On the following Sunday Mr. Arabin was to read himself in at his new church. It was agreed at the rectory that the archdeacon should go over with him and assist at the reading desk and that Mr. Harding should take the archdeacon’s duty at Plumstead Church. Mrs. Grantly had her school and her buns to attend to and professed1 that she could not be spared, but Mrs. Bold was to accompany them. It was further agreed also that they would lunch at the squire2’s house and return home after the afternoon service.
Wilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the squire of St. Ewold’s — or, rather, the squire of Ullathorne, for the domain3 of the modern landlord was of wider notoriety than the fame of the ancient saint. He was a fair specimen4 of what that race has come to in our days which, a century ago, was, as we are told, fairly represented by Squire Western. If that representation be a true one, few classes of men can have made faster strides in improvement. Mr. Thorne, however, was a man possessed5 of quite a sufficient number of foibles to lay him open to much ridicule6. He was still a bachelor, being about fifty, and was not a little proud of his person. When living at home at Ullathorne, there was not much room for such pride, and there therefore he always looked like a gentleman and like that which he certainly was, the first man in his parish. But during the month or six weeks which he annually7 spent in London he tried so hard to look like a great man there also, which he certainly was not, that he was put down as a fool by many at his club. He was a man of considerable literary attainment8 in a certain way and on certain subjects. His favourite authors were Montaigne and Burton, and he knew more perhaps than any other man in his own county and the next to it of the English essayists of the two last centuries. He possessed complete sets of the Idler, the Spectator, the Tatler, the Guardian9, and the Rambler, and would discourse10 by hours together on the superiority of such publications to anything which has since been produced in our Edinburghs and Quarterlies. He was proficient11 in all questions of genealogy12 and knew enough of almost every gentleman’s family in England to say of what blood and lineage were descended13 all those who had any claim to be considered as possessors of any such luxuries. For blood and lineage he himself had a most profound respect. He counted back his own ancestors to some period long antecedent to the Conquest and could tell you, if you would listen to him, how it had come to pass that they, like Cedric the Saxon, had been permitted to hold their own among the Norman barons14. It was not, according to his showing, on account of any weak complaisance15 on the part of his family towards their Norman neighbours. Some Ealfried of Ullathorne once fortified16 his own castle and held out, not only that, but the then existing cathedral of Barchester also, against one Geoffrey De Burgh, in the time of King John; and Mr. Thorne possessed the whole history of the siege written on vellum and illuminated17 in a most costly18 manner. It little signified that no one could read the writing, as, had that been possible, no one could have understood the language. Mr. Thorne could, however, give you all the particulars in good English and had no objection to do so.
It would be unjust to say that he looked down on men whose families were of recent date. He did not do so. He frequently consorted19 with such, and had chosen many of his friends from among them. But he looked on them as great millionaires are apt to look on those who have small incomes; as men who have Sophocles at their fingers’ ends regard those who know nothing of Greek. They might doubtless be good sort of people, entitled to much praise for virtue20, very admirable for talent, highly respectable in every way, but they were without the one great good gift. Such was Mr. Thorne’s way of thinking on this matter; nothing could atone21 for the loss of good blood; nothing could neutralize22 its good effects. Few indeed were now possessed of it, but the possession was on that account the more precious. It was very pleasant to hear Mr. Thorne descant23 on this matter. Were you in your ignorance to surmise24 that such a one was of a good family because the head of his family was a baronet of an old date, he would open his eyes with a delightful25 look of affected26 surprise and modestly remind you that baronetcies only dated from James I. He would gently sigh if you spoke27 of the blood of the Fitzgeralds and De Burghs; would hardly allow the claims of the Howards and Lowthers; and has before now alluded28 to the Talbots as a family who had hardly yet achieved the full honours of a pedigree.
In speaking once of a wide-spread race whose name had received the honours of three coronets, scions29 from which sat for various constituencies, some one of whose members had been in almost every cabinet formed during the present century, a brilliant race such as there are few in England, Mr. Thorne had called them all “dirt.” He had not intended any disrespect to these men. He admired them in many senses and allowed them their privileges without envy. He had merely meant to express his feeling that the streams which ran through their veins30 were not yet purified by time to that perfection, had not become so genuine an ichor, as to be worthy31 of being called blood in the genealogical sense.
When Mr. Arabin was first introduced to him, Mr. Thorne had immediately suggested that he was one of the Arabins of Uphill Stanton. Mr. Arabin replied that he was a very distant relative of the family alluded to. To this Mr. Thorne surmised32 that the relationship could not be very distant. Mr. Arabin assured him that it was so distant that the families knew nothing of each other. Mr. Thorne laughed his gentle laugh at this and told Mr. Arabin that there was now existing no branch of his family separated from the parent stock at an earlier date than the reign33 of Elizabeth, and that therefore Mr. Arabin could not call himself distant. Mr. Arabin himself was quite clearly an Arabin of Uphill Stanton.
“But,” said the vicar, “Uphill Stanton has been sold to the De Greys and has been in their hands for the last fifty years.”
“And when it has been there one hundred and fifty, if it unluckily remain there so long,” said Mr. Thorne, “your descendants will not be a whit34 the less entitled to describe themselves as being of the family of Uphill Stanton. Thank God no De Grey can buy that — and thank God no Arabin, and no Thorne, can sell it.”
In politics Mr. Thorne was an unflinching conservative. He looked on those fifty-three Trojans who, as Mr. Dod tells us, censured36 free trade in November, 1852, as the only patriots37 left among the public men of England. When that terrible crisis of free trade had arrived, when the repeal38 of the Corn Laws was carried by those very men whom Mr. Thorne had hitherto regarded as the only possible saviours39 of his country, he was for a time paralysed. His country was lost; but that was comparatively a small thing. Other countries had flourished and fallen, and the human race still went on improving under God’s providence40. But now all trust in human faith must forever be at an end. Not only must ruin come, but it must come through the apostasy41 of those who had been regarded as the truest of true believers. Politics in England, as a pursuit for gentlemen, must be at an end. Had Mr. Thorne been trodden under foot by a Whig, he could have borne it as a Tory and a martyr42, but to be so utterly43 thrown over and deceived by those he had so earnestly supported, so thoroughly44 trusted, was more than he could endure and live. He therefore ceased to live as a politician and refused to hold any converse45 with the world at large on the state of the country.
Such were Mr. Thorne’s impressions for the first two or three years after Sir Robert Peel’s apostasy, but by degrees his temper, as did that of others, cooled down. He began once more to move about, to frequent the bench and the market, and to be seen at dinners shoulder to shoulder with some of those who had so cruelly betrayed him. It was a necessity for him to live, and that plan of his for avoiding the world did not answer. He, however, and others around him who still maintained the same staunch principles of protection — men like himself who were too true to flinch35 at the cry of a mob — had their own way of consoling themselves. They were, and felt themselves to be, the only true depositaries left of certain Eleusinian mysteries, of certain deep and wondrous46 services of worship by which alone the gods could be rightly approached. To them and them only was it now given to know these things and to perpetuate47 them, if that might still be done, by the careful and secret education of their children.
We have read how private and peculiar48 forms of worship have been carried on from age to age in families which, to the outer world, have apparently49 adhered to the services of some ordinary church. And so by degrees it was with Mr. Thorne. He learnt at length to listen calmly while protection was talked of as a thing dead, although he knew within himself that it was still quick with a mystic life. Nor was he without a certain pleasure that such knowledge, though given to him, should be debarred from the multitude. He became accustomed to hear even among country gentlemen that free trade was after all not so bad, and to hear this without dispute, although conscious within himself that everything good in England had gone with his old palladium. He had within him something of the feeling of Cato, who gloried that he could kill himself because Romans were no longer worthy of their name. Mr. Thorne had no thought of killing50 himself, being a Christian51 and still possessing his ￡4000 a year, but the feeling was not on that account the less comfortable.
Mr. Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though not outrageous52 in his sports. Previous to the great downfall of politics in his county, he had supported the hunt by every means in his power. He had preserved game till no goose or turkey could show a tail in the parish of St. Ewold’s. He had planted gorse covers with more care than oaks and larches53. He had been more anxious for the comfort of his foxes than of his ewes and lambs. No meet had been more popular than Ullathorne; no man’s stables had been more liberally open to the horses of distant men than Mr. Thorne’s; no man had said more, written more, or done more to keep the club up. The theory of protection could expand itself so thoroughly in the practices of a county hunt! But when the great ruin came; when the noble master of the Barsetshire hounds supported the recreant54 minister in the House of Lords and basely surrendered his truth, his manhood, his friends, and his honour for the hope of a garter, then Mr. Thorne gave up the hunt. He did not cut his covers, for that would not have been the act of a gentleman. He did not kill his foxes, for that according to his light would have been murder. He did not say that his covers should not be drawn55, or his earths stopped, for that would have been illegal according to the by-laws prevailing56 among country gentlemen. But he absented himself from home on the occasion of every meet at Ullathorne, left the covers to their fate, and could not be persuaded to take his pink coat out of his press, or his hunters out of his stable. This lasted for two years, and then by degrees he came round. He first appeared at a neighbouring meet on a pony57, dressed in his shooting-coat, as though he had trotted58 in by accident; then he walked up one morning on foot to see his favourite gorse drawn, and when his groom59 brought his mare60 out by chance, he did not refuse to mount her. He was next persuaded, by one of the immortal61 fifty-three, to bring his hunting materials over to the other side of the county and take a fortnight with the hounds there; and so gradually he returned to his old life. But in hunting as in other things he was only supported by an inward feeling of mystic superiority to those with whom he shared the common breath of outer life.
Mr. Thorne did not live in solitude62 at Ullathorne. He had a sister, who was ten years older than himself and who participated in his prejudices and feelings so strongly that she was a living caricature of all his foibles. She would not open a modern quarterly, did not choose to see a magazine in her drawing-room, and would not have polluted her fingers with a shred63 of the Times for any consideration. She spoke of Addison, Swift, and Steele as though they were still living, regarded Defoe as the best known novelist of his country, and thought of Fielding as a young but meritorious64 novice65 in the fields of romance. In poetry, she was familiar with names as late as Dryden, and had once been seduced66 into reading “The Rape67 of the Lock;” but she regarded Spenser as the purest type of her country’s literature in this line. Genealogy was her favourite insanity68. Those things which are the pride of most genealogists were to her contemptible69. Arms and mottoes set her beside herself. Ealfried of Ullathorne had wanted no motto to assist him in cleaving70 to the brisket Geoffrey De Burgh, and Ealfried’s great grandfather, the gigantic Ullafrid, had required no other arms than those which nature gave him to hurl71 from the top of his own castle a cousin of the base invading Norman. To her all modern English names were equally insignificant72: Hengist, Horsa, and such like had for her ears the only true savour of nobility. She was not contented73 unless she could go beyond the Saxons, and would certainly have christened her children, had she had children, by the names of the ancient Britons. In some respects she was not unlike Scott’s Ulrica, and had she been given to cursing, she would certainly have done so in the names of Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock. Not having submitted to the embraces of any polluting Norman, as poor Ulrica had done, and having assisted no parricide74, the milk of human kindness was not curdled75 in her bosom76. She never cursed therefore, but blessed rather. This, however, she did in a strange uncouth77 Saxon manner that would have been unintelligible78 to any peasants but her own.
As a politician, Miss Thorne had been so thoroughly disgusted with public life by base deeds long antecedent to the Corn Law question that that had but little moved her. In her estimation her brother had been a fast young man, hurried away by a too ardent79 temperament80 into democratic tendencies. Now happily he was brought to sounder views by seeing the iniquity81 of the world. She had not yet reconciled herself to the Reform Bill, and still groaned82 in spirit over the defalcations of the Duke as touching83 the Catholic Emancipation84. If asked whom she thought the Queen should take as her counsellor, she would probably have named Lord Eldon, and when reminded that that venerable man was no longer present in the flesh to assist us, she would probably have answered with a sigh that none now could help us but the dead.
In religion Miss Thorne was a pure Druidess. We would not have it understood by that that she did actually in these latter days assist at any human sacrifices, or that she was in fact hostile to the Church of Christ. She had adopted the Christian religion as a milder form of the worship of her ancestors, and always appealed to her doing so as evidence that she had no prejudices against reform, when it could be shown that reform was salutary. This reform was the most modern of any to which she had as yet acceded85, it being presumed that British ladies had given up their paint and taken to some sort of petticoats before the days of St. Augustine. That further feminine step in advance which combines paint and petticoats together had not found a votary86 in Miss Thorne.
But she was a Druidess in this, that she regretted she knew not what in the usages and practices of her Church. She sometimes talked and constantly thought of good things gone by, though she had but the faintest idea of what those good things had been. She imagined that a purity had existed which was now gone, that a piety87 had adorned88 our pastors89 and a simple docility90 our people, for which it may be feared history gave her but little true warrant. She was accustomed to speak of Cranmer as though he had been the firmest and most simple-minded of martyrs91, and of Elizabeth as though the pure Protestant faith of her people had been the one anxiety of her life. It would have been cruel to undeceive her, had it been possible; but it would have been impossible to make her believe that the one was a time-serving priest, willing to go any length to keep his place, and that the other was in heart a papist, with this sole proviso, that she should be her own pope.
And so Miss Thorne went on sighing and regretting, looking back to the divine right of kings as the ruling axiom of a golden age, and cherishing, low down in the bottom of her heart of hearts, a dear unmentioned wish for the restoration of some exiled Stuart. Who would deny her the luxury of her sighs, or the sweetness of her soft regrets!
In her person and her dress she was perfect, and well she knew her own perfection. She was a small, elegantly made old woman, with a face from which the glow of her youth had not departed without leaving some streaks92 of a roseate hue93. She was proud of her colour, proud of her grey hair which she wore in short crisp curls peering out all around her face from her dainty white lace cap. To think of all the money that she spent in lace used to break the heart of poor Mrs. Quiverful with her seven daughters. She was proud of her teeth, which were still white and numerous, proud of her bright cheery eye, proud of her short jaunty94 step; and very proud of the neat, precise, small feet with which those steps were taken. She was proud also, ay, very proud, of the rich brocaded silk in which it was her custom to ruffle95 through her drawing-room.
We know what was the custom of the lady of Branksome —
Nine-and-twenty knights96 of fame Hung their shields in Branksome Hall.
The lady of Ullathorne was not so martial97 in her habits, but hardly less costly. She might have boasted that nine-and-twenty silken skirts might have been produced in her chamber98, each fit to stand alone. The nine-and-twenty shields of the Scottish heroes were less independent and hardly more potent99 to withstand any attack that might be made on them. Miss Thorne when fully100 dressed might be said to have been armed cap-a-pie, and she was always fully dressed, as far as was ever known to mortal man.
For all this rich attire101 Miss Thorne was not indebted to the generosity102 of her brother. She had a very comfortable independence of her own, which she divided among juvenile103 relatives, the milliners, and the poor, giving much the largest share to the latter. It may be imagined, therefore, that with all her little follies104 she was not unpopular. All her follies have, we believe, been told. Her virtues105 were too numerous to describe and not sufficiently106 interesting to deserve description.
While we are on the subject of the Thornes, one word must be said of the house they lived in. It was not a large house, nor a fine house, nor perhaps to modern ideas a very commodious107 house, but by those who love the peculiar colour and peculiar ornaments108 of genuine Tudor architecture it was considered a perfect gem109. We beg to own ourselves among the number and therefore take this opportunity to express our surprise that so little is known by English men and women of the beauties of English architecture. The ruins of the Colosseum, the Campanile at Florence, St. Mark’s, Cologne, the Bourse and Notre Dame110 are with our tourists as familiar as household words, but they know nothing of the glories of Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire. Nay111, we much question whether many noted112 travellers, men who have pitched their tents perhaps under Mount Sinai, are not still ignorant that there are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire. We beg that they will go and see.
Mr. Thorne’s house was called Ullathorne Court — and was properly so called, for the house itself formed two sides of a quadrangle, which was completed on the other two sides by a wall about twenty feet high. This wall was built of cut stone, rudely cut indeed, and now much worn, but of a beautiful, rich, tawny113 yellow colour, the effect of that stonecrop of minute growth which it had taken three centuries to produce. The top of this wall was ornamented114 by huge, round stone balls of the same colour as the wall itself. Entrance into the court was had through a pair of iron gates so massive that no one could comfortably open or close them — consequently, they were rarely disturbed. From the gateway115 two paths led obliquely116 across the court: that to the left reaching the hall-door, which was in the corner made by the angle of the house, and that to the right leading to the back entrance, which was at the further end of the longer portion of the building.
With those who are now adepts117 in contriving118 house accommodation, it will militate much against Ullathorne Court that no carriage could be brought to the hall-door. If you enter Ullathorne at all, you must do so, fair reader, on foot, or at least in a bath-chair. No vehicle drawn by horses ever comes within that iron gate. But this is nothing to the next horror that will encounter you. On entering the front door, which you do by no very grand portal, you find yourself immediately in the dining-room. What, no hall? exclaims my luxurious119 friend, accustomed to all the comfortable appurtenances of modern life. Yes, kind sir, a noble hall, if you will but observe it; a true old English hall of excellent dimensions for a country gentleman’s family; but, if you please, no dining-parlour.
Both Mr. and Miss Thorne were proud of this peculiarity120 of their dwelling121, though the brother was once all but tempted122 by his friends to alter it. They delighted in the knowledge that they, like Cedric, positively123 dined in their true hall, even though they so dined tête-à-tête. But though they had never owned, they had felt and endeavoured to remedy the discomfort124 of such an arrangement. A huge screen partitioned off the front door and a portion of the hall, and from the angle so screened off a second door led into a passage which ran along the larger side of the house next to the courtyard. Either my reader or I must be a bad hand at topography, if it be not clear that the great hall forms the ground-floor of the smaller portion of the mansion125, that which was to your left as you entered the iron gate, and that it occupies the whole of this wing of the building. It must be equally clear that it looks out on a trim mown lawn, through three quadrangular windows with stone mullions, each window divided into a larger portion at the bottom, and a smaller portion at the top, and each portion again divided into five by perpendicular126 stone supporters. There may be windows which give a better light than such as these, and it may be, as my utilitarian127 friend observes, that the giving of light is the desired object of a window. I will not argue the point with him. Indeed I cannot. But I shall not the less die in the assured conviction that no sort or description of window is capable of imparting half so much happiness to mankind as that which had been adopted at Ullathorne Court. What, not an oriel? says Miss Diana de Midellage. No, Miss Diana, not even an oriel, beautiful as is an oriel window. It has not about it so perfect a feeling of quiet English homely128 comfort. Let oriel windows grace a college, or the half-public mansion of a potent peer, but for the sitting room of quiet country ladies, of ordinary homely folk, nothing can equal the square, mullioned windows of the Tudor architects.
The hall was hung round with family female insipidities by Lely and unprepossessing male Thornes in red coats by Kneller, each Thorne having been let into a panel in the wainscoting, in the proper manner. At the further end of the room was a huge fire-place, which afforded much ground of difference between the brother and sister. An antiquated129 grate that would hold about a hundredweight of coal, had been stuck on to the hearth130 by Mr. Thorne’s father. This hearth had of course been intended for the consumption of wood faggots, and the iron dogs for the purpose were still standing131, though half-buried in the masonry132 of the grate. Miss Thorne was very anxious to revert133 to the dogs. The dear good old creature was always glad to revert to anything, and had she been systematically134 indulged, would doubtless in time have reflected that fingers were made before forks and have reverted135 accordingly. But in the affairs of the fire-place Mr. Thorne would not revert. Country gentlemen around him all had comfortable grates in their dining-rooms. He was not exactly the man to have suggested a modern usage, but he was not so far prejudiced as to banish136 those which his father had prepared for his use. Mr. Thorne had indeed once suggested that with very little contrivance the front door might have been so altered as to open at least into the passage, but on hearing this, his sister Monica — such was Miss Thorne’s name — had been taken ill and had remained so for a week. Before she came downstairs she received a pledge from her brother that the entrance should never be changed in her lifetime.
At the end of the hall opposite to the fire-place a door led into the drawing-room, which was of equal size and lighted with precisely137 similar windows. But yet the aspect of the room was very different. It was papered, and the ceiling, which in the hall showed the old rafters, was whitened and finished with a modern cornice. Miss Thorne’s drawing-room, or, as she always called it, withdrawing-room, was a beautiful apartment. The windows opened on to the full extent of the lovely trim garden; immediately before the windows were plots of flowers in stiff, stately, stubborn little beds, each bed surrounded by a stone coping of its own; beyond, there was a low parapet wall on which stood urns138 and images, fawns139, nymphs, satyrs, and a whole tribe of Pan’s followers140; and then again, beyond that, a beautiful lawn sloped away to a sunk fence which divided the garden from the park. Mr. Thorne’s study was at the end of the drawing-room, and beyond that were the kitchen and the offices. Doors opened into both Miss Thorne’s withdrawing-room and Mr. Thorne’s sanctum from the passage above alluded to, which, as it came to the latter room, widened itself so as to make space for the huge black oak stairs which led to the upper regions.
Such was the interior of Ullathorne Court. But having thus described it, perhaps somewhat too tediously, we beg to say that it is not the interior to which we wish to call the English tourist’s attention, though we advise him to lose no legitimate141 opportunity of becoming acquainted with it in a friendly manner. It is the outside of Ullathorne that is so lovely. Let the tourist get admission at least into the garden and fling himself on that soft sward just opposite to the exterior142 angle of the house. He will there get the double frontage and enjoy that which is so lovely — the expanse of architectural beauty without the formal dullness of one long line.
It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable143. It is of that delicious tawny hue which no stone can give, unless it has on it the vegetable richness of centuries. Strike the wall with your hand and you will think that the stone has on it no covering, but rub it carefully and you will find that the colour comes off upon your finger. No colourist that ever yet worked from a palette has been able to come up to this rich colouring of years crowding themselves on years.
Ullathorne is a high building for a country-house, for it possesses three stories, and in each story the windows are of the same sort as that described, though varying in size and varying also in their lines athwart the house. Those of the ground floor are all uniform in size and position. But those above are irregular both in size and place, and this irregularity gives a bizarre and not unpicturesque appearance to the building. Along the top, on every side, runs a low parapet, which nearly hides the roof, and at the corners are more figures of fawns and satyrs.
Such is Ullathorne House. But we must say one word of the approach to it, which shall include all the description which we mean to give of the church also. The picturesque144 old church of St. Ewold’s stands immediately opposite to the iron gates which open into the court and is all but surrounded by the branches of the lime-trees which form the avenue leading up to the house from both sides. This avenue is magnificent, but it would lose much of its value in the eyes of many proprietors145 by the fact that the road through it is not private property. It is a public lane between hedgerows, with a broad grass margin146 on each side of the road, from which the lime-trees spring. Ullathorne Court, therefore, does not stand absolutely surrounded by its own grounds, though Mr. Thorne is owner of all the adjacent land. This, however, is the source of very little annoyance147 to him. Men, when they are acquiring property, think much of such things, but they who live where their ancestors have lived for years do not feel the misfortune. It never occurred either to Mr. or Miss Thorne that they were not sufficiently private because the world at large might, if it so wished, walk or drive by their iron gates. That part of the world which availed itself of the privilege was however very small.
Such a year or two since were the Thornes of Ullathorne. Such, we believe, are the inhabitants of many an English country-home. May it be long before their number diminishes.
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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squire
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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specimen
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possessed
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ridicule
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annually
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attainment
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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proficient
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genealogy
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descended
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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complaisance
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fortified
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illuminated
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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virtue
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atone
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22
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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23
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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24
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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25
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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26
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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27
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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28
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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30
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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31
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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32
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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33
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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34
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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35
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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36
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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37
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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38
repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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39
saviours
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| n.救助者( saviour的名词复数 )；救星；救世主；耶稣基督 | |
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40
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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41
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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42
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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43
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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44
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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45
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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46
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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47
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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48
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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49
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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50
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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51
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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52
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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53
larches
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| n.落叶松（木材）( larch的名词复数 ) | |
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54
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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55
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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56
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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57
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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58
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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59
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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60
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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61
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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62
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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63
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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64
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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65
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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66
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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67
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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68
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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69
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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70
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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71
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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72
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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73
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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74
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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75
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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77
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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78
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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79
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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80
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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81
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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82
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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83
touching
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|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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84
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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85
acceded
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|
| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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86
votary
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| n.崇拜者；爱好者；adj.誓约的，立誓任圣职的 | |
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87
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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88
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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89
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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90
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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91
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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92
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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93
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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94
jaunty
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|
| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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95
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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96
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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97
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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98
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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99
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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100
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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101
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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102
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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103
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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104
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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105
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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106
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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107
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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108
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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110
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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111
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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112
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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113
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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114
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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116
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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117
adepts
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| n.专家，能手( adept的名词复数 ) | |
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118
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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119
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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120
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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121
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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122
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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123
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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124
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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125
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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126
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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127
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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128
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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129
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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130
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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131
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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132
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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133
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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134
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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135
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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136
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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137
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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138
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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139
fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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140
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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141
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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142
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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143
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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144
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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145
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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146
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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147
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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