A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a-year.
GOLDSMITH’S Deserted2 Village.
Mrs. Dods’s conviction, that her friend Tyrrel had been murdered by the sanguinary Captain MacTurk remained firm and unshaken; but some researches for the supposed body having been found fruitless, as well as expensive, she began to give up the matter in despair. “She had done her duty”—“she left the matter to them that had a charge anent such things”— and “Providence would bring the mystery to light in his own fitting time”— such were the moralities with which the good dame4 consoled herself; and, with less obstinacy5 than Mr. Bindloose had expected, she retained her opinion without changing her banker and man of business.
Perhaps Meg’s acquiescent7 inactivity in a matter which she had threatened to probe so deeply, was partly owing to the place of poor Tyrrel being supplied in her blue chamber8, and in her daily thoughts and cares, by her new guest, Mr. Touchwood; in possessing whom, a deserter as he was from the Well, she obtained, according to her view of the matter, a decided9 triumph over her rivals. It sometimes required, however, the full force of this reflection, to induce Meg, old and crabbed10 as she was, to submit to the various caprices and exactions of attention which were displayed by her new lodger11. Never any man talked so much as Touchwood, of his habitual12 indifference13 to food, and accommodation in travelling; and probably there never was any traveller who gave more trouble in a house of entertainment. He had his own whims15 about cookery; and when these were contradicted, especially if he felt at the same time a twinge of incipient16 gout, one would have thought he had taken his lessons in the pastry-shop of Bedreddin Hassan, and was ready to renew the scene of the unhappy cream-tart, which was compounded without pepper. Every now and then he started some new doctrine17 in culinary matters, which Mrs. Dods deemed a heresy18; and then the very house rang with their disputes. Again, his bed must necessarily be made at a certain angle from the pillow to the footposts; and the slightest deviation19 from this disturbed, he said, his nocturnal rest, and did certainly ruffle20 his temper. He was equally whimsical about the brushing of his clothes, the arrangement of the furniture in his apartment, and a thousand minuti?, which, in conversation, he seemed totally to contemn21.
It may seem singular, but such is the inconsistency of human nature, that a guest of this fanciful and capricious disposition22 gave much more satisfaction to Mrs. Dods, than her quiet and indifferent friend, Mr. Tyrrel. If her present lodger could blame, he could also applaud; and no artist, conscious of such skill as Mrs. Dods possessed23, is indifferent to the praises of such a connoisseur24 as Mr. Touchwood. The pride of art comforted her for the additional labour; nor was it a matter unworthy of this most honest publican’s consideration, that the guests who give most trouble, are usually those who incur26 the largest bills, and pay them with the best grace. On this point Touchwood was a jewel of a customer. He never denied himself the gratification of the slightest whim14, whatever expense he might himself incur, or whatever trouble he might give to those about him; and all was done under protestation, that the matter in question was the most indifferent thing to him in the world. “What the devil did he care for Burgess’s sauces, he that had eat his kouscousou, spiced with nothing but the sand of the desert? only it was a shame for Mrs. Dods to be without what every decent house, above the rank of an alehouse, ought to be largely provided with.”
In short, he fussed, fretted27, commanded, and was obeyed; kept the house in hot water, and yet was so truly good-natured when essential matters were in discussion, that it was impossible to bear him the least ill-will; so that Mrs. Dods, though in a moment of spleen she sometimes wished him at the top of Tintock,E6 always ended by singing forth28 his praises. She could not, indeed, help suspecting that he was a Nabob, as well from his conversation about foreign parts, as from his freaks of indulgence to himself, and generosity29 to others — attributes which she understood to be proper to most “Men of Ind.” But although the reader has heard her testify a general dislike to this species of Fortune’s favourites, Mrs. Dods had sense enough to know, that a Nabob living in the neighbourhood, who raises the price of eggs and poultry30 upon the good housewives around, was very different from a Nabob residing within her own gates, drawing all his supplies from her own larder31, and paying, without hesitation32 or question, whatever bills her conscience permitted her to send in. In short, to come back to the point at which we perhaps might have stopped some time since, landlady33 and guest were very much pleased with each other.
But Ennui34 finds entrance into every scene, when the gloss35 of novelty is over; and the fiend began to seize upon Mr. Touchwood just when he had got all matters to his mind in the Cleikum Inn — had instructed Dame Dods in the mysteries of curry36 and mullegatawny — drilled the chambermaid into the habit of making his bed at the angle recommended by Sir John Sinclair — and made some progress in instructing the humpbacked postilion in the Arabian mode of grooming37. Pamphlets and newspapers, sent from London and from Edinburgh by loads, proved inadequate38 to rout39 this invader40 of Mr. Touchwood’s comfort; and, at last, he bethought himself of company. The natural resource would have been the Well — but the traveller had a holy shivering of awe41, which crossed him at the very recollection of Lady Penelope, who had worked him rather hard during his former brief residence; and although Lady Binks’s beauty might have charmed an Asiatic, by the plump graces of its contour, our senior was past the thoughts of a Sultana and a haram. At length a bright idea crossed his mind, and he suddenly demanded of Mrs. Dods, who was pouring out his tea for breakfast, into a large cup of a very particular species of china, of which he had presented her with a service on condition of her rendering43 him this personal good office — “Pray, Mrs. Dods, what sort of a man is your minister?”
“He’s just a man like other men, Maister Touchwood,” replied Meg; “what sort of a man should he be?”
“A man like other men? — ay — that is to say, he has the usual complement44 of legs and arms, eyes and ears — But is he a sensible man?”
“No muckle o’ that, sir,” answered Dame Dods; “for if he was drinking this very tea that ye gat doun from London wi’ the mail, he wad mistake it for common bohea.”
“Then he has not all his organs — wants a nose, or the use of one at least,” said Mr. Touchwood; “the tea is right gunpowder45 — a perfect nosegay.”
“Aweel, that may be,” said the landlady; “but I have gi’en the minister a dram frae my ain best bottle of real Coniac brandy, and may I never stir frae the bit, if he didna commend my whisky when he set down the glass! There is no ane o’ them in the Presbytery but himsell — ay, or in the Synod either — but wad hae kend whisky frae brandy.”
“But what sort of man is he? — Has he learning?” demanded Touchwood.
“Learning? — eneugh o’ that,” answered Meg; “just dung donnart wi’ learning — lets a’ things about the Manse gang whilk gate they will, sae they dinna plague him upon the score. An awfu’ thing it is to see sic an ill-red-up house! — If I had the twa tawpies that sorn upon the honest man ae week under my drilling, I think I wad show them how to sort a lodging46!”
“Does he preach well?” asked the guest.
“Oh, weel eneugh, weel eneugh — sometimes he will fling in a lang word or a bit of learning that our farmers and bannet lairds canna sae weel follow — But what of that, as I am aye telling them? — them that pay stipend47 get aye the mair for their siller.”
“Does he attend to his parish? — Is he kind to the poor?”
“Ower muckle o’ that, Maister Touchwood — I am sure he makes the Word gude, and turns not away from those that ask o’ him — his very pocket is picked by a wheen ne’er-do-weel blackguards, that gae sorning through the country.”
“Sorning through the country, Mrs. Dods? — what would you think if you had seen the Fakirs, the Dervises, the Bonzes, the Imaums, the monks48, and the mendicants, that I have seen? — But go on, never mind — Does this minister of yours come much into company?”
“Company? — gae wa’,” replied Meg, “he keeps nae company at a’, neither in his ain house or ony gate else. He comes down in the morning in a lang ragged49 nightgown, like a potato bogle, and down he sits amang his books; and if they dinna bring him something to eat, the puir demented body has never the heart to cry for aught, and he has been kend to sit for ten hours thegither, black fasting, whilk is a’ mere50 papistrie, though he does it just out o’ forget.”
“Why, landlady, in that case, your parson is any thing but the ordinary kind of man you described him — Forget his dinner! — the man must be mad — he shall dine with me today — he shall have such a dinner as I’ll be bound he won’t forget in a hurry.”
“Ye’ll maybe find that easier said than dune,” said Mrs. Dods; “the honest man hasna, in a sense, the taste of his mouth — forby, he never dines out of his ain house — that is, when he dines at a’— A drink of milk and a bit of bread serves his turn, or maybe a cauld potato. — It’s a heathenish fashion of him, for as good a man as he is, for surely there is nae Christian51 man but loves his own bowels52.”
“Why, that may be,” answered Touchwood; “but I have known many who took so much care of their own bowels, my good dame, as to have none for any one else. — But come — bustle53 to the work — get us as good a dinner for two as you can set out — have it ready at three to an instant — get the old hock I had sent me from Cockburn — a bottle of the particular Indian Sherry — and another of your own old claret — fourth bin6, you know, Meg. — And stay, he is a priest, and must have port — have all ready, but don’t bring the wine into the sun, as that silly fool Beck did the other day. — I can’t go down to the larder myself, but let us have no blunders.”
“Nae fear, nae fear,” said Meg, with a toss of the head, “I need naebody to look into my larder but mysell, I trow — but it’s an unco order of wine for twa folk, and ane o’ them a minister.”
“Why, you foolish person, is there not the woman up the village that has just brought another fool into the world, and will she not need sack and caudle, if we leave some of our wine?”
“A gude ale-posset wad set her better,” said Meg; “however, if it’s your will, it shall be my pleasure. — But the like of sic a gentleman as yoursell never entered my doors!”
The traveller was gone before she had completed the sentence; and, leaving Meg to bustle and maunder at her leisure, away he marched, with the haste that characterised all his motions when he had any new project in his head, to form an acquaintance with the minister of St. Ronan’s, whom, while he walks down the street to the Manse, we will endeavour to introduce to the reader.
The Rev54. Josiah Cargill was the son of a small farmer in the south of Scotland; and a weak constitution, joined to the disposition for study which frequently accompanies infirm health, induced his parents, though at the expense of some sacrifices, to educate him for the ministry55. They were the rather led to submit to the privations which were necessary to support this expense, because they conceived, from their family traditions, that he had in his veins57 some portion of the blood of that celebrated58 Boanerges of the Covenant59, Donald Cargill,E7 who was slain60 by the persecutors at the town of Queensferry, in the melancholy61 days of Charles II., merely because, in the plenitude of his sacerdotal power, he had cast out of the church, and delivered over to Satan by a formal excommunication, the King and Royal Family, with all the ministers and courtiers thereunto belonging. But if Josiah was really derived63 from this uncompromising champion, the heat of the family spirit which he might have inherited was qualified65 by the sweetness of his own disposition, and the quiet temper of the times in which he had the good fortune to live. He was characterised by all who knew him as a mild, gentle, and studious lover of learning, who, in the quiet prosecution66 of his own sole object, the acquisition of knowledge, and especially of that connected with his profession, had the utmost indulgence for all whose pursuits were different from his own. His sole relaxations67 were those of a retiring, mild, and pensive3 temper, and were limited to a ramble68, almost always solitary69, among the woods and hills, in praise of which, he was sometimes guilty of a sonnet70, but rather because he could not help the attempt, than as proposing to himself the fame or the rewards which attend the successful poet. Indeed, far from seeking to insinuate71 his fugitive72 pieces into magazines and newspapers, he blushed at his poetical73 attempts even while alone, and, in fact, was rarely so indulgent to his vein56 as to commit them to paper.
From the same maid-like modesty74 of disposition, our student suppressed a strong natural turn towards drawing, although he was repeatedly complimented upon the few sketches75 which he made, by some whose judgment76 was generally admitted. It was, however, this neglected talent, which, like the swift feet of the stag in the fable77, was fated to render him a service which he might in vain have expected from his worth and learning.
My Lord Bidmore, a distinguished78 connoisseur, chanced to be in search of a private tutor for his son and heir, the Honourable79 Augustus Bidmore, and for this purpose had consulted the Professor of Theology, who passed before him in review several favourite students, any of whom he conceived well suited for the situation; but still his answer to the important and unlooked-for question, “Did the candidate understand drawing?” was answered in the negative. The Professor, indeed, added his opinion, that such an accomplishment80 was neither to be desired nor expected in a student of theology; but, pressed hard with this condition as a sine qua non, he at length did remember a dreaming lad about the Hall, who seldom could be got to speak above his breath, even when delivering his essays, but was said to have a strong turn for drawing. This was enough for my Lord Bidmore, who contrived81 to obtain a sight of some of young Cargill’s sketches, and was satisfied that, under such a tutor, his son could not fail to maintain that character for hereditary82 taste which his father and grandfather had acquired at the expense of a considerable estate, the representative value of which was now the painted canvass83 in the great gallery at Bidmore-House.
Upon following up the enquiry concerning the young man’s character, he was found to possess all the other necessary qualifications of learning and morals, in a greater degree than perhaps Lord Bidmore might have required; and, to the astonishment84 of his fellow-students, but more especially to his own, Josiah Cargill was promoted to the desired and desirable situation of private tutor to the Honourable Mr. Bidmore.
Mr. Cargill did his duty ably and conscientiously85, by a spoiled though good-humoured lad, of weak health and very ordinary parts. He could not, indeed, inspire into him any portion of the deep and noble enthusiasm which characterises the youth of genius; but his pupil made such progress in each branch of his studies as his capacity enabled him to attain86. He understood the learned languages, and could be very profound on the subject of various readings — he pursued science, and could class shells, pack mosses87, and arrange minerals — he drew without taste, but with much accuracy; and although he attained88 no commanding height in any pursuit, he knew enough of many studies, literary and scientific, to fill up his time, and divert from temptation a head, which was none of the strongest in point of resistance.
Miss Augusta Bidmore, his lordship’s only other child, received also the instructions of Cargill in such branches of science as her father chose she should acquire, and her tutor was capable to teach. But her progress was as different from that of her brother, as the fire of heaven differs from that grosser element which the peasant piles upon his smouldering hearth89. Her acquirements in Italian and Spanish literature, in history, in drawing, and in all elegant learning, were such as to enchant90 her teacher, while at the same time it kept him on the stretch, lest, in her successful career, the scholar should outstrip91 the master.
Alas92! such intercourse93, fraught94 as it is with dangers arising out of the best and kindest, as well as the most natural feelings on either side, proved in the present, as in many other instances, fatal to the peace of the preceptor. Every feeling heart will excuse a weakness, which we shall presently find carried with it its own severe punishment. Cadenus, indeed, believe him who will, has assured us, that, in such a perilous95 intercourse, he himself preserved the limits which were unhappily transgressed96 by the unfortunate Vanessa, his more impassioned pupil:—
“The innocent delight he took
To see the virgin97 mind her book,
Was but the master’s secret joy,
In school to hear the finest boy.”
But Josiah Cargill was less fortunate, or less cautious. He suffered his fair pupil to become inexpressibly dear to him, before he discovered the precipice98 towards which he was moving under the direction of a blind and misplaced passion. He was indeed utterly99 incapable100 of availing himself of the opportunities afforded by his situation, to involve his pupil in the toils101 of a mutual102 passion. Honour and gratitude103 alike forbade such a line of conduct, even had it been consistent with the natural bashfulness, simplicity104, and innocence105 of his disposition. To sigh and suffer in secret, to form resolutions of separating himself from a situation so fraught with danger, and to postpone106 from day to day the accomplishment of a resolution so prudent107, was all to which the tutor found himself equal; and it is not improbable, that the veneration108 with which he regarded his patron’s daughter, with the utter hopelessness of the passion which he nourished, tended to render his love yet more pure and disinterested109.
At length, the line of conduct which reason had long since recommended, could no longer be the subject of procrastination110. Mr. Bidmore was destined111 to foreign travel for a twelvemonth, and Mr. Cargill received from his patron the alternative of accompanying his pupil, or retiring upon a suitable provision, the reward of his past instructions. It can hardly be doubted which he preferred; for while he was with young Bidmore, he did not seem entirely112 separated from his sister. He was sure to hear of Augusta frequently, and to see some part, at least, of the letters which she was to write to her brother; he might also hope to be remembered in these letters as her “good friend and tutor;” and to these consolations113 his quiet, contemplative, and yet enthusiastic disposition, clung as to a secret source of pleasure, the only one which life seemed to open to him.
But fate had a blow in store, which he had not anticipated. The chance of Augusta’s changing her maiden114 condition for that of a wife, probable as her rank, beauty, and fortune rendered such an event, had never once occurred to him; and although he had imposed upon himself the unwavering belief that she could never be his, he was inexpressibly affected115 by the intelligence that she had become the property of another.
The Honourable Mr. Bidmore’s letters to his father soon after announced that poor Mr. Cargill had been seized with a nervous fever, and again, that his reconvalescence was attended with so much debility, it seemed both of mind and body, as entirely to destroy his utility as a travelling companion. Shortly after this the travellers separated, and Cargill returned to his native country alone, indulging upon the road in a melancholy abstraction of mind, which he had suffered to grow upon him since the mental shock which he had sustained, and which in time became the most characteristical feature of his demeanour. His meditations116 were not even disturbed by any anxiety about his future subsistence, although the cessation of his employment seemed to render that precarious117. For this, however, Lord Bidmore had made provision; for, though a coxcomb118 where the fine arts were concerned, he was in other particulars a just and honourable man, who felt a sincere pride in having drawn119 the talents of Cargill from obscurity, and entertained due gratitude for the manner in which he had achieved the important task intrusted to him in his family.
His lordship had privately120 purchased from the Mowbray family the patronage121 or advowson of the living of St. Ronan’s, then held by a very old incumbent122, who died shortly afterwards; so that upon arriving in England Cargill found himself named to the vacant living. So indifferent, however, did he feel himself towards this preferment, that he might possibly not have taken the trouble to go through the necessary steps previous to his ordination124, had it not been on account of his mother, now a widow, and unprovided for, unless by the support which he afforded her. He visited her in her small retreat in the suburbs of Marchthorn, heard her pour out her gratitude to Heaven, that she should have been granted life long enough to witness her son’s promotion125 to a charge, which in her eyes was more honourable and desirable than an Episcopal see — heard her chalk out the life which they were to lead together in the humble126 independence which had thus fallen on him — he heard all this, and had no power to crush her hopes and her triumph by the indulgence of his own romantic feelings. He passed almost mechanically through the usual forms, and was inducted into the living of St. Ronan’s.
Although fanciful and romantic, it was not in Josiah Cargill’s nature to yield to unavailing melancholy; yet he sought relief, not in society, but in solitary study. His seclusion127 was the more complete, that his mother, whose education had been as much confined as her fortunes, felt awkward under her new dignities, and willingly acquiesced128 in her son’s secession from society, and spent her whole time in superintending the little household, and in her way providing for all emergencies, the occurrence of which might call Josiah out of his favourite book-room. As old age rendered her inactive, she began to regret the incapacity of her son to superintend his own household, and talked something of matrimony, and the mysteries of the muckle wheel. To these admonitions Mr. Cargill returned only slight and evasive answers; and when the old lady slept in the village churchyard, at a reverend old age, there was no one to perform the office of superintendent129 in the minister’s family. Neither did Josiah Cargill seek for any, but patiently submitted to all the evils with which a bachelor estate is attended, and which were at least equal to those which beset130 the renowned131 Mago-Pico during his state of celibacy132.22 His butter was ill churned, and declared by all but himself and the quean who made it, altogether uneatable; his milk was burnt in the pan, his fruit and vegetables were stolen, and his black stockings mended with blue and white thread.
For all these things the minister cared not, his mind ever bent123 upon far different matters. Do not let my fair readers do Josiah more than justice, or suppose that, like Beltenebros in the desert, he remained for years the victim of an unfortunate and misplaced passion. No — to the shame of the male sex be it spoken, that no degree of hopeless love, however desperate and sincere, can ever continue for years to embitter134 life. There must be hope — there must be uncertainty135 — there must be reciprocity, to enable the tyrant136 of the soul to secure a dominion137 of very long duration over a manly138 and well-constituted mind, which is itself desirous to will its freedom. The memory of Augusta had long faded from Josiah’s thoughts, or was remembered only as a pleasing, but melancholy and unsubstantial dream, while he was straining forward in pursuit of a yet nobler and coyer mistress, in a word, of Knowledge herself.
Every hour that he could spare from his parochial duties, which he discharged with zeal139 honourable to his heart and head, was devoted140 to his studies, and spent among his books. But this chase of wisdom, though in itself interesting and dignified141, was indulged to an excess which diminished the respectability, nay142, the utility, of the deceived student; and he forgot, amid the luxury of deep and dark investigations143, that society has its claims, and that the knowledge which is unimparted, is necessarily a barren talent, and is lost to society, like the miser’s concealed144 hoard145, by the death of the proprietor146. His studies were also under the additional disadvantage, that, being pursued for the gratification of a desultory147 longing62 after knowledge, and directed to no determined148 object, they turned on points rather curious than useful, and while they served for the amusement of the student himself, promised little utility to mankind at large.
Bewildered amid abstruse149 researches, metaphysical and historical, Mr. Cargill, living only for himself and his books, acquired many ludicrous habits, which exposed the secluded150 student to the ridicule151 of the world, and which tinged152, though they did not altogether obscure, the natural civility of an amiable153 disposition, as well as the acquired habits of politeness which he had learned in the good society that frequented Lord Bidmore’s mansion154. He not only indulged in neglect of dress and appearance, and all those ungainly tricks which men are apt to acquire by living very much alone, but besides, and especially, he became probably the most abstracted and absent man of a profession peculiarly liable to cherish such habits. No man fell so regularly into the painful dilemma155 of mistaking, or, in Scottish phrase, miskenning, the person he spoke133 to, or more frequently enquired156 of an old maid for her husband, of a childless wife about her young people, of the distressed157 widower158 for the spouse159 at whose funeral he himself had assisted but a fortnight before; and none was ever more familiar with strangers whom he had never seen, or seemed more estranged160 from those who had a title to think themselves well known to him. The worthy25 man perpetually confounded sex, age, and calling; and when a blind beggar extended his hand for charity, he has been known to return the civility by taking off his hat, making a low bow, and hoping his worship was well.
Among his brethren, Mr. Cargill alternately commanded respect by the depth of his erudition, and gave occasion to laughter from his odd peculiarities161. On the latter occasions he used abruptly162 to withdraw from the ridicule he had provoked; for notwithstanding the general mildness of his character, his solitary habits had engendered163 a testy164 impatience165 of contradiction, and a keener sense of pain arising from the satire166 of others, than was natural to his unassuming disposition. As for his parishioners, they enjoyed, as may reasonably be supposed, many a hearty167 laugh at their pastor’s expense, and were sometimes, as Mrs. Dods hinted, more astonished than edified168 by his learning; for in pursuing a point of biblical criticism, he did not altogether remember that he was addressing a popular and unlearned assembly, not delivering a concio ad clerum — a mistake, not arising from any conceit169 of his learning, or wish to display it, but from the same absence of mind which induced an excellent divine, when preaching before a party of criminals condemned170 to death, to break off by promising64 the wretches171, who were to suffer next morning, “the rest of the discourse172 at the first proper opportunity.” But all the neighbourhood acknowledged Mr. Cargill’s serious and devout173 discharge of his ministerial duties; and the poorer parishioners forgave his innocent peculiarities, in consideration of his unbounded charity; while the heritors, if they ridiculed174 the abstractions of Mr. Cargill on some subjects, had the grace to recollect42 that they had prevented him from suing an augmentation of stipend, according to the fashion of the clergy1 around him, or from demanding at their hands a new manse, or the repair of the old one. He once, indeed, wished that they would amend175 the roof of his book-room, which “rained in”23 in a very pluvious manner; but receiving no direct answer from our friend Meiklewham, who neither relished176 the proposal nor saw means of eluding177 it, the minister quietly made the necessary repairs at his own expense, and gave the heritors no farther trouble on the subject.
Such was the worthy divine whom our bon vivant at the Cleikum Inn hoped to conciliate by a good dinner and Cockburn’s particular; an excellent menstruum in most cases, but not likely to be very efficacious on the present occasion.
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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7
acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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21
contemn
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| v.蔑视 | |
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22
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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23
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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24
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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25
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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26
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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27
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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28
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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29
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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30
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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31
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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32
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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33
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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34
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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35
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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36
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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37
grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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38
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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39
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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40
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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41
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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42
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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43
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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44
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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45
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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46
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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47
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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48
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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49
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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50
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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51
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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52
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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53
bustle
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|
| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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54
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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55
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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56
vein
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|
| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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57
veins
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|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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58
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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59
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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60
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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61
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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62
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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63
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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64
promising
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|
| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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65
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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66
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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67
relaxations
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| n.消遣( relaxation的名词复数 )；松懈；松弛；放松 | |
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68
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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69
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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70
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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71
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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72
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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73
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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74
modesty
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|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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75
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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76
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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77
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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78
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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79
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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80
accomplishment
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|
| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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81
contrived
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|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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82
hereditary
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|
| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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83
canvass
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|
| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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84
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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85
conscientiously
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|
| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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86
attain
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|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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87
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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88
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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89
hearth
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|
| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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90
enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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91
outstrip
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|
| v.超过，跑过 | |
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92
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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93
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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94
fraught
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|
| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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95
perilous
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|
| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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96
transgressed
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|
| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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97
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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98
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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99
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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100
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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101
toils
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| 网 | |
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102
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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103
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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104
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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105
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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106
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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107
prudent
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|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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108
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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109
disinterested
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|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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110
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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111
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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112
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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113
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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114
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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115
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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116
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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117
precarious
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|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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118
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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119
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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120
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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121
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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122
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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123
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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124
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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125
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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126
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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127
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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128
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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130
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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131
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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132
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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133
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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134
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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135
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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136
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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137
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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138
manly
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|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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139
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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140
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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141
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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142
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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143
investigations
|
|
| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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144
concealed
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|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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145
hoard
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|
| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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146
proprietor
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|
| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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147
desultory
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|
| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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148
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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149
abstruse
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|
| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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150
secluded
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|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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151
ridicule
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|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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152
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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154
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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157
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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158
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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159
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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160
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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161
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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163
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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165
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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166
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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167
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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168
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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170
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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171
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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172
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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173
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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174
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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176
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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177
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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