On the same day on which Essex sailed from Cadiz something of the highest moment was done in England: Elizabeth made Robert Cecil her Secretary, in name as well as in fact. That he had exercised the functions of the office for several years had not necessarily implied his continuance in that position. The Queen had been uncertain; the arrangement, she said, was temporary; there were other candidates for the post. Among these was Thomas Bodley, whose claims Essex had pushed forward with his customary vehemence1 — a vehemence which, once again, had failed in its effect. For Cecil was now definitely installed in that great office; all the outward prestige and all the inward influence that belonged to it were to be permanently2 his.
He sat at his table writing; and his presence was sweet and grave. There was an urbanity upon his features, some kind of explanatory gentleness, which, when he spoke3, was given life and meaning by his exquisite4 elocution. He was all mild reasonableness — or so it appeared, until he left his chair, stood up, and unexpectedly revealed the stunted5 discomfort6 of deformity. Then another impression came upon one — the uneasiness produced by an enigma7: what could the combination of that beautifully explicit9 countenance10 with that shameful11, crooked12 posture13 really betoken14? He returned to the table, and once more took up his quill15; all, once more, was perspicuous serenity16. And duty too — that was everywhere — in the unhurried assiduity of the writing, the consummate18 orderliness of the papers and arrangements, the long still hours of expeditious19 toil20. A great worker, a born administrator21, a man of thought and pen, he sat there silent amid the loud violence about him — the brio of an Essex and a Raleigh, the rush and flutter of minor22 courtiers, and the loquacious23 paroxysms of Elizabeth. While he laboured, his inner spirit waited and watched. A discerning eye might have detected melancholy24 and resignation in that patient face. The spectacle of the world’s ineptitude25 and brutality26 made him, not cynical27 — he was not aloof28 enough for that — but sad — was he not a creature of the world himself? He could do so little, so very little, to mend matters; with all his power and all his wisdom he could but labour, and watch, and wait. What else was possible? What else was feasible, what else was, in fact, anything but lunacy? He inspected the career of Essex with serious concern. Yet, perhaps, in some quite different manner, something, sometimes — very rarely — almost never — might be done. At a moment of crisis, a faint, a hardly perceptible impulsion might be given. It would be nothing but a touch, unbetrayed by the flutter of an eyelid29, as one sat at table, not from one’s hand, which would continue writing, but from one’s foot. One might hardly be aware of its existence oneself, and yet was it not, after all, by such minute, invisible movements that the world was governed for its good, and great men came into their own?
That might be, in outline, the clue to the enigma; but the detailed30 working-out of the solution must remain, from its very nature, almost entirely31 unknown to us. We can only see what we are shown with such urbane32 lucidity33 — the devoted34 career of public service, crowned at last, so fortunately, by the final achievement — a great work accomplished35, and the Earl of Salisbury supreme36 in England. So much is plain; but we are shown no more — no man ever was. The quiet minimum of action which led to such vast consequences is withdrawn37 from us. We can, with luck, catch a few glimpses now and then; but, in the main, we can only obscurely conjecture38 at what happened under the table.
Essex returned, triumphant39 and glorious. He was the hero of the hour. A shattering blow had been dealt to the hated enemy, and in the popular opinion it was to the young Earl, so daring, so chivalrous40, so obviously romantic, that the victory was due. The old Lord Admiral had played no great part in the affair, and the fact that the whole expedition would have been a failure if the advice of Raleigh had not been followed at the critical moment was unknown. There seemed, in fact, to be only one person in England who viewed the return of the conqueror41 without enthusiasm; that person was the Queen. Never was the impossibility of foretelling42 what Elizabeth would do next more completely exemplified. Instead of welcoming her victorious43 favourite in rapturous delight, she received him with intense irritation44. Something had happened to infuriate her; she had indeed been touched at a most sensitive point; it was a question of money. She had put down ￡50,000 for the expenses of the expedition, and what was she to get in return? Only, apparently45, demands for more money, to pay the seamen46’s wages. It was, she declared, just as she had expected; she had foreseen it all; she had known from the very first that everyone would make a fortune out of the business except herself. With infinite reluctance47 she disgorged another ￡2000 to keep the wretched seamen from starvation. But she would have it all back; and Essex should find that he was responsible. There certainly had been enormous leakages48. The Spaniards themselves confessed to a loss of several millions, and the official estimate of the booty brought back to England was less than ￡13,000. Wild rumours49 were flying of the strings51 of pearls, the chains of gold, the golden rings and buttons, the chests of sugar, the casks of quicksilver, the damasks and the Portuguese52 wines, that had suddenly appeared in London. There were terrific wranglings at the Council table. Several wealthy hostages had been brought back from Cadiz, and the Queen announced that all their ransoms53 should go into her pocket. When Essex protested that the soldiers would thereby54 lose their prize-money, she would not listen; it was only, she said, owing to their own incompetence55 that the loot had not been far greater; why had they not captured the returning West Indian fleet? The Cecils supported her with unpleasant questions. The new Secretary was particularly acid. Essex, who had good reason to expect a very different reception, was alternately depressed56 and exacerbated57. “I see,” he wrote to Anthony Bacon, “the fruits of these kinds of employments, and I assure you I am as much distasted with the glorious greatness of a favourite as I was before with the supposed happiness of a courtier, and call to mind the words of the wisest man that ever lived, who, speaking of man’s works crieth out ‘Vanity of vanities, all is but vanity.’” The Queen’s displeasure was increased by another consideration. The blaze of popularity that surrounded the Earl was not to her liking58. She did not approve of anyone being popular except herself. When it was proposed that thanksgiving services for the Cadiz victory should be held all over the country, her Majesty59 ordered that the celebrations should be limited to London. She was vexed61 to hear that a sermon had been preached in Saint Paul’s, in which Essex had been compared to the greatest generals of antiquity62 and his “justice, wisdom, valour and noble carriage” highly extolled63; and she took care to make some biting remarks about his strategy at the next Council. “I have a crabbed64 fortune that gives me no quiet,” Essex wrote, “and the sour food I am fain still to digest may breed sour humours.” It was an odd premonition; but he brushed such thoughts aside. In spite of everything he would struggle to keep his temper, and “as warily65 watch myself from corrupting66 myself as I do seek to guard myself from others.”
His patience and forbearance were soon rewarded. News came that the West Indian fleet, laden67 with twenty million ducats, had entered the Tagus only two days after the English had departed. It seemed clear that if the plan urged by Essex had been adopted — that if the armament had waited off the coast of Portugal as he had advised — the whole huge treasure would have been captured. Elizabeth had a sudden revulsion. Was it possible that she had been unjust? Ungenerous? Certainly she had been misinformed. Essex swam up into high favour, and the Queen’s anger, veering68 round full circle, was vented69 upon his enemies. Sir William Knollys, the Earl’s uncle, was made a member of the Privy70 Council and Comptroller of the Household. The Cecils were seriously alarmed, and Burghley, trimming his sails to the changing wind, thought it advisable, at the next Council, to take the side of Essex in the matter of the Spanish ransoms. But the move was not successful. Elizabeth turned upon him in absolute fury. “My Lord Treasurer,” she roared, “either for fear or favour, you regard my Lord of Essex more than myself. You are a miscreant71! You are a coward!” The poor old man tottered72 away in a shaken condition to write a humble73 expostulation to the Earl. “My hand is weak, my mind troubled,” he began. His case, he continued, was worse than to be between Scylla and Charybdis, “for my misfortune is to fall into both . . . Her Majesty chargeth and condemneth me for favouring of you against her; your Lordship contrariwise misliketh me for pleasing of her Majesty to offend you.” He really thought that it was time for him to retire. “I see no possibility worthily74 to shun75 both these dangers, but by obtaining of licence to live an anchorite, or some such private life, whereunto I am meetest for my age, my infirmity, and daily decaying estate; but yet I shall not be stopped by the displeasure of either of you both to keep my way to heaven.” Essex replied, as was fit, with a letter of dignified76 sympathy. But Anthony Bacon’s comments were different; he did not conceal77 his delighted animosity. “Our Earl, God be thanked!” he told a correspondent in Italy, “hath with the bright beams of his valour and virtue78 scattered79 the clouds and cleared the mists that malicious80 envy had stirred up against his matchless merit; which hath made the Old Fox to crouch81 and whine82.”
Burghley was indeed very much upset. He considered the whole situation carefully, and he came to the conclusion that perhaps, after all, he had made a mistake in his treatment of the Bacons. Would that young nobleman have ever reached so dangerous an eminence83 without the support of his nephews? Did not they supply him with just that intellectual stiffening84, that background of sense and character, which his unstable85 temperament86 required? Was it possibly still not too late to detach them? He could but try. Anthony was obviously the more active and menacing of the two, and if he could be won over . . . He sent Lady Russell, the sister of his wife and Lady Bacon, on an embassy to her nephew, with conciliatory messages and bearing offers of employment and reward. The conversation was long, but it was fruitless. Anthony would not budge87 an inch. He was irrevocably committed to the Earl, whom he worshipped with the sombre passion of an invalid88, his uncle’s early neglect of him could never be forgiven or forgotten, and as for his cousin Robert, his hatred89 of him was only equalled by his scorn. He explained his feelings in detail to his aunt, who hardly knew what to answer. The Secretary, he declared, had actually “denounced a deadly feud” against him. “Ah, vile90 urchin91!” said Lady Russell, “is it possible?” Anthony replied with a laugh and a Gascon proverb —“Brane d’ane ne monte pas al ciel.”
“By God,” said Lady Russell, “but he is no ass17.”
“Let him go for a mule92 then, Madam,” rejoined Anthony, “the most mischievous93 beast that is.” When his aunt had gone, Anthony wrote out a minute account of the conversation and sent it to his patron, concluding with a protestation to his “Good Lord” of “the entire devotion of my heart, together with the unchangeable vow94 of perfect obedience95, which it hath long since no less resolutely96 than freely sworn unto your lordship, and the confidence I have in your lordship’s most noble and true love.” Why indeed should he change? How futile97 to suggest it! And now, when so many years of service had grown into adoration98 — now, when so many years of labour were blossoming into success!
For, in truth, the dreams of Anthony seemed to be on the brink99 of fulfilment; it was difficult to conceive what could prevent Essex from becoming before long the real ruler of England. His ascendancy100 over Elizabeth appeared to be complete. Her personal devotion had not lessened101 with time; on the contrary it seemed now to be reinforced by a growing recognition of his qualities as a soldier and a statesman. The Cecils bowed before him; Raleigh was not admitted to the royal presence; no other rivals were visible. Dominating the Council table, he shouldered the duties and responsibilities of high office with vigour102 and assurance. Work poured in upon him; he had, he said, “to provide for the saving of Ireland, the contenting of France, the winning of the Low Countries to such conditions as they are yet far from; and the discovering and preventing of practices and designs, which are more and greater than ever.” In the midst of so much business and so much success, he did not forget his friends. His conscience pricked103 him on the score of Thomas Bodley. What reparation could he make for the loss of the Secretaryship, which he had promised his faithful follower104 in vain? He bethought him of the library of Bishop105 Jerome Osorius, seized up so unexpectedly on that summer day at Faro. Bodley should have it — it was the very thing. And Bodley did have it; and such was the curious beginning of the great Library that bears his name.
Success, power, youth, royal favour, popular glory — what was lacking in the good fortune of the marvellous Earl? Only one thing, perhaps — and that too now was given him: the deathless consecration106 of Art. A supreme poet, blending together with the enchantment107 of words the loveliness of an hour and the vastness of human destiny, bestowed108 a splendid immortality109 upon the
“noble Peer,
Great England’s glory and the world’s wide wonder,
Whose dreadful name late through all Spain did thunder,
And Hercules two pillars standing110 near
Did make to quake and fear.
Fair branch of Honour, flower of Chivalry111,
That fillest England with thy triumph’s fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victory!”
The prowess and the person of Essex stand forth112, lustrous113 and dazzling, before all eyes.
Yet there was one pair of eyes — and one only — that viewed the gorgeous spectacle without blinking. The cold viper-gaze of Francis Bacon, heedless of the magnificence of the exterior115, pierced through to the inner quiddity of his patron’s situation and saw there nothing but doubt and danger. With extraordinary courage and profound wisdom he chose this very moment — the apex116, so it seemed, of Essex’s career — to lift his voice in warning and exhortation117. In a long letter, composed with elaborate solicitude118 and displaying at once an exquisite appreciation119 of circumstances, a consummate acquaintance with the conditions of practical life, and a prescience that was almost superhuman, he explained to the Earl the difficulties of his position, the perils120 that the future held in store for him, and the course of conduct by which those perils might be avoided. Everything, it was obvious, hinged upon the Queen; but Bacon perceived that in this very fact lay, not the strength, but the weakness of Essex’s situation. He had no doubt what Elizabeth’s half-conscious thoughts must be.—“A man of a nature not to be ruled; that hath the advantage of my affection, and knoweth it; of an estate not grounded to his greatness; of a popular reputation; of a militar dependence121.” What might not come of such considerations? “I demand,” he wrote, “whether there can be a more dangerous image than this represented to any monarch122 living, much more to a lady, and of her Majesty’s apprehension123?” It was essential that the whole of Essex’s behaviour should be dominated by an effort to remove those suspicions from Elizabeth’s mind. He was to take the utmost pains to show her that he was not “opiniastre and unrulable”; he was “to take all occasions, to the Queen, to speak against popularity and popular courses vehemently125 and to tax it in all others”; above all, he was utterly126 to eschew127 any appearance of “militar dependence.”
“Herein,” wrote Bacon, “I cannot sufficiently128 wonder at your Lordship’s course . . . for her Majesty loveth peace. Next she loveth not charge. Thirdly, that kind of dependence maketh a suspected greatness.” But there was more than that. Bacon clearly realised that Essex was not cut out to be a General; Cadiz, no doubt, had gone off well; but he distrusted these military excursions, and he urged the Earl to indulge in no more of them. There were rumours that he wished to be made the Master of the Ordnance129; such thoughts were most unwise. Let him concentrate upon the Council; there he could control military matters without taking a hand in them; and, if he wished for a new office, let him choose one that was now vacant and was purely130 civilian131 in its character: let him ask the Queen to make him the Lord Privy Seal.
No advice could have been more brilliant or more pertinent132. If Essex had followed it, how different would his history have been! But — such are the curious imperfections of the human intellect — while Bacon’s understanding was absolute in some directions, in others it no less completely failed. With his wise and searching admonitions he mingled133 other counsel which was exactly calculated to defeat the end he had in view. Profound in everything but psychology134, the actual steps which he urged Essex to take in order to preserve the Queen’s favour were totally unfitted to the temperament of the Earl. Bacon wished his patron to behave with the Machiavellian135 calculation that was natural to his own mind. Essex was to enter into an elaborate course of flattery, dissimulation136, and reserve. He was not in fact to imitate the subserviency137 of Leicester or Hatton — oh no!— but he was to take every opportunity of assuring Elizabeth that he followed these noblemen as patterns, “for I do not know a readier mean to make her Majesty think you are in your right way.” He must be very careful of his looks. If, after a dispute, he agreed that the Queen was right, “a man must not read formality in your countenance.” And “fourthly, your Lordship should never be without some particulars afoot, which you should seem to pursue with earnestness and affection, and then let them fall, upon taking knowledge of her Majesty’s opposition138 and dislike.” He might, for instance, “pretend a journey to see your living and estate towards Wales,” and, at the Queen’s request, relinquish139 it. Even the “lightest sort of particulars” were by no means to be neglected —“habits, apparel, wearings, gestures, and the like.” As to “the impression of a popular reputation,” that was “a good thing in itself,” and besides “well governed, is one of the best flowers of your greatness both present and to come.” It should be handled tenderly. “The only way is to quench140 it verbis and not rebus141.” The vehement124 speeches against popularity must be speeches and nothing more. In reality, the Earl was not to dream of giving up his position as the people’s favourite. “Go on in your honourable142 commonwealth143 courses as before.”
Such counsels were either futile or dangerous. How was it possible that the frank impetuosity of Essex should ever bend itself to these crooked ways? Everyone knew — everyone, apparently, but Bacon — that the Earl was incapable144 of dissembling. “He can conceal nothing,” said Henry Cuffe; “he carries his love and his hatred on his forehead.” To such a temperament it was hard to say which was the most alien — the persistent145 practice of some profoundly calculated stratagem146 or the momentary147 trickery of petty cunning. “Apparel, wearings, gestures!” How vain to hope that Essex would ever attend to that kind of tiresome148 particularity! Essex, who was always in a hurry or a dream — Essex, who would sit at table unconscious of what he ate or drank, shovelling149 down the food, or stopping suddenly to fall into some long abstraction — Essex, who to save his time would have himself dressed among a crowd of friends and suitors, giving, as Henry Wotton says, “his legs, arms, and breast to his ordinary servants to button and dress him, with little heed114, his head and face to his barber, his eyes to his letters, and ears to petitioners,” and so, clad in he knew not what, a cloak hastily thrown about him, would pass out, with his odd long steps, and his head pushed forward, to the Queen.
And, when he reached her, suppose that then, by some miracle, he remembered the advice of Bacon, and attempted to put into practice one or other of the contrivances that his friend had suggested. What would happen? Was it not clear that his nature would assert itself in spite of all his efforts?— that what was really in his mind would appear under his inexpert pretences150, and his bungling151 become obvious to the far from blind Elizabeth? Then indeed his last state would be worse than his first; his very honesty would display his falsehood; and in his attempt to allay152 suspicions that were baseless he would actually have given them a reality.
Essex, no doubt, read and reread Bacon’s letter with admiration153 and gratitude154 — though perhaps, too, with some involuntary sighs. But he was soon to receive a very different admonition from another member of the family. Old Lady Bacon had been keeping, as was her wont155, a sharp watch upon the Court from Gorhambury. Shortly after the Earl’s return from Cadiz she had received a surprisingly good report of his behaviour. He had suddenly — so Anthony wrote — given up his dissipated habits, and taken to “Christian zealous156 courses, not missing preaching or prayers in the Court, and showing true noble kindness towards his virtuous157 spouse158, without any diversion.” So far so good; but the amendment160, it appeared, was not very lasting161. Within a month or two, rumours were flying of an intrigue162 between the Earl and a married lady of high position. Lady Bacon was profoundly shocked; she was not, however, surprised; such doings were only to be expected in the godless world of London. The opportunity for a letter — a severely163 pious164 letter — presented itself. As for the lady in question, no words could be too harsh for such a creature. She was “unchaste and impudent165, with, as it were, an incorrigible166 unshamefacedness.” She was “an unchaste gaze and common by-word.”
“The Lord,” she prayed, “speedily, by His grace, amend159 her, or”— that would be simplest —“cut her off before some sudden mischief167.” For Essex, such extreme measures were not yet necessary; he was, of course, less guilty, and there was still hope of his reformation. Let him read one Thessalonians chapter four verse 3, and he would see that “this is the will of God, that ye should be holy, and abstain168 from fornication.” Nay169, more; he would find “a heavy threat that fornicators and adulterers God will judge, and that they shall be shut out; for such things, says the Apostle, commonly cometh the wrath170 of God upon us.” Let him take care, and “grieve not the Holy Spirit of God.”
“With my very inward affection,” she concluded, “have I thus presumed ill-favoredly to scribble171, I confess, being sickly and weak in many ways.”
Essex replied immediately, in the style of pathetic and dignified beauty that was familiar to him. “I take it,” he wrote, “as a great argument of God’s favour in sending so good an angel to admonish172 me; and of no small care in your Ladyship of my well-doing.” He denied the whole story. “I protest before the majesty of God that this charge which is newly laid upon me is false and unjust; and that, since my departure from England towards Spain, I have been free from taxation173 of incontinency with any woman that lives.” It was all, he declared, an invention of his enemies. “I live in a place where I am hourly conspired174 against, and practised upon. What they cannot make the world believe, that they persuade themselves unto; and what they cannot make probable to the Queen, that they give out to the world . . . Worthy175 Lady, think me a weak man, full of imperfections; but be assured I do endeavour to be good, and had rather mend my faults than cover them.” The Dowager did not quite know what to make of these protestations; perhaps they were genuine — she hoped so. He had begged her, in a postscript176, to burn his letter; but she preferred not to. She folded it carefully up, with her crabbed fingers, and put it on one side, for future reference.
Whatever may have been the truth about the story that had reached her, it is clear that she no more understood the nature of her correspondent than she did that of her younger son. That devout177 austerity had too little in common with the generous looseness of the Earl, who, no doubt, felt that he might justly bow it on one side with some magnificent asseverations. His spirit, wayward, melancholy, and splendid, belonged to the Renaissance178 — the English Renaissance, in which the conflicting currents of ambition, learning, religion, and lasciviousness179 were so subtly intervolved. He lived and moved in a superb uncertainty180. He did not know what he was or where he was going. He could not resist the mysterious dominations of moods — intense, absorbing, and utterly at variance181 with one another. He turned aside suddenly from the exciting whirl of business and politics to adore alone, in some inner room, the sensuous183 harmonies of Spenser. He dallied184 dangerously with Court beauties; and then went to meditate185 for hours upon the attributes of the Deity186 in the cold church of Saint Paul. His lot seemed to lead him irrevocably along the paths of action and power; and yet he could not determine whether that was indeed the true direction of his destiny; he dreamt of the remoteness of Lanfey and the serene187 solitudes188 of Chartley Chase. He was sent for by the Queen. He came into her presence, and another series of contradictory189 emotions overwhelmed him. Affection — admiration — exasperation190 — mockery — he felt them all by turns, and sometimes, so it seemed, simultaneously191. It was difficult to escape the prestige of age, royalty192, and success; it was impossible to escape the fascination193 of that rare intellect, with its alluring194 sinuosities and all the surprises of its gay vitality195. His mind, swept along by hers, danced down delightful196 avenues. What happy twists! What new delicious vistas197! And then — what had happened? The twists had grown abrupt198, unaccountable, ridiculous. His head span. There was the way — plain and clear before them; but she insisted upon whisking round innumerable corners, and all his efforts could not keep her straight. She was a preposterous199, obstinate200 old woman, fluctuating only when she should be firm, and strong in nothing but perversity201. And he, after all, was a man, with a man’s power of insight and determination; he could lead if she would follow; but Fate had reversed the r?les, and the natural master was a servant. Sometimes, perhaps, he could impose his will upon her — but after what an expenditure202 of energy, what a prolonged assertion of masculinity! A woman and a man! Yes, indeed, it was all too obvious! Why was he where he was? Why had he any influence whatever? It was not only obvious, it was ludicrous, it was disgusting: he satisfied the peculiar203 cravings of a virgin205 of sixty-three. How was this to end? His heart sank, and, as he was about to leave her, he caught sight of something inexplicable206 in those extraordinary eyes. He hurried home — to his wife, his friends, his sisters; and then, in his great house by the River, one of those physical collapses207, which from his boyhood had never been long absent, would come upon him; incapable of thought or action, shivering in the agonies of ague, he would lie for days in melancholy and darkness upon his bed.
But, after all, he could not resist the pressure of circumstances, the nature of the time, the call to do and to lead. His vital forces returned to him, bringing with them the old excitements of adventure and jealousies208 of ambition. Spain loomed209 as ever upon the horizon; she had not been crushed at Cadiz; the snake was still dangerous, and must be scotched210 again. There was talk of another expedition. Francis Bacon might say what he would; but if there was one how would it be possible for the “noble Peer” of the Prothalamium to keep out of it? How could he leave the agitation211 and the triumph to Walter Raleigh? How could he stay behind with the hunchback secretary, writing at a table? In private, he pressed the Queen eagerly; and she seemed more amenable212 than usual; she agreed to the principle of an armed attack, but hesitated over its exact form. The news began to leak out, and Francis Bacon grew uneasy. The event, he saw, would show whether his advice was going to be taken: the parting of the ways was at hand.
In the meantime, while the future hung in the balance, that versatile213 intelligence was occupied in a different direction. In January 1597 a small volume made its appearance — one of the most remarkable214 that has ever come from the press. Of its sixty pages, the first twenty-five were occupied by ten diminutive215 “Essays”— the word was new in English — in which the reflections of a matchless observer were expressed in an imperishable form. They were reflections upon the ways of this world, and particularly upon the ways of Courts. In later years Bacon enlarged the collection, widening the range of his subjects, and enriching his style with ornament216 and colour; but here all was terse217, bare and practical. In a succession of gnomic sentences, from which every beauty but those of force and point had been strictly218 banished219, he uttered his thoughts upon such themes as “Suitors,” “Ceremonies and Respects,” “Followers and Friends,” “Expense,” and “Negociating.”
“Some books,” he wrote, “are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested”; there can be no doubt to which category his own belongs. And, as one chews, one learns much, not only of the methods of politic182 behaviour, but of the nature of the author, and of that curious quality of mingled boldness and circumspection220 that was native to his mind. “Mean men must adhere,” he says, in his essay on “Faction221,” “but great men that have strength in themselves were better to maintain themselves indifferent and neutral; yet,” he adds, “even in beginners to adhere so moderately, as he be a man of the one faction, which is passablest with the other, commonly giveth best way.” The book was dedicated222 to “Mr. Anthony Bacon, his dear brother”; but what did Anthony, with his instinct for uncompromising devotion, think of such an apophthegm?
Whatever Anthony might think, Francis could not help it; in the last resort he must be swayed not by his brother but by his perception of the facts. It was clear that one of those periodical crises, which seemed to punctuate223 the relations of the Queen and the Earl with ever-increasing violence, was rapidly approaching. It became known that a naval224 attack upon Spain had actually been decided225 upon; but who was to command it? Early in February, Essex took to his bed. The Queen came to visit him; he seemed to recover after so signal an act of favour; and then once more was prostrate226. The nature of his ailment227 was dubious228: was he sulking, or was he really ill? Perhaps he was both. For a fortnight he remained invisible, while the Queen fretted229, and rumour50 after rumour flew round the Court. The signs of a struggle — a quarrel — were obvious. It was declared on good authority that the Queen had told him that he was to share the command of the expedition with Raleigh and Thomas Howard; and that thereupon the Earl had sworn to have nothing to do with it. At last Elizabeth’s vexation burst out into speech. “I shall break him of his will,” she exclaimed, “and pull down his great heart!” She wondered where he got his obstinacy230; but, of course, it was from his mother — from Lettice Knowles, her cousin, that woman whom she hated — the widow of Leicester. Then the news came that the Earl was better, so much better that he had risen, and was about to depart from the Court immediately, to visit his estates in Wales.
Bacon could hardly doubt any more where all this was leading. He made up his mind. He was a beginner; and it was for him “to adhere so moderately, as he be a man of the one faction, which is passablest with the other.” He wrote to Burghley. He wrote with deliberation and subtle care. “I thought,” he said, “it would better manifest what I desire to express, if I did write out of a settled consideration of mine own duty, rather than upon the spur of a particular occasion.” He mingled flattery and gratitude, touching231 upon “your Lordship’s excellent wisdom,” and adding “My singular good Lord, ex abundantia cordis, I must acknowledge how greatly and diversely your Lordship hath vouchsafed232 to tie me unto you by many your benefits.” In a tone of deep respect and humility233, he pressed his services upon his uncle. “This causeth me most humbly234 to pray your Lordship to believe that your Lordship is upon just title a principal owner and proprietary235 of that, I cannot call talent, but mite60, that God hath given me; which I ever do and shall devote to your service.” He even begged for forgiveness; he even dissociated himself — with an ameliorating parenthesis236 — from his brother Anthony. “In like humble manner I pray your Lordship to pardon mine errors, and not to impute237 unto me the errors of any other (which I know also themselves have by this time left and forethought); but to conceive of me to be a man that daily profiteth in duty.” And he closed with a final protestation, cast in a sentence of superb rhythm, with a noble and touching fall. “And so again, craving204 your Honour’s pardon for so long a letter, carrying so empty an offer of so unpuissant a service, but yet a true and unfeigned signification of an honest and vowed238 duty, I cease; commending your Lordship to the preservation239 of the Divine Majesty.”
Burghley’s answer is unknown to us; but we may be sure that he did not repel240 these advances, nor fail to note their implications. Events were now moving rapidly. The death of old Lord Cobham, by leaving vacant the Wardenship241 of the Cinque Ports, brought the crisis to a head. His son, the new Lord, hoped to succeed to the office; but he was hated by Essex, who pressed the claims of Sir Robert Sidney. For a week the conflict raged, and then the Queen announced her decision: the Wardenship should go to Lord Cobham. Thereupon Essex declared once more that he would leave the Court — that he had pressing business in Wales. All was prepared; men and horses were ready, and the Earl was only waiting to bid farewell to Burghley, when he was sent for by the Queen. There was a private interview, which ended in a complete reconciliation242; and Essex emerged Master of the Ordnance.
So this was the consequence of Francis Bacon’s advice! He had told the Earl to pretend a journey, in order to be able to waive243 it gracefully244 at the request of the Queen; and the foolish man had done the very opposite — had used it as a threat with which to force the royal hand. And to what end? To pursue what was most to be avoided — to emphasise245 that “militar dependence” which was at once so futile and so full of danger — nay, even to get possession of that very office, the Mastership of the Ordnance, which he had been particularly recommended to shun.
Clearly, the letter to Burghley was justified246; it had become imperative247 for a “beginner” to acquire some other aid to the good things of this world besides what was offered by the dubious fortune of Essex. Yet it would be foolish to abandon the old connexion altogether; it might still prove useful, in a variety of ways. For instance, Sir William Hatton was dead; he had left a rich widow — young and eligible248; to marry her would be an excellent cure for that disease from which Bacon was still suffering — consumption of the purse. Negotiations249 were set on foot, and it seemed as if all might end happily, if the lady’s father, Sir Thomas Cecil, could be brought to agree. Bacon begged Essex to use his influence; and Essex did all that he was asked. He wrote to Sir Thomas, expatiating250 upon the merits of his “dear and worthy friend” who, he had heard, was “a suitor to my Lady Hatton; your daughter.”
“To warrant my moving of you to incline favourably251 to his suit, I will only add this, that if she were my sister or daughter, I protest I would as confidently resolve myself to farther it, as now I persuade you. And though my love to him be exceedingly great, yet is my judgment252 nothing partial; for he that knows him so well as I do cannot but be so affected253.” Yet, once more, the Earl’s influence was unavailing; for some unknown cause, Bacon was again disappointed; and Lady Hatton, like the Attorney-Generalship, went to Edward Coke.
Essex had not only been made Master of the Ordnance; he had also been given the command of the expedition against Spain. For months it had been known that the Spaniards had been busy with elaborate naval preparations in their great adjoining harbours of Corunna and Ferrol. The destination of the new Armada was unknown — perhaps it was Africa, or Brittany, or Ireland; but there were persistent reports that an attack was to be made on the Isle254 of Wight. It was decided to forestall255 the danger. Essex, with Raleigh and Lord Thomas Howard under him, was to take the fleet and a powerful armed force to Ferrol, and destroy all that he found there. The Cadiz adventure, in short, was to be repeated; and why not? The Queen herself believed that it might be done — cheaply, effectively and quickly. Even the Cecils agreed. Reconciliation was in the air. Burghley acted as peace-maker, and brought his son and the Earl together. Essex gave a little dinner at his house, to which was bidden not only Sir Robert, but Walter Raleigh as well. The enmities of years were laid aside; and, in a private conclave256 of two hours, the three great men bound themselves together in friendship. As a final proof of goodwill257, it was agreed that Elizabeth should be persuaded to take Raleigh once more into her favour. She yielded, readily enough, to the double pressure; he was summoned to her presence, graciously received, and told that he might resume his duties as Captain of the Guard. Raleigh celebrated258 the occasion by having made for him a suit of silver armour259; and so once more, superb and glittering, the dangerous man stood in the royal ante-chamber at Whitehall.
And now it was summer, and the great fleet was almost ready to depart. Essex was on the coast, superintending the final preparations. He had taken his farewell of the Queen; but for a fortnight more he was in England, and the adieux were continued till the last moment in an impassioned correspondence. Difficulties, dangers, griefs there might be in that ambiguous relationship; but now absence seemed to make all things clear. Elizabeth was at her benignest. She sent off a stream of gifts and messages, she sent her portrait, she wrote constantly with her own hand. Essex was happy — active, important, excited; the great Queen, with all her majesty and all her affection, appeared before his imagination like some radiant fairy. She was his “most dear and most admired Sovereign.” He could not express his feelings; but, since “words be not able to interpret for me, then to your royal dear heart I appeal, which, without my words, can fully8 and justly understand me. Heavens and earth shall witness for me. I will strive to be worthy of so high a grace and so blessed a happiness.” He was tied to her “by more ties than ever was subject to a prince.” His soul was “poured out with most earnest, faithful, and more than most affectionate wishes.” He thanked her for her “sweet letters, indited260 by the spirit of spirits.” She had heard a report that his ship leaked, and wrote to him in alarm to bid him take precautions against the danger. He was in Plymouth, on the eve of departure, when her letter reached him. “That infinite love,” he wrote, “which I bear your Majesty makes me now love myself for your favour’s sake; and therefore, be secure, dear Lady, that I will be as useful to bring myself home to you, as you would have me be.” There was no danger, he assured her; the wind was favourable261; all was ready; they were about to sail. “I humbly kiss your royal fair hands,” he concluded, “and pour out my soul in passionate262 jealous wishes for all true joys to the dear heart of your Majesty, which must know me to be your Majesty’s humblest and devoutest vassal263, Essex.” The fleet set out to sea.
收听单词发音 |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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expeditious
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| adj.迅速的，敏捷的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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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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ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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42
foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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43
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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47
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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48
leakages
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| 泄露； 漏( leakage的名词复数 )； 漏出； 漏出物； 渗漏物 | |
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49
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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ransoms
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的名词复数 ) | |
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54
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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exacerbated
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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60
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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61
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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62
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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72
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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73
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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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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75
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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81
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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99
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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100
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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101
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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102
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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103
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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104
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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105
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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106
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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107
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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108
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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110
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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111
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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112
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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113
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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114
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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115
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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116
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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117
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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118
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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119
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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120
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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121
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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122
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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123
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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124
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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125
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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126
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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127
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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128
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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129
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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130
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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131
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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132
pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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133
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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134
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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135
machiavellian
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| adj.权谋的，狡诈的 | |
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136
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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137
subserviency
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| n.有用，裨益 | |
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138
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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139
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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140
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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141
rebus
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| n.谜,画谜 | |
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142
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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143
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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144
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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145
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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146
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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147
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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148
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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149
shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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150
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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151
bungling
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|
| adj.笨拙的，粗劣的v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的现在分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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152
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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153
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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154
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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155
wont
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|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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156
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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157
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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158
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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159
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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160
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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161
lasting
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|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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162
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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163
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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164
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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165
impudent
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|
| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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166
incorrigible
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|
| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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167
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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168
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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169
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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170
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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171
scribble
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|
| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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172
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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173
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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174
conspired
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|
| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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175
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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176
postscript
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|
| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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177
devout
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|
| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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178
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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179
lasciviousness
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180
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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181
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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182
politic
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|
| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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183
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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184
dallied
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|
| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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185
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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186
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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187
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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188
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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189
contradictory
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|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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190
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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191
simultaneously
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|
| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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192
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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193
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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194
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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195
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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196
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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197
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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198
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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199
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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200
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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201
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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202
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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203
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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204
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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205
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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206
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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207
collapses
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| 折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 )； 倒塌； 崩溃； （尤指工作劳累后）坐下 | |
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208
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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209
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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210
scotched
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| v.阻止( scotch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止（车轮）转动；弄伤；镇压 | |
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211
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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212
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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213
versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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214
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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215
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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216
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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217
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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218
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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219
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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221
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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222
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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223
punctuate
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| vt.加标点于；不时打断 | |
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224
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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225
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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226
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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227
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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228
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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229
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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230
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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231
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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233
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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234
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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235
proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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236
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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237
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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238
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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239
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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240
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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241
wardenship
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| n.warden之职权（或职务） | |
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242
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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243
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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244
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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245
emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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246
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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247
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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248
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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249
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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250
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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251
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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252
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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253
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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254
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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255
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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256
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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257
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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258
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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259
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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260
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
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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262
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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263
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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