he has a guardian about his path “such as many a hero would pray to have.” Even in her dream, Penelope is half conscious of the dignity of her visitor; and, true wife that she is, she prays the vision to tell her something of her absent husband. But such revelation, the figure tells her, is no part of its mission, and so vanishes into thin air. The sleeper143 awakes—it is a dream indeed; but it has left a lightness and elasticity144 of spirit which the queen accepts as an augury145 of good to come.
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1
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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3
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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4
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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5
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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6
proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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8
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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9
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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10
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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11
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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12
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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13
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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14
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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15
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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16
implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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17
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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18
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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19
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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20
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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21
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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24
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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25
retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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26
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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27
appeasing
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的现在分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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28
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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30
vouchsafes
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的第三人称单数 )；允诺 | |
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31
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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32
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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33
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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34
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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35
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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36
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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37
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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40
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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41
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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42
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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43
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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46
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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47
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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48
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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49
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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50
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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51
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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52
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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53
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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54
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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55
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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56
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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57
ewers
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| n.大口水壶，水罐( ewer的名词复数 ) | |
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58
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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59
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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60
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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61
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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64
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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65
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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66
spartans
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| n.斯巴达（spartan的复数形式） | |
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67
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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68
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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69
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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70
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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71
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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72
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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73
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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75
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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76
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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77
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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78
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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79
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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80
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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81
converser
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| 交谈，谈话； [计]对话，会话 | |
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82
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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84
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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85
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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86
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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87
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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89
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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90
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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91
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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92
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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93
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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94
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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95
interrogates
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| n.询问( interrogate的名词复数 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询v.询问( interrogate的第三人称单数 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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96
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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97
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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98
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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99
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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100
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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101
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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102
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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103
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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104
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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106
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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107
pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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108
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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109
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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110
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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111
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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112
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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113
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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114
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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115
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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116
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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117
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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118
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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119
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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120
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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121
transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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122
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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123
pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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124
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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125
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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126
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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127
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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128
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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129
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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130
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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131
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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132
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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133
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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134
cedarn
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| 杉的，杉木制的 | |
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135
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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136
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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137
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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138
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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139
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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140
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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141
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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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
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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144
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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145
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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