The general plan of the story was, to conjoin two characters in that bustling6 and contentious7 age, who, thrown into situations which gave them different views on the subject of the Reformation, should, with the same sincerity8 and purity of intention, dedicate themselves, the one to the support of the sinking fabric9 of the Catholic Church, the other to the establishment of the Reformed doctrines10. It was supposed that some interesting subjects for narrative11 might be derived12 from opposing two such enthusiasts13 to each other in the path of life, and contrasting the real worth of both with their passions and prejudices. The localities of Melrose suited well the scenery of the proposed story; the ruins themselves form a splendid theatre for any tragic14 incident which might be brought forward; joined to the vicinity of the fine river, with all its tributary15 streams, flowing through a country which has been the scene of so much fierce fighting, and is rich with so many recollections of former times, and lying almost under the immediate eye of the author, by whom they were to be used in composition.
The situation possessed farther recommendations. On the opposite bank of the Tweed might be seen the remains16 of ancient enclosures, surrounded by sycamores and ash-trees of considerable size. These had once formed the crofts or arable17 ground of a village, now reduced to a single hut, the abode18 of a fisherman, who also manages a ferry. The cottages, even the church which once existed there, have sunk into vestiges19 hardly to be traced without visiting the spot, the inhabitants having gradually withdrawn20 to the more prosperous town of Galashiels, which has risen into consideration, within two miles of their neighbourhood. Superstitious22 eld, however, has tenanted the deserted23 groves24 with aerial beings, to supply the want of the mortal tenants25 who have deserted it. The ruined and abandoned churchyard of Boldside has been long believed to be haunted by the Fairies, and the deep broad current of the Tweed, wheeling in moonlight round the foot of the steep bank, with the number of trees originally planted for shelter round the fields of the cottagers, but now presenting the effect of scattered26 and detached groves, fill up the idea which one would form in imagination for a scene that Oberon and Queen Mab might love to revel27 in. There are evenings when the spectator might believe, with Father Chaucer, that the
— Queen of Faery,
With harp28, and pipe, and symphony,
Were dwelling29 in the place.
Another, and even a more familiar refuge of the elfin race, (if tradition is to be trusted,) is the glen of the river, or rather brook30, named the Allen, which falls into the Tweed from the northward31, about a quarter of a mile above the present bridge. As the streamlet finds its way behind Lord Sommerville’s hunting-seat, called the Pavilion, its valley has been popularly termed the Fairy Dean, or rather the Nameless Dean, because of the supposed ill luck attached by the popular faith of ancient times, to any one who might name or allude32 to the race, whom our fathers distinguished33 as the Good Neighbours, and the Highlanders called Daoine Shie, or Men of Peace; rather by way of compliment, than on account of any particular idea of friendship or pacific relation which either Highlander34 or Borderer entertained towards the irritable35 beings whom they thus distinguished, or supposed them to bear to humanity. 1
In evidence of the actual operations of the fairy people even at this time, little pieces of calcareous matter are found in the glen after a flood, which either the labours of those tiny artists, or the eddies36 of the brook among the stones, have formed into a fantastic resemblance of cups, saucers, basins, and the like, in which children who gather them pretend to discern fairy utensils37.
Besides these circumstances of romantic locality, mea paupera regna (as Captain Dalgetty denominates his territory of Drumthwacket) are bounded by a small but deep lake, from which eyes that yet look on the light are said to have seen the waterbull ascend38, and shake the hills with his roar.
Indeed, the country around Melrose, if possessing less of romantic beauty than some other scenes in Scotland, is connected with so many associations of a fanciful nature, in which the imagination takes delight, as might well induce one even less attached to the spot than the author, to accommodate, after a general manner, the imaginary scenes he was framing to the localities to which he was partial. But it would be a misapprehension to suppose, that, because Melrose may in general pass for Kennaquhair, or because it agrees with scenes of the Monastery39 in the circumstances of the drawbridge, the milldam, and other points of resemblance, that therefore an accurate or perfect local similitude is to be found in all the particulars of the picture. It was not the purpose of the author to present a landscape copied from nature, but a piece of composition, in which a real scene, with which he is familiar, had afforded him some leading outlines. Thus the resemblance of the imaginary Glendearg with the real vale of the Allen, is far from being minute, nor did the author aim at identifying them. This must appear plain to all who know the actual character of the Glen of Allen, and have taken the trouble to read the account of the imaginary Glendearg. The stream in the latter case is described as wandering down a romantic little valley, shifting itself, after the fashion of such a brook, from one side to the other, as it can most easily find its passage, and touching40 nothing in its progress that gives token of cultivation41. It rises near a solitary42 tower, the abode of a supposed church vassal43, and the scene of several incidents in the Romance.
The real Allen, on the contrary, after traversing the romantic ravine called the Nameless Dean, thrown off from side to side alternately, like a billiard ball repelled44 by the sides of the table on which it has been played, and in that part of its course resembling the stream which pours down Glendearg, may be traced upwards45 into a more open country, where the banks retreat farther from each other, and the vale exhibits a good deal of dry ground, which has not been neglected by the active cultivators of the district. It arrives, too, at a sort of termination, striking in itself, but totally irreconcilable46 with the narrative of the Romance. Instead of a single peel-house, or border tower of defence, such as Dame47 Glendinning is supposed to have inhabited, the head of the Allen, about five miles above its junction48 with the Tweed, shows three ruins of Border houses, belonging to different proprietors50, and each, from the desire of mutual51 support so natural to troublesome times, situated52 at the extremity53 of the property of which it is the principal messuage. One of these is the ruinous mansion-house of Hillslap, formerly54 the property of the Cairncrosses, and now of Mr. Innes of Stow; a second the tower of Colmslie, an ancient inheritance of the Borthwick family, as is testified by their crest55, the Goat’s Head, which exists on the ruin; 2 a third, the house of Langshaw, also ruinous, but near which the proprietor49, Mr. Baillie of Jerviswood and Mellerstain, has built a small shooting box.
All these ruins, so strangely huddled56 together in a very solitary spot, have recollections and traditions of their own, but none of them bear the most distant resemblance to the descriptions in the Romance of the Monastery; and as the author could hardly have erred57 so grossly regarding a spot within a morning’s ride of his own house, the inference is, that no resemblance was intended. Hillslap is remembered by the humours of the last inhabitants, two or three elderly ladies, of the class of Miss Raynalds, in the Old Manor58 House, though less important by birth and fortune. Colmslie is commemorated59 in song:—
Colmslie stands on Colmslie hill.
The water it flows round Colmslie mill;
The mill and the kiln60 gang bonnily.
And it’s up with the whippers of Colmslie.
Langshaw, although larger than the other mansions61 assembled at the head of the supposed Glendearg, has nothing about it more remarkable62 than the inscription63 of the present proprietor over his shooting lodge64 — Utinam hane eliam viris impleam amicis — a modest wish, which I know no one more capable of attaining65 upon an extended scale, than the gentleman who has expressed it upon a limited one.
Having thus shown that I could say something of these desolated67 towers, which the desire of social intercourse68, or the facility of mutual defence, had drawn21 together at the head of this Glen, I need not add any farther reason to show, that there is no resemblance between them and the solitary habitation of Dame Elspeth Glendinning. Beyond these dwellings69 are some remains of natural wood, and a considerable portion of morass70 and bog71; but I would not advise any who may be curious in localities, to spend time in looking for the fountain and holly-tree of the White Lady.
While I am on the subject I may add, that Captain Clutterbuck, the imaginary editor of the Monastery, has no real prototype in the village of Melrose or neighbourhood, that ever I saw or heard of. To give some individuality to this personage, he is described as a character which sometimes occurs in actual society — a person who, having spent his life within the necessary duties of a technical profession, from which he has been at length emancipated72, finds himself without any occupation whatever, and is apt to become the prey73 of ennui74, until he discerns some petty subject of investigation75 commensurate to his talents, the study of which gives him employment in solitude76; while the conscious possession of information peculiar77 to himself, adds to his consequence in society. I have often observed, that the lighter78 and trivial branches of antiquarian study are singularly useful in relieving vacuity79 of such a kind, and have known them serve many a Captain Clutterbuck to retreat upon; I was therefore a good deal surprised, when I found the antiquarian Captain identified with a neighbour and friend of my own, who could never have been confounded with him by any one who had read the book, and seen the party alluded80 to. This erroneous identification occurs in a work entitled, “Illustrations of the Author of Waverley, being Notices and Anecdotes81 of real Characters, Scenes, and Incidents, supposed to be described in his works, by Robert Chambers82.” This work was, of course, liable to many errors, as any one of the kind must be, whatever may be the ingenuity83 of the author, which takes the task of explaining what can be only known to another person. Mistakes of place or inanimate things referred to, are of very little moment; but the ingenious author ought to have been more cautious of attaching real names to fictitious84 characters. I think it is in the Spectator we read of a rustic85 wag, who, in a copy of “The Whole Duty of Man,” wrote opposite to every vice86 the name of some individual in the neighbourhood, and thus converted that excellent work into a libel on a whole parish.
The scenery being thus ready at the author’s hand, the reminiscences of the country were equally favourable87. In a land where the horses remained almost constantly saddled, and the sword seldom quitted the warrior’s side — where war was the natural and constant state of the inhabitants, and peace only existed in the shape of brief and feverish88 truces90 — there could be no want of the means to complicate91 and extricate92 the incidents of his narrative at pleasure. There was a disadvantage, notwithstanding, in treading this Border district, for it had been already ransacked93 by the author himself, as well as others; and unless presented under a new light, was likely to afford ground to the objection of Crambe bis cocta.
To attain66 the indispensable quality of novelty, something, it was thought, might be gained by contrasting the character of the vassals94 of the church with those of the dependants95 of the lay barons96, by whom they were surrounded. But much advantage could not be derived from this. There were, indeed, differences betwixt the two classes, but, like tribes in the mineral and vegetable world, which, resembling each other to common eyes, can be sufficiently97 well discriminated98 by naturalists99, they were yet too similar, upon the whole, to be placed in marked contrast with each other.
Machinery100 remained — the introduction of the supernatural and marvellous; the resort of distressed101 authors since the days of Horace, but whose privileges as a sanctuary102 have been disputed in the present age, and well-nigh exploded. The popular belief no longer allows the possibility of existence to the race of mysterious beings which hovered103 betwixt this world and that which is invisible. The fairies have abandoned their moonlight turf; the witch no longer holds her black orgies in the hemlock104 dell; and
Even the last lingering phantom105 of the brain,
The churchyard ghost, is now at rest again.
From the discredit106 attached to the vulgar and more common modes in which the Scottish superstition107 displays itself, the author was induced to have recourse to the beautiful, though almost forgotten, theory of astral spirits, or creatures of the elements, surpassing human beings in knowledge and power, but inferior to them, as being subject, after a certain space of years, to a death which is to them annihilation, as they have no share in the promise made to the sons of Adam. These spirits are supposed to be of four distinct kinds, as the elements from which they have their origin, and are known, to those who have studied the cabalistical philosophy, by the names of Sylphs, Gnomes108, Salamanders, and Naiads, as they belong to the elements of Air, Earth, Fire, or Water. The general reader will find an entertaining account of these elementary spirits in the French book entitled, “Entretiens de Compte du Gabalis.” The ingenious Compte de la Motte Fouqu? composed, in German, one of the most successful productions of his fertile brain, where a beautiful and even afflicting109 effect is produced by the introduction of a water-nymph, who loses the privilege of immortality111 by consenting to become accessible to human feelings, and uniting her lot with that of a mortal, who treats her with ingratitude112.
In imitation of an example so successful, the White Lady of Avenel was introduced into the following sheets. She is represented as connected with the family of Avenel by one of those mystic ties, which, in ancient times, were supposed to exist, in certain circumstances, between the creatures of the elements and the children of men. Such instances of mysterious union are recognized in Ireland, in the real Milosian families, who are possessed of a Banshie; and they are known among the traditions of the Highlands, which, in many cases, attached an immortal110 being or spirit to the service of particular families or tribes. These demons113, if they are to be called so, announced good or evil fortune to the families connected with them; and though some only condescended114 to meddle115 with matters of importance, others, like the May Mollach, or Maid of the Hairy Arms, condescended to mingle116 in ordinary sports, and even to direct the Chief how to play at draughts117.
There was, therefore, no great violence in supposing such a being as this to have existed, while the elementary spirits were believed in; but it was more difficult to describe or imagine its attributes and principles of action. Shakespeare, the first of authorities in such a case, has painted Ariel, that beautiful creature of his fancy, as only approaching so near to humanity as to know the nature of that sympathy which the creatures of clay felt for each other, as we learn from the expression —“Mine would, if I were human.” The inferences from this are singular, but seem capable of regular deduction118. A being, however superior to man in length of life — in power over the elements — in certain perceptions respecting the present, the past, and the future, yet still incapable119 of human passions, of sentiments of moral good and evil, of meriting future rewards or punishments, belongs rather to the class of animals, than of human creatures, and must therefore be presumed to act more from temporary benevolence120 or caprice, than from anything approaching to feeling or reasoning. Such a being’s superiority in power can only be compared to that of the elephant or lion, who are greater in strength than man, though inferior in the scale of creation. The partialities which we suppose such spirits to entertain must be like those of the dog; their sudden starts of passion, or the indulgence of a frolic, or mischief121, may be compared to those of the numerous varieties of the cat. All these propensities122 are, however, controlled by the laws which render the elementary race subordinate to the command of man — liable to be subjected by his science, (so the sect123 of Gnostics believed, and on this turned the Rosicrucian philosophy,) or to be overpowered by his superior courage and daring, when it set their illusions at defiance124.
It is with reference to this idea of the supposed spirits of the elements, that the White Lady of Avenel is represented as acting125 a varying, capricious, and inconsistent part in the pages assigned to her in the narrative; manifesting interest and attachment126 to the family with whom her destinies are associated, but evincing whim127, and even a species of malevolence128, towards other mortals, as the Sacristan, and the Border robber, whose incorrect life subjected them to receive petty mortifications at her hand. The White Lady is scarcely supposed, however, to have possessed either the power or the inclination129 to do more than inflict130 terror or create embarrassment131, and is also subjected by those mortals, who, by virtuous132 resolution, and mental energy, could assert superiority over her. In these particulars she seems to constitute a being of a middle class, between the esprit follet who places its pleasure in misleading and tormenting133 mortals, and the benevolent134 Fairy of the East, who uniformly guides, aids, and supports them.
Either, however, the author executed his purpose indifferently, or the public did not approve of it; for the White Lady of Avenel was far from being popular. He does not now make the present statement, in the view of arguing readers into a more favourable opinion on the subject, but merely with the purpose of exculpating136 himself from the charge of having wantonly intruded137 into the narrative a being of inconsistent powers and propensities.
In the delineation138 of another character, the author of the Monastery failed, where he hoped for some success. As nothing is so successful a subject for ridicule139 as the fashionable follies140 of the time, it occurred to him that the more serious scenes of his narrative might be relieved by the humour of a cavaliero of the age of Queen Elizabeth. In every period, the attempt to gain and maintain the highest rank of society, has depended on the power of assuming and supporting a certain fashionable kind of affectation, usually connected with some vivacity141 of talent and energy of character, but distinguished at the same time by a transcendent flight, beyond sound reason and common sense; both faculties142 too vulgar to be admitted into the estimate of one who claims to be esteemed143 “a choice spirit of the age.” These, in their different phases, constitute the gallants of the day, whose boast it is to drive the whims145 of fashion to extremity.
On all occasions, the manners of the sovereign, the court, and the time, must give the tone to the peculiar description of qualities by which those who would attain the height of fashion must seek to distinguish themselves. The reign146 of Elizabeth, being that of a maiden147 queen, was distinguished by the decorum of the courtiers, and especially the affectation of the deepest deference148 to the sovereign. After the acknowledgment of the Queen’s matchless perfections, the same devotion was extended to beauty as it existed among the lesser149 stars in her court, who sparkled, as it was the mode to say, by her reflected lustre150. It is true, that gallant144 knights151 no longer vowed152 to Heaven, the peacock, and the ladies, to perform some feat153 of extravagant154 chivalry155, in which they endangered the lives of others as well as their own; but although their chivalrous156 displays of personal gallantry seldom went farther in Elizabeth’s days than the tilt-yard, where barricades157, called barriers, prevented the shock of the horses, and limited the display of the cavalier’s skill to the comparatively safe encounter of their lances, the language of the lovers to their ladies was still in the exalted158 terms which Amadis would have addressed to Oriana, before encountering a dragon for her sake. This tone of romantic gallantry found a clever but conceited159 author, to reduce it to a species of constitution and form, and lay down the courtly manner of conversation, in a pedantic161 book, called Euphues and his England. Of this, a brief account is given in the text, to which it may now be proper to make some additions.
The extravagance of Euphuism, or a symbolical162 jargon163 of the same class, predominates in the romances of Calprenade and Scuderi, which were read for the amusement of the fair sex of France during the long reign of Louis XIV., and were supposed to contain the only legitimate164 language of love and gallantry. In this reign they encountered the satire165 of Moliere and Boileau. A similar disorder166, spreading into private society, formed the ground of the affected167 dialogue of the Praecieuses, as they were styled, who formed the coterie168 of the Hotel de Rambouillet, and afforded Moliere matter for his admirable comedy, Les Praecieuses Ridicules169. In England, the humour does not seem to have long survived the accession of James I.
The author had the vanity to think that a character, whose peculiarities170 should turn on extravagances which were once universally fashionable, might be read in a fictitious story with a good chance of affording amusement to the existing generation, who, fond as they are of looking back on the actions and manners of their ancestors, might be also supposed to be sensible of their absurdities171. He must fairly acknowledge that he was disappointed, and that the Euphuist, far from being accounted a well drawn and humorous character of the period, was condemned172 as unnatural173 and absurd. It would be easy to account for this failure, by supposing the defect to arise from the author’s want of skill, and, probably, many readers may not be inclined to look farther. But as the author himself can scarcely be supposed willing to acquiesce174 in this final cause, if any other can be alleged175, he has been led to suspect, that, contrary to what he originally supposed, his subject was injudiciously chosen, in which, and not in his mode of treating it, lay the source of the want of success.
The manners of a rude people are always founded on nature, and therefore the feelings of a more polished generation immediately sympathize with them. We need no numerous notes, no antiquarian dissertations176, to enable the most ignorant to recognize the sentiments and diction of the characters of Homer; we have but, as Lear says, to strip off our lendings — to set aside the factitious principles and adornments which we have received from our comparatively artificial system of society, and our natural feelings are in unison177 with those of the bard178 of Chios and the heroes who live in his verses. It is the same with a great part of the narratives179 of my friend Mr. Cooper. We sympathize with his Indian chiefs and back-woodsmen, and acknowledge, in the characters which he presents to us, the same truth of human nature by which we should feel ourselves influenced if placed in the same condition. So much is this the case, that, though it is difficult, or almost impossible, to reclaim180 a savage181, bred from his youth to war and the chase, to the restraints and the duties of civilized182 life, nothing is more easy or common than to find men who have been educated in all the habits and comforts of improved society, willing to exchange them for the wild labours of the hunter and the fisher. The very amusements most pursued and relished183 by men of all ranks, whose constitutions permit active exercise, are hunting, fishing, and, in some instances, war, the natural and necessary business of the savage of Dryden, where his hero talks of being
—“As free as nature first made man,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.”
But although the occupations, and even the sentiments, of human beings in a primitive184 state, find access and interest in the minds of the more civilized part of the species, it does not therefore follow, that the national tastes, opinions, and follies of one civilized period, should afford either the same interest or the same amusement to those of another. These generally, when driven to extravagance, are founded, not upon any natural taste proper to the species, but upon the growth of some peculiar cast of affectation, with which mankind in general, and succeeding generations in particular, feel no common interest or sympathy. The extravagances of coxcombry185 in manners and apparel are indeed the legitimate and often the successful objects of satire, during the time when they exist. In evidence of this, theatrical186 critics may observe how many dramatic jeux d’esprit are well received every season, because the satirist187 levels at some well-known or fashionable absurdity188; or, in the dramatic phrase, “shoots folly189 as it flies.” But when the peculiar kind of folly keeps the wing no longer, it is reckoned but waste of powder to pour a discharge of ridicule on what has ceased to exist; and the pieces in which such forgotten absurdities are made the subject of ridicule, fall quietly into oblivion with the follies which gave them fashion, or only continue to exist on the scene, because they contain some other more permanent interest than that which connects them with manners and follies of a temporary character.
This, perhaps, affords a reason why the comedies of Ben Jonson, founded upon system, or what the age termed humours — by which was meant factitious and affected characters, superinduced on that which was common to the rest of their race — in spite of acute satire, deep scholarship, and strong sense, do not now afford general pleasure, but are confined to the closet of the antiquary, whose studies have assured him that the personages of the dramatist were once, though they are now no longer, portraits of existing nature.
Let us take another example of our hypothesis from Shakspeare himself, who, of all authors, drew his portraits for all ages. With the whole sum of the idolatry which affects us at his name, the mass of readers peruse190, without amusement, the characters formed on the extravagances of temporary fashion; and the Euphuist Don Armado, the pedant160 Holofernes, even Nym and Pistol, are read with little pleasure by the mass of the public, being portraits of which we cannot recognize the humour, because the originals no longer exist. In like manner, while the distresses191 of Romeo and Juliet continue to interest every bosom192, Mercutio, drawn as an accurate representation of the finished fine gentleman of the period, and as such received by the unanimous approbation193 of contemporaries, has so little to interest the present age, that, stripped of all his puns, and quirks194 of verbal wit, he only retains his place in the scene, in virtue195 of his fine and fanciful speech upon dreaming, which belongs to no particular age, and because he is a personage whose presence is indispensable to the plot.
We have already prosecuted196 perhaps too far an argument, the tendency of which is to prove, that the introduction of an humorist, acting like Sir Piercie Shafton, upon some forgotten and obsolete197 model of folly, once fashionable, is rather likely to awaken198 the disgust of the reader, as unnatural, than find him food for laughter. Whether owing to this theory, or whether to the more simple and probable cause of the author’s failure in the delineation of the subject he had proposed to himself, the formidable objection of incredulus odi was applied199 to the Euphuist, as well as to the White Lady of Avenel; and the one was denounced as unnatural, while the other was rejected as impossible.
There was little in the story to atone200 for these failures in two principal points. The incidents were inartificially huddled together. There was no part of the intrigue201 to which deep interest was found to apply; and the conclusion was brought about, not by incidents arising out of the story itself, but in consequence of public transactions, with which the narrative has little connexion, and which the reader had little opportunity to become acquainted with.
This, if not a positive fault, was yet a great defect in the Romance. It is true, that not only the practice of some great authors in this department, but even the general course of human life itself, may be quoted in favour of this more obvious and less artificial practice of arranging a narrative. It is seldom that the same circle of personages who have surrounded an individual at his first outset in life, continue to have an interest in his career till his fate comes to a crisis. On the contrary, and more especially if the events of his life be of a varied202 character, and worth communicating to others, or to the world, the hero’s later connexions are usually totally separated from those with whom he began the voyage, but whom the individual has outsailed, or who have drifted astray, or foundered203 on the passage. This hackneyed comparison holds good in another point. The numerous vessels204 of so many different sorts, and destined205 for such different purposes, which are launched in the same mighty206 ocean, although each endeavours to pursue its own course, are in every case more influenced by the winds and tides, which are common to the element which they all navigate207, than by their own separate exertions208. And it is thus in the world, that, when human prudence209 has done its best, some general, perhaps national, event, destroys the schemes of the individual, as the casual touch of a more powerful being sweeps away the web of the spider.
Many excellent romances have been composed in this view of human life, where the hero is conducted through a variety of detached scenes, in which various agents appear and disappear, without, perhaps, having any permanent influence on the progress of the story. Such is the structure of Gil Blas, Roderick Random210, and the lives and adventures of many other heroes, who are described as running through different stations of life, and encountering various adventures, which are only connected with each other by having happened to be witnessed by the same individual, whose identity unites them together, as the string of a necklace links the beads211, which are otherwise detached.
But though such an unconnected course of adventures is what most frequently occurs in nature, yet the province of the romance writer being artificial, there is more required from him than a mere135 compliance212 with the simplicity213 of reality — just as we demand from the scientific gardener, that he shall arrange, in curious knots and artificial parterres, the flowers which “nature boon” distributes freely on hill and dale. Fielding, accordingly, in most of his novels, but especially in Tom Jones, his chef-d’oeuvre, has set the distinguished example of a story regularly built and consistent in all its parts, in which nothing occurs, and scarce a personage is introduced, that has not some share in tending to advance the catastrophe214.
To demand equal correctness and felicity in those who may follow in the track of that illustrious novelist, would be to fetter215 too much the power of giving pleasure, by surrounding it with penal216 rules; since of this sort of light literature it may be especially said — tout217 genre218 est permis, hors le genre ennuyeux. Still, however, the more closely and happily the story is combined, and the more natural and felicitous219 the catastrophe, the nearer such a composition will approach the perfection of the novelist’s art; nor can an author neglect this branch of his profession, without incurring220 proportional censure221.
For such censure the Monastery gave but too much occasion. The intrigue of the Romance, neither very interesting in itself, nor very happily detailed222, is at length finally disentangled by the breaking out of national hostilities223 between England and Scotland, and the as sudden renewal224 of the truce89. Instances of this kind, it is true, cannot in reality have been uncommon225, but the resorting to such, in order to accomplish the catastrophe, as by a tour de force, was objected to as inartificial, and not perfectly226, intelligible227 to the general reader.
Still the Monastery, though exposed to severe and just criticism, did not fail, judging from the extent of its circulation, to have some interest for the public. And this, too, was according to the ordinary course of such matters; for it very seldom happens that literary reputation is gained by a single effort, and still more rarely is it lost by a solitary miscarriage228.
The author, therefore, had his days of grace allowed him, and time, if he pleased, to comfort himself with the burden of the old Scots song,
“If it isna weel bobbit.
We’ll bob it again.”
Abbotsford, 1st November, 1830.
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3 immediate | |
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15 tributary | |
n.支流;纳贡国;adj.附庸的;辅助的;支流的 | |
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16 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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17 arable | |
adj.可耕的,适合种植的 | |
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18 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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19 vestiges | |
残余部分( vestige的名词复数 ); 遗迹; 痕迹; 毫不 | |
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20 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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21 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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22 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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23 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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24 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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25 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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26 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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27 revel | |
vi.狂欢作乐,陶醉;n.作乐,狂欢 | |
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28 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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29 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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30 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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31 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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32 allude | |
v.提及,暗指 | |
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33 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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34 highlander | |
n.高地的人,苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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35 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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36 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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37 utensils | |
器具,用具,器皿( utensil的名词复数 ); 器物 | |
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38 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
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39 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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40 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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41 cultivation | |
n.耕作,培养,栽培(法),养成 | |
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42 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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43 vassal | |
n.附庸的;属下;adj.奴仆的 | |
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44 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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45 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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46 irreconcilable | |
adj.(指人)难和解的,势不两立的 | |
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47 dame | |
n.女士 | |
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48 junction | |
n.连接,接合;交叉点,接合处,枢纽站 | |
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49 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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50 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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51 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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52 situated | |
adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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53 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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54 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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55 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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56 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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57 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58 manor | |
n.庄园,领地 | |
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59 commemorated | |
v.纪念,庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 kiln | |
n.(砖、石灰等)窑,炉;v.烧窑 | |
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61 mansions | |
n.宅第,公馆,大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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62 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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63 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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64 lodge | |
v.临时住宿,寄宿,寄存,容纳;n.传达室,小旅馆 | |
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65 attaining | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的现在分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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66 attain | |
vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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67 desolated | |
adj.荒凉的,荒废的 | |
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68 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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69 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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70 morass | |
n.沼泽,困境 | |
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71 bog | |
n.沼泽;室...陷入泥淖 | |
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72 emancipated | |
adj.被解放的,不受约束的v.解放某人(尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚)( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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74 ennui | |
n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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75 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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76 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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77 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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78 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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79 vacuity | |
n.(想象力等)贫乏,无聊,空白 | |
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80 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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82 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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83 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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84 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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85 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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86 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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87 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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88 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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89 truce | |
n.休战,(争执,烦恼等的)缓和;v.以停战结束 | |
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90 truces | |
休战( truce的名词复数 ); 停战(协定); 停止争辩(的协议); 中止 | |
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91 complicate | |
vt.使复杂化,使混乱,使难懂 | |
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92 extricate | |
v.拯救,救出;解脱 | |
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93 ransacked | |
v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 );抢劫,掠夺 | |
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94 vassals | |
n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 );(封建时代)诸侯;从属者;下属 | |
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95 dependants | |
受赡养者,受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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96 barons | |
男爵( baron的名词复数 ); 巨头; 大王; 大亨 | |
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97 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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98 discriminated | |
分别,辨别,区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 ); 歧视,有差别地对待 | |
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99 naturalists | |
n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 );(文学艺术的)自然主义者 | |
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100 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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101 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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102 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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103 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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104 hemlock | |
n.毒胡萝卜,铁杉 | |
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105 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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106 discredit | |
vt.使不可置信;n.丧失信义;不信,怀疑 | |
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107 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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108 gnomes | |
n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 );侏儒;(尤指金融市场上搞投机的)银行家;守护神 | |
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109 afflicting | |
痛苦的 | |
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110 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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111 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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112 ingratitude | |
n.忘恩负义 | |
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113 demons | |
n.恶人( demon的名词复数 );恶魔;精力过人的人;邪念 | |
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114 condescended | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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115 meddle | |
v.干预,干涉,插手 | |
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116 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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117 draughts | |
n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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118 deduction | |
n.减除,扣除,减除额;推论,推理,演绎 | |
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119 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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120 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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121 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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122 propensities | |
n.倾向,习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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123 sect | |
n.派别,宗教,学派,派系 | |
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124 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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125 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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126 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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127 whim | |
n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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128 malevolence | |
n.恶意,狠毒 | |
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129 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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130 inflict | |
vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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131 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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132 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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133 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
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134 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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135 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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136 exculpating | |
v.开脱,使无罪( exculpate的现在分词 ) | |
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137 intruded | |
n.侵入的,推进的v.侵入,侵扰,打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 );把…强加于 | |
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138 delineation | |
n.记述;描写 | |
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139 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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140 follies | |
罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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141 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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142 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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143 esteemed | |
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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144 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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145 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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146 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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147 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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148 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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149 lesser | |
adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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150 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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151 knights | |
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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152 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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153 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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154 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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155 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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156 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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157 barricades | |
路障,障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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158 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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159 conceited | |
adj.自负的,骄傲自满的 | |
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160 pedant | |
n.迂儒;卖弄学问的人 | |
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161 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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162 symbolical | |
a.象征性的 | |
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163 jargon | |
n.术语,行话 | |
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164 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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165 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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166 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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167 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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168 coterie | |
n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体,小圈子 | |
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169 ridicules | |
n.嘲笑( ridicule的名词复数 );奚落;嘲弄;戏弄v.嘲笑,嘲弄,奚落( ridicule的第三人称单数 ) | |
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170 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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171 absurdities | |
n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 );荒谬;谬论;荒谬的行为 | |
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172 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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173 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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174 acquiesce | |
vi.默许,顺从,同意 | |
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175 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
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176 dissertations | |
专题论文,学位论文( dissertation的名词复数 ) | |
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177 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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178 bard | |
n.吟游诗人 | |
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179 narratives | |
记叙文( narrative的名词复数 ); 故事; 叙述; 叙述部分 | |
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180 reclaim | |
v.要求归还,收回;开垦 | |
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181 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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182 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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183 relished | |
v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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184 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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185 coxcombry | |
n.(男子的)虚浮,浮夸,爱打扮 | |
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186 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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187 satirist | |
n.讽刺诗作者,讽刺家,爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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188 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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189 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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190 peruse | |
v.细读,精读 | |
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191 distresses | |
n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 );痛苦;贫困;危险 | |
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192 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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193 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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194 quirks | |
n.奇事,巧合( quirk的名词复数 );怪癖 | |
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195 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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196 prosecuted | |
a.被起诉的 | |
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197 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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198 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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199 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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200 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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201 intrigue | |
vt.激起兴趣,迷住;vi.耍阴谋;n.阴谋,密谋 | |
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202 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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203 foundered | |
v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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205 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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206 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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207 navigate | |
v.航行,飞行;导航,领航 | |
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208 exertions | |
n.努力( exertion的名词复数 );费力;(能力、权力等的)运用;行使 | |
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209 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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210 random | |
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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211 beads | |
n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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212 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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213 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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214 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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215 fetter | |
n./vt.脚镣,束缚 | |
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216 penal | |
adj.刑罚的;刑法上的 | |
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217 tout | |
v.推销,招徕;兜售;吹捧,劝诱 | |
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218 genre | |
n.(文学、艺术等的)类型,体裁,风格 | |
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219 felicitous | |
adj.恰当的,巧妙的;n.恰当,贴切 | |
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220 incurring | |
遭受,招致,引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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221 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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222 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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223 hostilities | |
n.战争;敌意(hostility的复数);敌对状态;战事 | |
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224 renewal | |
adj.(契约)延期,续订,更新,复活,重来 | |
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225 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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226 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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227 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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228 miscarriage | |
n.失败,未达到预期的结果;流产 | |
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