Truly, the contrast was decided4 enough. On the right hand was the little girl, whose young life had known no trouble more severe than the cutting of teeth and the whooping-cough, with bright, chubby5 face, which smiled even during sleep, a head covered with ringlets of the purest gold, beneath her chin a spotless pinafore, sitting severely6 upright on her high, cane7-bottomed chair, as if in conscious dignity of her dominion8, past, present and to come; handling her spoon with a natural grace, and, at the same time, somewhat of an “old-fashioned” air, such as would have made a stranger smile; her figure lit up by a ray of sunlight, which streamed full upon her through the window; as a rule, silent and thoughtful, but when spoken to, replying with a considerate gravity or a quiet mirth, alike in advance of her years.
Opposite to her sat the boy, the neglected waif of Whitecross Street, whose eight years had scarcely known a joy; in all that regards the higher nature of man far more ignorant than the little girl; in all that is base and ugly and fearful all but matured in experience.
In his outer appearance there was nothing now incongruous or repulsive10; his agreeable features looked far better in the neat suit of clothes in which he was now attired11 than with the rags in which Mr. Norman had first seen him. But for all that it was painful to regard him. He evidently felt so completely estranged12 at this elegant table — he who had been accustomed to make his meals off a crust, gnawed13 whilst sitting on a door-step, or wandering about the streets. He did not know what to do with his knife and fork, his plate would not remain steady whilst he endeavoured to cut his meat; he kept slipping forwards on the chair, which was much too large for him; in short, he was utterly14 miserable15. The only thing he could really succeed in eating was bread, and of that he ate as much as possible to satisfy the keen hunger he felt.
And, in addition to these temporary troubles, that look of deep sadness still rested on his face, bespeaking16 the one great sorrow which oppressed him. In answer to the remarks which the rector now and then addressed to him, he replied with a monosyllable, hanging his head, and seeming frightened at the sound of his own voice. He kept looking on each side of him, nervously17 apprehensive18 lest anyone should be watching him. Out of absolute pity, Mr. Norman cut the dinner as short as possible.
When released from table, Arthur, being told he might dispose of himself as he would, wandered out into the orchard19 behind the house, and finding a bench placed in an out-of-the-way corner, sat down and gave himself up to his thoughts, whatever they were.
Meantime little Helen, as usual after dinner, had drawn20 a footstool close to her father’s arm-chair and sat gazing upon the fire reflectively, waiting for the usual conversation to be opened. Her father did not appear likely to open his lips first, so the little girl broke silence.
“Father, you said Arthur’s father was dead?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And why doesn’t Arthur wear black?”
The rector paused for a moment, then replied by asking another question.
“Do you think it right to wear black when a relative dies, Helen?”
“Everybody does so, father.”
“And why do they?”
“I suppose to show that they are sorry.”
“More often to make a show of sorrow they do not feel, Helen. If one is really sorry what is gained by letting all the world know it?”
“Then you do not think it right to wear black, father?”
“It is a custom; but I think a rather foolish one.”
There was a long pause, during which Helen reflected on this point.
“Father,” she said, at length, “are not a great many customs very foolish?”
“Very many, dear.”
“Then if they are foolish, and people know it, as of course they must do, why ever do not people cease doing such things?”
Helen had now come to one of those knotty21 points which she had not unfrequently arrived at in her mental excursions. As she spoke9 her fine eyes sparkled and her voice trembled with a species of irritation22.
Shaking back her curls with a pretty little movement which was habitual23 to her, she sat looking up into her father’s face, awaiting an answer.
“Custom, Helen,” replied Mr. Norman with a smile, as he ran his fingers through the golden ringlets which hid the child’s ears, “is a mighty24 god which, more or less, all the world worships, and to which it offers the most precious sacrifices — often that which it holds dearest. It does not matter whether they are willing or not to make. the sacrifice. They have all their lives worshipped the god Custom with their eyes open, and whatever it be that he claims from them they are bound to lay it upon his altar and there burn it. Sometimes it is with bursting hearts that they see their dearest hopes perishing in the flame; but it avails nothing. The god Custom is without pity.”
“I understand you, father,” replied the child, nodding her head gravely. And again there was silence for some time. Helen was the first to break it.
“Father, I read to you the other morning about the religion of the Greeks. The book said that we are better than the Greeks, for they had a great many false gods, whilst we have only one, the true one. Don’t you think we also have a great many false gods? Is not the god Custom one of them?”
The rector looked with some surprise at the speaker; but he evidently had a keen delight in her precocious25 wisdom.
“You are very right, Helen,” he replied. “The only difference is that we do not openly confess our gods, or make images of them. The gods of the Greeks were beautiful, and their images still form the noblest creations of art which the world has seen. Were we to make images of our false gods, they would be so terribly hideous26 that men would run away from them.”
“But is it possible, father, to worship these many false gods and the one true God at the same time?”
“There are very few indeed worship the true God,” replied the rector, gravely. “Even many of those who think they do so have really no idea what God is.”
“I am glad you think so, father. There is Mrs. Simpson, who teaches in the Sunday school, and who is always asking us such nasty questions about the Devil; don’t you think she is one of those people, father?”
Mr. Norman merely smiled.
Helen was too wise to press for a more explicit27 reply. After reflecting for a moment, she laid her hand on her father’s knee, and, looking up into his face with that expression of pure simplicity28 blended with curious intelligence, which gave such an unutterable charm to her young face, asked —
“Father, what is God?”
Edward Norman started, and for a moment averted29 his face; but he quickly recovered himself, and, fondling the child’s hands in both his own, spoke gravely.
“That is a more difficult question than you think, my dear little girl. It is the most difficult question that we can ask ourselves in this world. Do you ever feel that you have it in your power to choose between two things you would like to do, and when you come to think them over, see clearly that one is good and the other bad?”
“Oh, often, father!”
“And which do you feel you ought to do, the good thing or the bad thing?”
“The good thing.”
“Very well. Did you ever compare two objects together and say to yourself that one is beautiful and one is ugly?”
“Often.”
“And which of these would you keep if you had the choice?”
“The beautiful thing, of course.”
“You are right. Then you have learned that there is something in your mind which gives you the power of distinguishing between a good and a bad action, a beautiful and an ugly thing, and also bids you choose the good and the beautiful rather than the bad or the ugly. And this something is God.”
Helen made no reply, and very shortly after she rose, kissed her father, as usual, and ran to look for Arthur.
Edward Norman passed the rest of his afternoon in writing letters.
Shortly after tea, in accordance with the arrangement made with Mr. Whiffle, the rector set out in Arthur’s company for the curate’s residence. This was situated30 some quarter of an hour’s walk off, and the way thither31 led across bare fields. Mr. Norman took the boy’s hand, and questioned him as they walked, endeavouring to destroy the painful diffidence which marked Arthur’s conduct in his company. Between the questions and replies, Arthur looked up once or twice as if about to speak, but always dropped his head when his eye met Mr. Norman’s.
“Is there something you wish to say, Arthur?” asked the latter, at length.
“Where — where have they buried father, sir?” was the question spoken in trembling tones.
“I will take you to see some day,” replied the rector.
“You will?” asked Arthur, with eagerness.
“Yes, but not just yet. Do you think you can be happy with us here, Arthur?”
“I’ll try to be, sir,” replied the boy.
Then the rector began to describe the delights of the country in summer time, the beauty of the fields when they had cast off their winter garments, and clad themselves with grass and flowers and sunlight, to greet the coming of spring; he did his best to interest the boy in scenes and occupations which the latter’s fancy, through inexperience of the beautiful, was quite unable to realise. He did not seem heedless to these prospects32, for once or twice he looked up at the speaker with an expression of surprise, but then ensued a sigh as the old look of melancholy33 took possession of his features.
“I am taking you, Arthur,” said the rector, at last, “to see a gentleman who will do his best to teach you, and make a clever man of you. You say you never went to school?”
“No, sir. Father began to teach me to read, but he hadn’t time, and soon left off. He always said the school cost too much.”
“Do you think you shall like to learn?”
“I think so, sir.”
“That’s right. A man is very little use in the world if he has not a good deal of knowledge, so I know you will do your best to learn all Mr. Whiffle wishes to teach you.”
“Father knew a great deal.”
“Did he? Who told you so, Arthur?”
“I remember mother saying so, a long time ago. But she said that learning was no good, and didn’t bring in any money.”
“That is not the only use of learning, my boy. But here we are; we will talk about it again as we go home.”
It was now quite dark, and the wind, which grew colder and stronger, was howling over the long hill-side, and sweeping34 hither and thither clouds of rustling35 skeleton leaves. The house they stood before had a particularly desolate36 appearance. In front of it was what should have been a garden, a space some six yards long by four deep, in the middle of which grew a hideous abortion37 of a tree. Whether it was that the aesthetic38 sentiments of the Whiffle family possessed39 but little prominence40, or that the lack of space necessitated41 the preference of the useful to the agreeable, this space was converted into a yard for drying clothes, the abortive42 tree serving as a centre, whence a number of clothes-lines radiated, being affixed43 to poles planted against the low wall encircling the space. At present these lines were thickly hung with linen44, which, thanks to the efforts of the night wind, was careering about the lines in a frantic45 manner, producing a decidedly peculiar46 effect when seen through the dark. Glimmering47 behind these self-constituted streamers appeared a few feeble lights, apparently48 coming from the windows of the house. A wicket in the wall gave admission to the sacred precincts, and Mr. Norman entered with his companion. As they drew near the door, above all the dismal49 howling of the wind, the cracking and flapping of the wet clothes, and the shrill50 rustling of dead leaves, such a chorus of infantine screams and squalls, mingled51 with such a shouting of maturer voices, the whole being accompanied by what appeared to be a beating upon drums, an occasional blowing of a horn, and the not unfrequent crash as of falling crockery, met the astonished ear, that Mr. Norman might well be excused when he knocked hastily and loudly, in fear lest some sudden misfortune had befallen the dwelling52 of his worthy53 curate. The knock remained unanswered, and it appearing to the rector that the urgency of the case warranted a slight disregard of ceremony, he turned the handle and entered the house.
In front appeared a flight of stairs, upon which a small oil lamp stood, faintly illumining the entrance. On either hand was a door, that on the right being, as Mr. Norman was aware, the door of the curate’s so-called study, that to the left leading into the room where the family mostly lived. The latter stood slightly ajar, and from the other side of it proceeded the hubbub54, which was as yet far from diminishing. On pushing open the door, an extraordinary scene disclosed itself. In a room tolerably well furnished as dining and sitting-room55 combined, appeared to be collected the whole of the Whiffle family; Mr. Orlando Whiffle, Mrs. Whiffle, and the eight children. Half the table was covered with a white cloth, and laid with tea things, the other half was covered with a heap of newly-washed clothes, which Mrs. Whiffle had evidently been in the process of ironing when the present fracas56 commenced. The following was the tableau57: in the centre of the room stood Mr. Whiffle, his coat thrown off, his hair more stubbornly self-assertive than ever, in the act of administering corporal punishment to his first-born, Master Augustus Whiffle. With one arm he had secured the lithe58 youngster in that position which is technically59 known as “chancery,” while the other hand, armed with a schoolmaster’s cane, descended60 with alarming rapidity upon the most sensitive portion of the captive’s frame. From every pore of Mr. Whiffle’s body the perspiration61 streamed profusely62, and, not content with the violence of his muscular exertion63, he was engaged in the hopeless task of endeavouring to drown with his own voice the yells of his struggling victim. Poor Mrs. Whiffle, a very little, inoffensive-looking woman, from whose eyes the tears were streaming at the sight of young Augustus’ sufferings, was doing her best with cries and entreaties64 to mitigate65 her husband’s wrath66, whilst at the same time it was all she could do to exercise surveillance over the other seven children. Three of these, two girls and a very little boy, had crept under the table in terror, where, notwithstanding, they were doing their best simultaneously67 to empty a small pot of jam, one moment squalling in fright and sympathy, the next licking their lips in satisfaction after a delicious mouthful. Another little boy, evidently hard-hearted and callous68 to his brother’s sufferings, had taken advantage of his mother’s back being turned, to mount a lofty chair and grasp at a sugar basin which stood on the top shelf of an open cupboard, and now stood balancing himself in a position which was not a little dangerous. The sixth, a little girl, Mrs. Whiffle had inadvertently knocked over into the fire-place, and was now endeavouring, by the way, as it were, to solace69, but only with the result of increasing its howling. And, finally, the seventh and eighth, who were twins, and were now lying together in a cradle close by the table, not content with vying70 in the exercise of their shrill pipes, were taking a still more effective method of attracting attention by lugging71 one corner of the table cloth, which they had succeeded in catching72 hold of, till one by one the tea things began to roll on to the floor, some breaking, some spilling their contents, all adding their individual cracks and bumps to the total of domestic discord73.
The appearance of the rector at the door was instantaneous in its effect, one moment din1 insufferable, the next, absolute silence, save for the suppressed moaning of the twins, the sobs74 of the rest of the children and their mother, and the pantings of Mr. Whiffle, whose appearance, as he stood with one arm still raised over the body of his prostrate75 son, made a very excellent caricature of a victorious76 gladiator appealing to the verdict of thumbs. Silence was broken by the rector’s mild and good-natured tones.
“I fear I have come at an inopportune moment,” he said, bowing courteously77 to the distracted lady of the house, who was hurriedly doing her best to put things in order.
“Not at all, my dear sir, not at all,” panted Mr. Whiffle, in his usual sprightly78 manner, wiping his forehead the while with an immense yellow silk handkerchief. “You beheld me in the act of visiting with condign79 chastisement80 a refractory81 young son of the Church, that is all, I assure you.”
Then, turning to his wife, he added —
“My dear, I quite neglected to tell you that Mr. Norman was so good as to promise to look in this evening. My dear sir, this incorrigible82 young Israelite, whom I should have called Benoni rather than Augustus, for he verily seems destined83 to be the son of my sorrow, was, just before you entered, caught in the very act — in flagrante delicto — of emptying the milk pot over a sermon which I have been at more than usual pains to compose. Do you not agree with me in thinking that even now the offence exceeds the punishment?”
Mr. Norman replied by a few humorous remarks, and then proceeded by means of a little kindly84 attention to each of the children, as his manner was, to restore what order he could into this house of perpetual discord. By accepting Mrs. Whiffle’s offer of a cup of tea, he caused a smile once more to rise to the face of that much suffering woman, who was indeed so accustomed to episodes such as that just concluded that it very soon passed out of her mind.
The cup of tea finished as soon as possible, he left Arthur to the attention of Mrs. Whiffle and her brood, and gladly accepted the curate’s invitation to cross the passage and enter the study. Here the disorder85 was little inferior to that exhibited in the other room, but as it was only books that were strewn about in every corner, in every stage of dilapidation86, and mostly covered with the thickest conceivable layer of dust, the rector bore it with more equanimity87. Mr. Whiffle enlivened a small fire which was struggling in the grate, and invited his visitor to be seated.
“You must be very fond of children, Mr. Whiffle,” began the rector, whilst the other was putting on a very ragged88 old coat which he took from behind the door.
“Yes, sir, yes — that is, moderately fond of them. Not that I should care to have a large family, though. Large families, in my opinion, are the source of much evil. Indeed, that is one of the tendencies of the present age against which the Church ought really to exert the plenitude of its powers. Yes; one should preach a crusade against large families. I have, in fact, a pamphlet in hand on that very subject. I hope to finish it in a week, and then I shall be so bold as to request the favour of your perusal89 and judgment90, my dear sir.”
Mr. Norman did not smile, or indeed express any especial interest in the matter; he was too well accustomed to his curate’s humours. Orlando Whiffle never seemed to entertain the slightest suspicion that some might be tempted91 to consider his own family as already deserving of the epithet92 — large. Of this he was perfectly93 unconscious. And when he announced the speedy completion of a pamphlet on the subject he was equally unconscious of exposing another of his peculiarities94 which might well have excited a sense of the ridiculous. It was — or was supposed to be — the constant occupation of his leisure to engage in the composition of pamphlets on an infinity95 of subjects, with the curious circumstance that he had never been known to publish, or indeed to complete, one of them. At least three times a week he announced to the rector his intention immediately to submit to his criticism a brief brochure on some burning question of the day; but Mr. Norman’s critical powers must have languished97 from inaction had they found no other field than Mr. Whiffle’s literary productions. But to the curate himself there was nothing ridiculous in all this; he simply was not aware of his own inconsistencies.
Having turned aside the literary topic, with a suitable remark, Edward Norman then proceeded to the more immediate96 object of his visit, and stated briefly98 the plan he thought it would be advisable to pursue in Arthur’s preliminary instruction.
“Have you thought at all, sir,” asked Mr. Whiffle, “what his career in life shall be?”
“Not precisely99. It is hardly a momentous100 question yet.”
“Train him up to the service of the Temple!” cried Mr. Whiffle, with enthusiasm. “Make of him a pillar of the Establishment! I have thought over the matter the whole day, my dear sir, and the more I reflect upon that boy’s features the more convinced I am that he was born to be a bishop101. I once entered upon an exhaustive study of comparative physiognomy, my dear sir, and even went so far as to pen a pamphlet on what I purposed making one division of a great work: the ‘Ecclesiastical Physiognomy.’ I will hunt it up and let you see it. Close study of the countenances103 of our prelates, sir, has given me fundamental ideas on the subject. I pronounce it: Arthur Golding will one day rule a diocese, and to Orlando Whiffle will be due the credit of having instilled104 into his mind the fundamental principles of the great Establishment he is to adorn105!”
“We shall see,” responded the rector, coolly, “whether he shows a turn for the Church.”
“A turn, my dear sir! In a child of his age there is no — no turn! We can make what we like of him! That is the very point I always insist upon as firmly in my arguments on the subject of education. If only The Church is permitted an opportunity of conducting the education of children from their earliest years, she will have no difficulty in imbuing106 one and all with sound Church principles. It is the decreasing influence of The Church in this sphere of youthful education to which is due the prevalence of false doctrine107, heresy108 and schism109, and to which will ere long be attributed the downfall of this nation’s prosperity!”
It will be observed that I always print “The Church” in Mr. Whiffle’s speeches, for, indeed, the capitals are my only possible method of indicating the tone in which he pronounced these words. All the arrogance110 of priestly tyranny, all the bombast111 of clerical professions, all the fatuity112 of ecclesiastical self-esteem arose before the mind like a picture at the sound of “The Church” as pronounced by Mr. Whiffle. The man gloried in the words; he rolled them on his tongue as an exquisite113 delicacy114. And yet it would have been difficult to account for his enthusiasm, for as yet the Church had given him nothing save various curacies, the incomes of which scarcely sufficed to maintain his ever-increasing family. In all probability it was his fundamentally vulgar nature sympathising with the arrogant115 pretentions and abortive performances of the institution he belonged to. Preeminence116 in the Church was for Mr. Whiffle the goal of all earthly wishes, and it was very characteristic of the man’s nature that down in the depths of his heart, unspoken midst all his inconsequential chatter117, rested and grew a firm expectation that one day, though it might be long in coming, that Church would recognise the abilities of its faithful servant, and Orlando Whiffle would, even in this life, find his reward.
It was the favourite employment of his reveries to trace his own hypothetical course up the scale of clerical dignities till, in sweet fancy, he saw himself pocketing the first year’s income of a bishop’s see. For in his devotion to the Establishment he was by no means free from worldly views, though it would be inaccurate118 to represent these as his only motive119. Whenever conversation touched on the subject of ecclesiastical salaries, as it not unfrequently would when a few curates of the countryside met together, Orlando Whiffle felt himself in his element. He possessed an amount of knowledge on the subject to which few could pretend. On this, indeed, he might have been capable of writing a pamphlet, and a remarkably120 interesting pamphlet it would have been. He was great on the topic of simony, spoke of it with a kind of predilection121, and a calm ignoring of moral objections such as only an ecclesiastic102 can pretend to. Clerical agencies he was well acquainted with, and could tell you their respective advantages or disadvantages better than the agents themselves. But most delightful122 was it to hear him speak of a clerical scandal, any disgraceful case that might for the moment be attracting attention in the papers. What breathless interest he took in such revelations. Shame! he exhibited not a grain of it. He gloried in the foulest123 details. You would have thought, to hear him, that no one but a clergyman had a right to disgrace the name of humanity.
But to return to our narration124. The interview did not last long, for the terms, which were no unimportant item in the business, were speedily and satisfactorily arranged. When the two returned to the parlour they found Arthur sitting on a stool by the fireside, quite surrounded by a swarm125 of young Whiffles, who were assailing126 him with all manner of questions, and had evidently succeeded in making him perfectly uncomfortable.
“Well, my dear boy,” exclaimed the curate, laying his hands upon his head, “tomorrow we take our first trip on the flowery paths of culture. Have you learnt your Catechism, my boy?”
Arthur looked up in bewilderment, then turned away from the faces gazing at him, and shook his head.
“Cheer up, Arthur!” put in Mr. Norman, encouragingly. “We’ll soon remedy all that, won’t we?”
It was not many minutes before they took their departure, and the boy was evidently glad to exchange the warm but noisy room for the dark, windy fields. As the rector passed out of the door, Mr. Whiffle took the opportunity of whispering to him —
“A bishop, my dear sir; a bishop, or I’ll never prophesy127 again!”
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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devoid
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decided
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chubby
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severely
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cane
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dominion
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spoke
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repulsive
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attired
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estranged
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gnawed
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utterly
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miserable
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bespeaking
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nervously
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apprehensive
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orchard
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knotty
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mighty
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precocious
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hideous
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explicit
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simplicity
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averted
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situated
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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32
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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33
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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34
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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35
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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36
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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37
abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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38
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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39
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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40
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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41
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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43
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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44
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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45
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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46
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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47
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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50
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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51
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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52
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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53
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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54
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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55
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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56
fracas
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| n.打架；吵闹 | |
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57
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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58
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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59
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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60
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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61
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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62
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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63
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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64
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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65
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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66
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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67
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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68
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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69
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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70
vying
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| adj.竞争的；比赛的 | |
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71
lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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72
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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73
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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74
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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76
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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77
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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78
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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79
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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80
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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81
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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82
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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83
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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84
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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85
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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86
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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87
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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88
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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89
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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90
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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91
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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92
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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93
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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94
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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95
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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96
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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97
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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98
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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99
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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100
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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101
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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102
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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103
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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104
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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106
imbuing
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的现在分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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107
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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108
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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109
schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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110
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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111
bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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112
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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113
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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114
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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115
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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116
preeminence
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| n.卓越,杰出 | |
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117
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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118
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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119
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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120
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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121
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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122
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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123
foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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124
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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125
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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126
assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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127
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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