To the Editor of ‘Titan’.
Dear Sir,—A year or two ago,1 I received as a present from a distinguished2 and literary family in Boston (United States), a small pamphlet (twin sister of that published by Mr Payne Collier) on the text of Shakspere. Somewhere in the United States, as here in England, some unknown critic, at some unknown time, had, from some unknown source, collected and recorded on the margin3 of one amongst the Folio reprints of Shakspere by Heminge & Condell, such new readings as either his own sagacity had summarily prompted, or calm reflection had recommended, or possibly local tradition in some instances, and histrionic tradition in others, might have preserved amongst the habitués of a particular theatre. In Mr P. Collier’s case, if I recollect4 rightly, it was the First Folio (i. e., by much the best); in this American case, I think it is the Third Folio (about the worst) which had received the corrections. But, however this may be, there are two literary collaborateurs concerned in each of these parallel cases—namely, first, the original collector (possibly author) of the various readings, who lived and died probably within the seventeenth century; and, secondly5, the modern editor, who stations himself as a repeating frigate6 that he may report and pass onwards these marginal variations to us of the nineteenth century.
Cor. for Corrector, is the shorthand designation by which I have distinguished the first; Rep. for Reporter designates the other. My wish and purpose is to extract all such variations of the text as seem to have any claim to preservation7, or even, to a momentary8 consideration. But in justice to myself, and in apology for the hurried way in which the several parts of this little memorandum9 are brought into any mimicry10 of order and succession, I think it right to say that my documents are all dispersed11 into alien and distant quarters; so that I am reduced into dependence12 upon my own unassisted memory.
[The Tempest. Act I. Scene 1.
‘Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation.’
Cor. here substitutes, ‘But felt a fever of the mind:’ which substitution strikes me as entirely13 for the worse; ‘a fever of the mad’ is such a fever as customarily attacks the delirious14, and all who have lost the control of their reasoning faculties15.
[Ibid.
‘O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him; for
He’s gentle, and not fearful.’
Upon this the Reporter’s remark is, that ‘If we take fearful in its common acceptation of timorous16, the proposed change renders the passage clearer;’ but that, if we take the word fearful in its rarer signification of that which excites terror, ‘no alteration18 is needed.’ Certainly: none is needed; for the mistake (as I regard it) of Rep. lies simply in supposing the passive sense of fearful—namely, that which suffers fear—to be the ordinary sense; which now, in the nineteenth century, it is; but was not in the age of Shakspere.
[Macbeth. Scene 7.
‘Thus even-handed justice
Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice19
To our own lips.’
Cor. proposes, Returns the ingredients of, &c.; and, after the word returns is placed a comma; which, however, I suppose to be a press oversight20, and no element in the correction. Meantime, I see no call for any change whatever. The ordinary use of the word commend, in any advantageous21 introduction of a stranger by letters, seems here to maintain itself—namely, placing him in such a train towards winning favour as may give a favourable22 bias23 to his opportunities. The opportunities are not left to their own casual or neutral action, but are armed and pointed24 towards a special result by the influence of the recommender. So, also, it is here supposed that amongst several chalices25, which might else all have an equal power to conciliate notice, one specially—namely, that which contains the poison—is armed by Providence26 with a power to bias the choice, and commend itself to the poisoner’s favour.
[Ibid.
‘His two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince.’
Cor. is not happy at this point in his suggestion: tinkers are accused (often calumniously, for tinkers have enemies as well as other people) of insidiously27 enlarging holes, making simple into compound fractures, and sometimes of planting two holes where they find one. But I have it on the best authority—namely, the authority of three tinkers who were unanimous—that, if sometimes there is a little treachery of this kind amongst the profession, it is no more than would be pronounced ‘in reason’ by all candid28 men. And certainly, said one of the three, you wouldn’t look for perfection in a tinker? Undoubtedly29 a seraphic tinker would be an unreasonable30 postulate31; though, perhaps, the man in all England that came nearest to the seraphic character in one century was a tinker—namely, John Bunyan. But, as my triad of tinkers urged, men of all professions do cheat at uncertain times, are traitors32 in a small proportion, must be perfidious33, unless they make an odious34 hypocritical pretension35 to the character of angels. That tinkers are not alone in their practice of multiplying the blemishes36 on which their healing art is invoked37, seems broadly illustrated38 by the practice of verbal critics. Those who have applied39 themselves to the ancient classics, are notorious for their corrupt40 dealings in this way. And Coleridge founded an argument against the whole body upon the confessedly dreadful failure of Bentley, prince of all the order, when applied to a case where most of us could appreciate the result—namely, to the Paradise Lost. If, said Coleridge, this Bentley could err17 so extravagantly42 in a case of mother-English, what must we presume him often to have done in Greek? Here we may see to this day that practice carried to a ruinous extent, which, when charged upon tinkers, I have seen cause to restrict. In the present case from Macbeth, I fear that Cor. is slightly indulging in this tinkering practice. As I view the case, there really is no hole to mend. The old meaning of the word convince is well brought out in the celebrated43 couplet—
‘He, that’s convinc’d against his will,
Is of the same opinion still.
How can that be? I have often heard objectors say. Being convinced by his opponent—i. e., convinced that his opponent’s view is the right one—how can he retain his own original opinion, which by the supposition is in polar opposition44. But this argument rests on a false notion of the sense attached originally to the word convinced. That word was used in the sense of refuted; redargued, the alternative word, was felt to be pedantic45. The case supposed was that of a man who is reduced to an absurdity46; he cannot deny that, from his own view, an absurdity seems to follow; and, until he has shown that this absurdity is only apparent, he is bound to hold himself provisionally answered. Yet that does not reconcile him to his adversary’s opinion; he retains his own, and is satisfied that somewhere an answer to it exists, if only he could discover it.
Here the meaning is, ‘I will convince his chamberlains with wine’—i. e., will refute by means of the confusion belonging to the tragedy itself, when aided by intoxication47, all the arguments (otherwise plausible) which they might urge in self-defence.
[‘Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined48:’—
This our friend Cor. alters to twice; but for the very reason which should have checked him—namely, on Theobald’s suggestion that ‘odd numbers are used in enchantments49 and magical operations;’ and here he fancies himself to obtain an odd number by the arithmetical summation—twice added to once makes thrice. Meantime the odd number is already secured by viewing the whines50 separately, and not as a sum. The hedge-pig whined thrice—that was an odd number. Again he whined, and this time only once—this also was an odd number. Otherwise Cor. is perfectly51 right in his general doctrine52, that
‘Numero Deus impare gaudet.’
Nobody ever heard of even numbers in any case of divination53. A dog, for instance, howling under a sick person’s window, is traditionally ominous54 of evil—but not if he howls twice, or four times.
[‘I pull in resolution.’—Act V. Scene 5.
Cor. had very probably not seen Dr Johnson’s edition of Shakspere, but in common with the Doctor, under the simple coercion55 of good sense, he proposes ‘I pall;’ a restitution56 which is so self-attested, that it ought fearlessly to be introduced into the text of all editions whatever, let them be as superstitiously58 scrupulous59 as in all reason they ought to be.
[Hamlet. Act II. Scene in the Speech of Polonius.
‘Good sir, or so, or friend, or gentleman,’
is altered by Cor., and in this case with an effect of solemn humour which justifies60 itself, into
‘Good sir, or sir, or friend, or gentleman;’
meaning good sir, or sir simply without the epithet61 good, which implies something of familiarity. Polonius, in his superstitious57 respect for ranks and degrees, provides four forms of address applying to four separate cases: such is the ponderous62 casuistry which the solemn courtier brings to bear upon the most trivial of cases.
At this point, all at once, we find our sheaf of arrows exhausted63: trivial as are the new resources offered for deciphering the hidden meanings of Shakspere, their quality is even less a ground of complaint than their limitation in quantity. In an able paper published by this journal, during the autumn of 1855, upon the new readings offered by Mr Collier’s work, I find the writer expressing generally a satisfaction with the condition of Shakspere’s text. I feel sorry that I cannot agree with him. To me the text, though improved, and gradually moving round to a higher and more hopeful state of promise, is yet far indeed from the settled state which is desirable. I wish, therefore, as bearing upon all such hopes and prospects64, to mention a singular and interesting case of sudden conquest over a difficulty that once had seemed insuperable. For a period of three centuries there had existed an enigma65, dark and insoluble as that of the Sphinx, in the text of Suetonius. Isaac Casaubon had vainly besieged66 it; then, in a mood of revolting arrogance67, Joseph Scaliger; Ernesti; Gronovius; many others; and all without a gleam of success.
The passage in Suetonius which so excruciatingly (but so unprofitably) has tormented68 the wits of such scholars as have sat in judgment69 upon it through a period of three hundred and fifty years, arises in the tenth section of his Domitian. That prince, it seems, had displayed in his outset considerable promise of moral excellence70: in particular, neither rapacity71 nor cruelty was apparently72 any feature in his character. Both qualities, however, found a pretty early development in his advancing career, but cruelty the earliest. By way of illustration, Suetonius rehearses a list of distinguished men, clothed with senatorian or even consular73 rank, whom he had put to death upon allegations the most frivolous74: amongst them Aelius Lamia, a nobleman whose wife he had torn from him by open and insulting violence. It may be as well to cite the exact words of Suetonius: ‘Aelium Lamiam (interemit) ob suspiciosos quidem, verum et veteres et innoxios jocos; quòd post abductam uxorem laudanti vocem suam—dixerat, Heu taceo; quòdque Tito hortanti se ad alterum matrimonium, responderat μη και συ γαμησαι θελεις;’—that is, Aelius Lamia he put to death on account of certain jests; jests liable to some jealousy75, but, on the other hand, of old standing76, and that had in fact proved harmless as regarded practical consequences—namely, that to one who praised his voice as a singer he had replied, Heu taceo; and that on another occasion, in reply to the Emperor Titus, when urging him to a second marriage, he had said, ‘What now, I suppose you are looking out for a wife?’
The latter jest is intelligible77 enough, stinging, and witty78. As if the young men of the Flavian family could fancy no wives but such as they had won by violence from other men, he affects in a bitter sarcasm79 to take for granted that Titus, as the first step towards marrying, counselled his friends to marry as the natural means for creating a fund of eligible80 wives. The primal81 qualification of any lady as a consort82 being, in their eyes, that she had been torn away violently from a friend, it became evident that the preliminary step towards a Flavian wedding was, to persuade some incautious friend into marrying, and thus putting himself into a capacity of being robbed. How many ladies that it was infamous83 for this family to appropriate as wives, so many ladies that in their estimate were eligible in that character. Such, at least in the stinging jest of Lamia, was the Flavian rule of conduct. And his friend Titus, therefore, simply as the brother of Domitian, simply as a Flavian, he affected84 to regard as indirectly85 providing a wife, when he urged his friend by marrying to enrol86 himself as a pillagee elect.
The latter jest, therefore, when once apprehended87, speaks broadly and bitingly for itself. But the other—what can it possibly mean? For centuries has that question been reiterated88; and hitherto without advancing by one step nearer to solution. Isaac Casaubon, who about 230 years since was the leading oracle89 in this field of literature, writing an elaborate and continuous commentary upon Suetonius, found himself unable to suggest any real aids for dispersing90 the thick darkness overhanging the passage. What he says is this:—‘Parum satisfaciunt mihi interpretes in explicatione hujus Lamiæ dicti. Nam quod putant Heu taceo suspirium esse ejus—indicem doloris ob abductam uxorem magni sed latentis, nobis non ita videtur; sed notatam potius fuisse tyrannidem principis, qui omnia in suo genere pulchra et excellentia possessoribus eriperet, unde necessitas incumbebat sua bona dissimulandi celandique.’ Not at all satisfactory to me are the commentators91 in the explanation of the dictum (which is here equivalent to dicterium) of Lamia. For, whereas they imagine Heu taceo to be a sigh of his—the record and indication of a sorrow, great though concealed92, on behalf of the wife that had been violently torn away from him—me, I confess, that the case does not strike in that light; but rather that a satiric93 blow was aimed at the despotism of the sovereign prince, who tore away from their possessors all objects whatsoever94 marked by beauty or distinguished merit in their own peculiar95 class: whence arose a pressure of necessity for dissembling and hiding their own advantages. ‘Sic esse exponendum,’ that such is the true interpretation96 (continues Casaubon), ‘docent illa verba [LAUDANTI VOCEM SUAM],’ (we are instructed by those words), [to one who praised his singing voice, &c.].
This commentary was obscure enough, and did no honour to the native good sense of Isaac Casaubon, usually so conspicuous97. For, whilst proclaiming a settlement, in reality it settled nothing. Naturally, it made but a feeble impression upon the scholars of the day; and not long after the publication of the book, Casaubon received from Joseph Scaliger a friendly but gasconading letter, in which that great scholar brought forward a new reading—namely, ευτακτω, to which he assigned a profound technical value as a musical term. No person even affected to understand Scaliger. Casaubon himself, while treating so celebrated a man with kind and considerate deference98, yet frankly99 owned that, in all his vast reading, he had never met with this strange Greek word. But, without entering into any dispute upon that verbal question, and conceding to Scaliger the word and his own interpretation of the word, no man could understand in what way this new resource was meant to affect the ultimate question at issue—namely, the extrication100 of the passage from that thick darkness which overshadowed it.
‘As you were‘ (to speak in the phraseology of military drill), was in effect the word of command. All things reverted101 to their original condition. And two centuries of darkness again enveloped102 this famous perplexity of Roman literature. The darkness had for a few moments seemed to be unsettling itself in preparation for flight: but immediately it rolled back again; and through seven generations of men this darkness was heavier, because less hopeful than before.
Now then, I believe, all things are ready for the explosion of the catastrophe104; ‘which catastrophe,’ I hear some malicious105 reader whispering, ‘is doubtless destined106 to glorify107 himself’ (meaning the unworthy writer of this little paper). I cannot deny it. A truth is a truth. And, since no medal, nor riband, nor cross, of any known order, is disposable for the most brilliant successes in dealing41 with desperate (or what may be called condemned) passages in Pagan literature, mere108 sloughs109 of despond that yawn across the pages of many a heathen dog, poet and orator110, that I could mention, the more reasonable it is that a large allowance should be served out of boasting and self-glorification to all those whose merits upon this field national governments have neglected to proclaim. The Scaligers, both father and son, I believe, acted upon this doctrine; and drew largely by anticipation111 upon that reversionary bank which they conceived to be answerable for such drafts. Joseph Scaliger, it strikes me, was drunk when he wrote his letter on the present occasion, and in that way failed to see (what Casaubon saw clearly enough) that he had commenced shouting before he was out of the wood. For my own part, if I go so far as to say that the result promises, in the Frenchman’s phrase, to ‘cover me with glory,’ I beg the reader to remember that the idea of ‘covering’ is of most variable extent: the glory may envelope one in a voluminous robe—a princely mantle112 that may require a long suite113 of train-bearers, or may pinch and vice114 one’s arms into that succinct115 garment (now superannuated) which some eighty years ago drew its name from the distinguished Whig family in England of Spencer. Anticipating, therefore, that I shall—nay116, insisting, and mutinously117, if needful, that I will—be covered with glory by the approaching result, I do not contemplate118 anything beyond that truncated119 tunic120, once known as a ‘spencer,’ and which is understood to cover only the shoulders and the chest.
Now, then, all being ready, and the arena121 being cleared of competitors (for I suppose it is fully122 understood that everybody but myself has retired123 from the contest), thrice, in fact, has the trumpet124 sounded, ‘Do you give it up?’ Some preparations there are to be made in all cases of contest. Meantime, let it be clearly understood what it is that the contest turns upon. Supposing that one had been called, like Œdipus of old, to a turn-up with that venerable girl the Sphinx, most essential it would have been that the clerk of the course (or however you designate the judge, the umpire, &c.) should have read the riddle125 propounded126 to Greece: how else judge of the solution? At present the elements of the case to be decided127 stand thus:—
A Roman noble, a man, in fact, of senatorial rank, has been robbed, robbed with violence, and with cruel scorn, of a lovely young wife, to whom he was most tenderly attached. But by whom? the indignant reader demands. By a younger son2 of the Roman emperor Vespasian.
For some years the wrong has been borne in silence: the sufferer knew himself to be powerless as against such an oppressor; and that to show symptoms of impotent hatred128 was but to call down thunderbolts upon his own head. Generally, therefore, prudence129 had guided him. Patience had been the word; silence, and below all the deep, deep word—wait; and if by accident he were a Christian130, not only that same word wait would have been heard, but this beside, look under the altars for others that also wait. But poor suffering patience, sense of indignity131 that is hopeless, must (in order to endure) have saintly resources. Infinite might be the endurance, if sustained only by a finite hope. But the black despairing darkness that revealed a tossing sea self-tormented and fighting with chaos132, showing neither torch that glimmered133 in the foreground, nor star that kept alive a promise in the distance, violently refused to be comforted. It is beside an awful aggravation134 of such afflictions, that the lady herself might have co-operated in the later stages of the tragedy with the purposes of the imperial ruffian. Lamia had been suffered to live, because as a living man he yielded up into the hands of his tormentor135 his whole capacity of suffering; no part of it escaped the hellish range of his enemy’s eye. But this advantage for the torturer had also its weak and doubtful side. Use and monotony might secretly be wearing away the edge of the organs on and through which the corrosion136 of the inner heart proceeded. On the whole, therefore, putting together the facts of the case, it seems to have been resolved that he should die. But previously137 that he should drink off a final cup of anguish138, the bitterest that had yet been offered. The lady herself, again—that wife so known historically, so notorious, yet so total a stranger to man and his generations—had she also suffered in sympathy with her martyred husband? That must have been known to a certainty in the outset of the case, by him that knew too profoundly on what terms of love they had lived. But at length, seeking for crowning torments139, it may have been that the dreadful Cæsar might have found the ‘raw’ in his poor victim, that offered its fellowship in exalting140 the furnace of misery141. The lady herself—may we not suppose her at the last to have given way before the strengthening storm. Possibly to resist indefinitely might have menaced herself with ruin, whilst offering no benefit to her husband. And, again, though killing142 to the natural interests which accompany such a case, might not the lady herself be worn out, if no otherwise, by the killing nature of the contest? There is besides this dreadful fact, placed ten thousand times on record, that the very goodness of the human heart in such a case ministers fuel to the moral degradation143 of a female combatant. Any woman, and exactly in proportion to the moral sensibility of her nature, finds it painful to live in the same house with a man not odiously144 repulsive145 in manners or in person on terms of eternal hostility146. In a community so nobly released as was Rome from all base Oriental bondage147 of women, this followed—that compliances of a nature oftentimes to belie103 the native nobility of woman become painfully liable to misinterpretation. Possibly under the blinding delusion148 of secret promises, unknown, nay, inaccessible149, to those outside (all contemporaries being as ridiculously impotent to penetrate150 within the curtain as all posterity), the wife of Lamia, once so pure, may have been over-persuaded to make such public manifestations151 of affection for Domitian as had hitherto, upon one motive152 or another, been loftily withheld153. Things, that to a lover carry along with them irreversible ruin, carry with them final desolation of heart, are to the vast current of ordinary men, who regard society exclusively from a political centre, less than nothing. Do they deny the existence of other and nobler agencies in human affairs? Not at all. Readily they confess these agencies: but, as movements obeying laws not known, or imperfectly known to them, these they ignore. What it was circumstantially that passed, long since has been overtaken and swallowed up by the vast oblivions of time. This only survives—namely, that what he said gave signal offence in the highest quarter, and that his death followed. But what was it that he did say? That is precisely154 the question, and the whole question which we have to answer. At present we know, and we do not know, what it was that he said. We have bequeathed to us by history two words—involving eight letters—which in their present form, with submission155 to certain grandees156 of classic literature, mean exactly nothing. These two words must be regarded as the raw material upon which we have to work: and out of these we are required to turn out a rational saying for Aelius Lamia, under the following five conditions:—First, it must allude157 to his wife, as one that is lost to him irrecoverably; secondly, it must glance at a gloomy tyrant158 who bars him from rejoining her; thirdly, it must reply to the compliment which had been paid to the sweetness of his own voice; fourthly, it should in strictness contain some allusion159 calculated not only to irritate, but even to alarm or threaten his jealous and vigilant160 enemy; fifthly, doing all these things, it ought also to absorb, as its own main elements, the eight letters contained in the present senseless words—‘Heu taceo.‘
Here is a monstrous161 quantity of work to throw upon any two words in any possible language. Even Shakspere’s clown,3 when challenged to furnish a catholic answer applicable to all conceivable occasions, cannot do it in less than nine letters—namely, Oh lord, sir. I, for my part, satisfied that the existing form of Heu taceo was mere indictable and punishable nonsense, but yet that this nonsense must enter as chief element into the stinging sense of Lamia, gazed for I cannot tell how many weeks at these impregnable letters, viewing them sometimes as a fortress162 that I was called upon to escalade, sometimes as an anagram that I was called upon to re-organise into the life which it had lost through some dislocation of arrangement. Finally the result in which I landed, and which fulfilled all the conditions laid down was this:—Let me premise163, however, what at any rate the existing darkness attests164, that some disturbance165 of the text must in some way have arisen; whether from the gnawing166 of a rat, or the spilling of some obliterating167 fluid at this point of some critical or unique MS. It is sufficient for us that the vital word has survived. I suppose, therefore, that Lamia had replied to the friend who praised the sweetness of his voice, ‘Sweet is it? Ah, would to Heaven it might prove Orpheutic.’ Ominous in this case would be the word Orpheutic to the ears of Domitian: for every school-boy knows that this means a wife-revoking voice. But first let me remark that there is such a legitimate168 word as Orpheutaceam: and in that case the Latin repartee169 of Lamia would stand thus—Suavem dixisti? Quam vellem et Orpheutaceam. But, perhaps, reader, you fail to recognise in this form our old friend Heu taceo. But here he is to a certainty, in spite of the rat: and in a different form of letters the compositor will show him, up to you as—vellem et Orp. [HEU TACEAM]. Possibly, being in good humour, you will be disposed to wink170 at the seemingly surreptitious AM, though believing the real word to be taceo. Let me say, therefore, that one reading, I believe, gives taceam. Here, then, shines out at once—(1) Eurydice the lovely wife; (2) detained by the gloomy tyrant Pluto171; (3) who, however, is forced into surrendering her to her husband, whose voice (the sweetest ever known) drew stocks and stones to follow him, and finally his wife; (4) the word Orpheutic involves an alarming threat, showing that the hope of recovering the lady still survived; (5) we have involved in the restoration all the eight, or perhaps nine, letters of the erroneous form.
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unravelled
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的过去式和过去分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chalices
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| n.高脚酒杯( chalice的名词复数 )；圣餐杯；金杯毒酒；看似诱人实则令人讨厌的事物 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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28
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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29
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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30
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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31
postulate
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| n.假定，基本条件；vt.要求，假定 | |
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32
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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33
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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34
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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35
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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36
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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37
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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38
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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40
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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41
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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42
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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43
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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44
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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45
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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46
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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47
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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48
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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49
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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50
whines
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| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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53
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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54
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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55
coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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56
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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57
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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58
superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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59
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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60
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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61
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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62
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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63
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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64
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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65
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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66
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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68
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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69
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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70
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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71
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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72
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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74
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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75
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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77
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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78
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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79
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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80
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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81
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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82
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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83
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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84
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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85
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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86
enrol
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| v.（使）注册入学，（使）入学，（使）入会 | |
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87
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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88
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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90
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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91
commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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92
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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93
satiric
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| adj.讽刺的，挖苦的 | |
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94
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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95
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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96
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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97
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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98
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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99
frankly
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|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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100
extrication
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| n.解脱；救出，解脱 | |
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101
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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102
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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104
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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105
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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106
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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107
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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108
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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109
sloughs
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| n.沼泽( slough的名词复数 )；苦难的深渊；难以改变的不良心情；斯劳(Slough)v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的第三人称单数 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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110
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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111
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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112
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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113
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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114
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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115
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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116
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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117
mutinously
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| adv.反抗地，叛变地 | |
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118
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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119
truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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120
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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121
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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122
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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123
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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124
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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125
riddle
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|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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126
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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128
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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129
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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130
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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131
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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132
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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133
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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135
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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136
corrosion
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| n.腐蚀，侵蚀；渐渐毁坏，渐衰 | |
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137
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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138
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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139
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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140
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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141
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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142
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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143
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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144
odiously
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| Odiously | |
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145
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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146
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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147
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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148
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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149
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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150
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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151
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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152
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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153
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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154
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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155
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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156
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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157
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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158
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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159
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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160
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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161
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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162
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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163
premise
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| n.前提；v.提论，预述 | |
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164
attests
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| v.证明( attest的第三人称单数 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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165
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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166
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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167
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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168
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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169
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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170
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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171
Pluto
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| n.冥王星 | |
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