It has been pretended that the party of this day was one of the earliest attempts made by Mr. Forster the younger towards making himself the leader of the cause in the north. On the contrary, he had as yet no thought at all about leading. The gentlemen came together for no other purpose than to meet the Bishop1 (many of them being Catholics, who could only see him on some such occasion) and Lord Derwentwater, and the meeting was especially summoned to enable these two to meet one another. Among those who came to the meeting were many of the gentlemen who five years afterwards, to their undoing3, took up arms for the Prince. Most of them lay at Hexham overnight, and came over the moor4 in the morning. It was a gallant5 sight, indeed, to see the gentlemen riding into the quadrangle, and giving their horses to the grooms6, while they paid their respects to Lady Crewe, who was already dressed, early as it was, and received them with a kindly7 welcome which pleased all. The Bishop, she said, begged to be excused at that early hour; he would meet his friends in the evening. Meantime, breakfast, or luncheon8, was spread, with cold pasties, spiced beef, game, and beer for all who chose.
They were a hearty9 and hungry crew. One cannot but remember with what goodwill10 they trooped in, and how they made the sirloins of beef to grow small, the pasties to vanish, and the birds to disappear, except their bones; also with what cheerfulness they exhorted11 each other to fill up and drink again. They had a day’s hunting before them. Surely a man may eat and drink who is going out for six or eight hours a-horseback across Hexhamshire Common. It was a pretty sight, certainly, when they had finished, to see them mount in the great quadrangle, with the shouting of the younger men —— ah! King Solomon’s medicine of the merry heart! —— and so off, trooping through the old gateway12 out upon the open moor, whither the huntsmen had taken the hounds. I, who seldom rode went with them on this day. Beside me rode, Lord Derwentwater, brave in scarlet13, as were his brothers. But he was grave, and even sad.
‘I cannot but think, Miss Dorothy,’ he said, ‘that it is a strange thing for us to laugh and shout while our business is to talk of treason, according to the law of the land. When will treason become loyalty14, and rebellion fidelity15 to the King?’
Then there arose a great yo-hoing and shouting, and the fox was found, and we all rode after it. About that day’s hunting it needs not to speak much. It was a long run. Tom, with Charlie Radcliffe, was in at the death, and they gave me the creature’s brush. As for Lord Derwentwater, he left not my side, being more concerned to talk with me than to gallop16 after the hounds. Certainly he never was a keen fox-hunter, his ideas of the hunt being taken from France, where, as he hath told me, the party ride down lanes or allées, in a great forest, after a wild boar or a stag, the sides of the lanes being lined with rustics18, to prevent the boar from taking shelter in the wood. But he owned that our sport was more manly19. This was a pleasant, nay20, a delightful21 ride for me, seeing as I did in the eyes of his lordship those signs of admiration22 which please the hearts of all women alike, whether they be confident in their beauty, or afraid that they possess no charms to fix the affections of inconstant man. Perhaps we guess very readily what most we desire. At this time (let me confess and own without shame what need not be concealed23) I had begun to desire one thing very much; that is to say, I understood very well that the happiest woman in the world would be she to whom this young gentleman would give the priceless blessing24 of his love. This made me watchful25 of his speech and looks; and enabled me, young and inexperienced as I was, to read very well the confession26 made by eyes full of admiration, though no word at all was spoken. No gentleman in the world had better eyes or sweeter than Lord Derwentwater, and no man’s love, I knew very well, was more to be desired; and, innocent and ignorant as we were, neither of us, at that time, considered the difficulties in the way. Poor Dorothy!
Some of the elder gentlemen remained behind, and sat all the morning to talk with Lady Crewe, once their toast and charming beauty, still beautiful and gracious as a great lady should be. Every woman likes, I suppose, to feel that men remember the beauty of her youth. It is a fleeting27 thing, and we are told that, like all earthly things, it is a vanity. Nevertheless, it is a vanity which pleases for a lifetime, and, like understanding in a man, it may be used, while it lasts, for great purposes. Lady Crewe knew well how to use her beauty and charm of words as well as of face, in order to lead men whithersoever she would. This is a simple art, though few women understand it, being nothing more or less than to make each man think the thing which he most desires to believe true, namely, that he occupies wholly the thoughts, hopes, interest, and sympathy of the woman who would lure28 him and lead him.
‘It is not love,’ said Mr. Hilyard once, ‘so much as vanity, which leads the world. Dalila conquered Samson by playing upon his pride of strength. Cleopatra overcame Antony by acknowledging the irresistible29 charm of a hero.’
So Lady Crewe, by coaxing30, flattering, making men feel happy and proud of themselves (since they would please so great and gracious a lady), in a word, by charming men, could do with them what she pleased. Of course it need not be said that there could be no question of gallantry with this stately dame31, the wife of the great Lord Crewe. Certainly not; yet all men were her slaves.
Some time between ten and eleven in the forenoon, the party being all ridden forth32, my lord the Bishop came out from his chamber33, dressed and ready for the duties of the day. At so advanced a stage of life, one must, I suppose, approach each day, which may be the last, slowly and carefully, fortified34 before the work of the day begins with food, prayer, and meditation35. His lordship looked older in the morning than in the evening; yet not decayed. Though the lines and crow’sfeet of age lay thickly upon his face, so that it was seamed and scarred by a thousand waving lines, his eye was as bright and his lips as firm as if he were but forty or fifty. After a little discourse36 with the gentlemen who had remained behind, he sent immediately for Mr. Hilyard. He, to say the truth, was by no means anxious for the interview, and had shown, ever since this party was proposed, a singular desire to avoid the Bishop; proposing a hundred different pretexts37 for his absence.
First, his lordship, with great show of politeness, of which he was perfect master, begged Mr. Hilyard to show him the ruins and remains38 of this strange place, which our steward39 very willingly did, hoping, as will be seen, to stave off the questions which he feared. Presently, after talk about the Premonstratensian Friars (this was the learned name of the monks40 who were murdered, but why they had so long a name or what it means, I know not, nor need we inquire into the superstitious41 reasons for such a name), and after considering the quadrangle and the ancient Gate Tower, they turned into the graveyard42, where were the ruins of the chapel43. Here they talked of Gothic architecture, a subject on which, as on so many other things, Mr. Hilyard was well versed44; and the Bishop, after lamenting45 the ruin of so beautiful a place, said that he could not suffer whole families thus to grow up in heathendom with so fair a chapel waiting but a roof, and that he should take order therefor.
‘As for you, sir,’ he said to Mr. Hilyard, ‘you seem to be possessed46 of some learning. You have studied, I perceive, the architecture of our churches.’
‘In my humble47 way, my lord, I have read such books on the subject as have fallen into my hands.’
‘And you are not unacquainted with the ancient dispositions48 of monasteries49, it would seem.’
‘Also in my small way, my lord; and with such chances of observation as I have obtained.’
Then the Bishop seated himself upon a fallen stone in the corner of the tower, where he was sheltered from the wind, and where the sunshine fell, and fixed50 upon Mr. Hilyard his eyes, which were like the eyes of a hawk51 for clearness, and more terrible for sternness than the eyes of a lion, and said:
‘Then, sir, let me ask: Who are you?’
‘My lord, my name, at your lordship’s service, is Antony Hilyard.’
‘So much I know. And for ten years, or thereabouts, in the service of the Forsters. Now, sir, I meddle52 not with affairs which belong not to me, therefore when Mr. Thomas Forster of Etherston received you as my nephew’s tutor, I made no inquiry53. Again, when I heard, through her ladyship, that the tutor, instead of becoming a chaplain, as is generally his laudable ambition, became a steward, I made no inquiry, because, tutor or steward, your affairs seemed to concern me not at all. But in view of the singular affection which my lady hath conceived for her nephew, her hopes for his future, and her designs as regards his inheritance, I can no longer suffer him to remain under the influence of men about whose character I know nothing. Doubtless, sir, you are honest. My nephew and his sister swear that you are honest.’
‘I hope so, my lord.’
‘It is certain that you have, whether for purposes of your own or not, acquired such an influence over both my nephew and my niece that I must come to an understanding. You sing, act, and play the Merry Andrew, when he has his friends about him; you manage his household, and keep his accounts; you have taught the young lady to sing, play music, read French, and other things, which, as my lady is assured, are all innocent and desirable accomplishments54. We have also learned that although you were engaged upon a salary or wage of thirty pounds a year, you have never received any of that money, save a guinea here and there for clothing. Now, sir, I judge not beforehand, but you may be, for aught, I know, a vile55 Whig, endeavouring to instil56 into an honest mind pernicious opinions; or you may be one of those secret plotters who are the curse of our party, and lure on gentlemen to their destruction; or you may be, which is not impossible, a Jesuit on some secret service. So, sir, before we go any further, you will tell me who and what you are —— whose son, where born and brought up —— of what stock, town, religion?’
‘For my birth, my lord, I am of London; for my religion, I am a Protestant and humble servant of the Church; for my origin, my father was a vintner, with a tavern57 in Barbican; for my education, it was at St. Paul’s School, where I got credit for some scholarship, and’—— here he bowed his head, and looked guilty ——‘at Oxford58, in your lordship’s own College of Lincoln.’
‘Go on, sir.’ For now Mr. Hilyard showed signs of the greatest distress59, and began to cough, to hem2, to blow his nose, and to wipe his brow. ‘Go on, sir, I command.’
‘I cannot deny, my lord —— nay, I confess —— though it cost me the post I hold and drive me out into the world —— that I concealed from Mr. Forster the reasons why I left Oxford without a degree. I hope that your lordship will consider my subsequent conduct to have in some measure mitigated60 the offence.’
‘What was the reason?’
‘My lord, I was expelled.’
The Bishop nodded his head as terrible as great Jove.
‘So, sir,’ he said, while the unlucky man trembled before him, ‘so, sir, you were expelled. This is truly an excellent recommendation for a tutor and teacher of young gentlemen. Pray, sir, why this punishment?’
‘My lord,’ the poor man replied in great confusion, ‘suffer me of your patience to explain that from my childhood upwards61 I have continually been afflicted62 —— affliction must I needs call that which hath led me to the ruin of my hopes —— with the desire of mocking, acting63, and impersonating; also with the temptation to write verses, whether in Latin or in English; and with the love of exciting the laughter and mirth of my companions. So that to hold up to derision the usher64 while at school, which caused me often to be soundly switched, was my constant joy —— even though I had afterwards to cry —— because my fellows laughed at the performance. Or I was acting and rehearsing for their delight some passage from Dryden, Shakespeare, or Ben Jonson, which I had seen upon the stage.’
‘In plain language, sir, thou wast a common buffoon65.’
‘Say, rather, my lord, with submission66, an actor —— histrio. Roscius was rather my model than the Roman mime67.’
‘Your lordship cannot but remember that at every public act the Terr? Filius, after the Proctor, hath permission to ridicule69, or to hold up to derision, or to satirize70 ——’
‘Man,’ cried the Bishop, ‘I had partly guessed it. Thou wert, then, a Terr? Filius.’
‘My lord, it is most true.’
The Bishop’s face lost its severity. He laughed while Mr. Hilyard stood before him trembling, yet a little reassured71. For, to say the truth, he expected nothing but instant dismissal.
‘The Terr? Filius,’ said the Bishop. ‘There were many of them, but few of much account. Some were coarse, some were ill bred, some were rustic17, some were rude —— here and there one was witty72. The heads and tutors loved better the coarse than the witty. Ay, ay! They expelled Tom Pittie when I was a bachelor, and they made Lancelot Addison, afterwards Dean of Lichfield, beg pardon on his knees. So, sir, you were the licensed73 jester of the University? An honourable74 post, forsooth!’
‘It was not so much, my lord,’ Mr. Hilyard went on,‘for my jests before the University, as for certain verses which were brought home to me by the treachery of a man, who —— but that does not concern your lordship.’
‘Of what kind were the verses?’
‘They were of a satirical kind.’ Mr. Hilyard pulled out his pocket-book, in which he kept memoranda75, receipts, bills, and so forth. ‘If your lordship would venture to look at them. I keep always by me a copy to remind me of my sin.’ He found a worn and thumb-marked sheet of printed paper. ‘In Latinity they have been said to have a touch of Martial76 or Ausonius at his best —— but I may not boast’. He placed the verses in the Bishop’s hands, and waited, with a look of expectant pride rather than of repentance77: he was no longer a confessing sinner, or a jester brought to shame; but, rather, a poet waiting for his patron’s verdict of praise or blame.
The Bishop read; the Bishop smiled; then the Bishop laughed.
‘The matter, truly, is most impudent78, and richly deserved punishment. The style, doubtless, deserved reward. And for this thou wast expelled?’
‘My letters recommendatory, my lord, made no mention of the thing. Indeed, they were all written for me by those scholars who were my friends and companions.’
‘Well, sir, it is done, and I suppose you have repented79 often enough. For so good a scholar might have aspired80 to the dignities of the Church. It is an old tale: for a moment’s gratification, a lifelong sorrow. You laughed as a boy, in order that you might cry as a man. You might have become Fellow, Dean, Tutor, even Master; Rector of a country living, Canon, Prebendary, Archdeacon, or even —— Bishop. There are, in these times, when gentlemen fly from the Church, many Bishops81 on the Bench of no better origin than your own. You are steward to a country gentleman; keeper of farm and household accounts; fellow-toper, when his honour is alone; jester, when he hath company.’
‘I know it, my lord,’ replied Mr. Hilyard humbly82. ‘I am Mr. Forster’s servant. Yet, a faithful servant.’
‘I know nothing to the contrary. Why have you not, during these six years, asked for the money promised at the outset?’
‘Oh, my lord —— consider —— pray —— I am under obligation of gratitude83 to a most kind and generous master, and a most considerate mistress. They subsist84, though his honour would not like it stated so plainly, on the bounty85 of your lordship and my lady. Should I presume to take for myself what was meant for his honour?’
The Bishop made no reply for a while, but looked earnestly into his face.
‘Either thou art a very honest fellow,’ he said, at length, ‘or thou art a practised courtier.’
‘No courtier, my lord.’
‘I believe not. Now, sir, I think it will be my duty to advise her ladyship that no change need be made. But further inquiry must be made. Continue, therefore, for the present, in thy duties. And, for the salary, I will see that thou lose nothing.’
He then began to ask, in apparently86 a careless fashion, about the manner of our daily life, hearing how Tom spent his days in shooting and so forth, and showed no desire for reading, yet was no fool, and ready to receive information; how the hospitality of the Manor87 House, though not so splendid as that of its late owners, was abundant, and open to all who came, and so forth; to all of which the Bishop listened, as great men use, namely, as if these small things are of small importance, yet it is well to know them, and that, being so small, it is not necessary to express an opinion upon them.
‘I hear,’ he said, ‘that certain agitators88 continue to go about the country. Do they come here?’
Mr. Hilyard replied that Captain Gascoigne and Captain Talbot had been to the north that year, but that Mr. Forster was not, to his knowledge, in correspondence with them.
‘It is important,’ said the Bishop, ‘that no steps be taken for the present. There are reasons of State. See that you encourage no such work. I take it that my nephew is popular, by reason of a frank character and generous hand, such as the Forsters have always displayed, rather than by learning or eloquence89.’
‘Your lordship is right. If I may presume to point out a fault in my patron ——’
‘What is it?’
‘It is his inexperience. He hath never, except to Cambridge, gone beyond his own county. Therefore he may be easily imposed upon, and led —— whither his friends would not wish him to go.’
To this the Bishop made no reply, but fell into a meditation, and presently rose and left Mr. Hilyard among the ruins.
‘I expected,’ said Mr. Hilyard, when he told me of this discourse, ‘nothing short of an order to be packing. Nothing short of that would do, I thought, for a man who had been expelled the University for holding up the Seniors to derision. Alas90! I have been a monstrous91 fool. Yet I doubt not I should do it again. When wit is in, wisdom is out. There was a man of whom I once read, “He might have saved his life could he have refrained his tongue.” But he could not. Therefore, he said his epigram and was hanged, happy in the thought that his bon-mot would be remembered. Like good actions, good sayings live and bear fruit beyond the tomb. My satire92 on the Senior Proctor —— the Bishop laughed at it. Think you that many Bishops in the future will not also laugh at it?’
‘Is it so very comical, Mr. Hilyard, that it would make me laugh? For, you know, my sex are not so fond of laughing as your own.’
He replied, a little disconcerted, that the chief points of his satire lay in the Latin, which I could not understand.
The business of the day, namely, the conversation between Lord Derwentwater and Lord Crewe, took place in the evening, after dinner. Our guests were divided into two sets, one of which consisted of the older and more important gentlemen present, and the other of the younger sons. The latter spent their evening in the kitchen under the refectory, where they were perfectly93 happy, if the noise of singing and laughing denotes happiness. I saw Tom’s face grow melancholy94 as he sat between Lord Crewe on his left and Lady Crewe on his right, listening to discourse on grave and serious matters, while all this merriment went on below. Strange it was to see at the same table an English Bishop and a Catholic Earl.
When the servants were gone, Tom rose in his place and reminded his friends that they were assembled there in order to afford an opportunity for a conference between Lord Crewe, the Bishop of Durham, on the one hand, and Lord Derwentwater, with the honest gentlemen of the county, on the other. This conference being happily arranged, they would remind each other that they had with them the most venerable of the party, one who could remember Noll Cromwell himself, and had voted for King and Bishops before Charles II. came back. With which words he asked them to drink to the Prince.
After this they began by all, with one consent, talking of the latest intelligence, and of the great hopes which they entertained; how the Queen was reported to lean more and more to the cause of her brother; how the people of London were fast recovering their loyalty; and how the country, save for a few pestilent and unnatural95 Whigs, was Jacobite to the core; and so forth. It seemed as if I had heard that kind of talk all my life. If it was true, why could they not recall the Prince at once, and without more to do? If it was not true, why try to keep up their spirits with a falsehood? The plain, simple truth does not do for men; they must have exaggerations, rumours96, see everything greater than it is. Otherwise, there would be no such thing as a party.
‘To one wise man,’ said Mr. Hilyard to me, speaking privately97 of this matter, ‘it seems as if, things being weighed, the for and the against, the scale inclines this way. To another wise man, the scale inclines that way. To the followers98 of those wise men who cannot weigh the arguments, or even perceive them, the scale kicks the beam. The more ignorant the partisan99, the more thorough he is. Wherefore, the Lord protect us from wars of religion, in which every common soldier knows more than his officers.’
While this kind of talk went on, the Bishop sat quiet and grave, saying nothing; while Lord Derwentwater listened, and Lady Crewe smiled graciously on one after the other as they appealed to her.
When each had said what was in his mind on the matter of loyalty, the Bishop invited Lord Derwentwater to tell the company, who had never had the happiness of seeing the Prince, what manner of man he was to look upon.
‘In person, my Lord Bishop,’ he replied, ‘His Highness is tall, and inclined to be thin, as his father was before him. He is, although so young in years, already grave in manner; he speaks little; he is rarely heard to laugh; he hath little or nothing of the natural gaiety of young men in France. He rides well; his personal courage cannot be doubted, having been sufficiently100 proved at Oudenarde and Malplaquet; he is familiar with the names of all his friends. For instance, in Northumberland, he knows that he can reckon on Tom Forster’—— here my lord bowed to Tom, who reddened with pleasure, and drank off another bumper101 to the Prince ——‘and on Mr. Errington’—— here Mr. Errington did the like, and his lordship went on to name other gentlemen, especially Protestants, in the room.
‘If a woman may ask the question,’ said Lady Crewe, ‘we would hope that his character for religion and virtue102, as well as for courage, is such as to endear him to the hearts of those who would fain see princes of blameless life.’
At this time the Prince, then only two-and-twenty years of age, though he had not acquired the reputation which afterwards made many of his friends in England cold to him, was by no means free from reproach —— indeed, there are many who throw temptation in the way of a prince —— and Lord Dewentwater paused before he replied.
‘As for religion,’ said my lord, ‘I know that he hath been most religiously educated, and that his mother is a saintly woman. So much I can depose103 from my own knowledge. For, if my Lord Bishop will pardon the remark, there were more masses at St. Germain’s than many about the Court would willingly attend. As for virtue, there have been rumours —— are there not rumours of every Prince? One must not repeat idle reports.’
‘One would wish to know,’ said the Bishop, ‘if the Prince hath a martial bearing, and one which may encourage his followers. Let us remember the gallantry of Prince Rupert, and the cheerful courage of young King Hal at Agincourt.’
‘I have never seen him,’ Lord Derwentwater replied, ‘with troops. I know not whether his face would show the cheerful courage of which your lordship speaks. That he is brave is well known. If he is less at home in camp than in his Court, we must thank the Queen, his mother, and the good priests, his instructors104, who have made him, perhaps, fitter for heaven than for earth.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ said the Bishop, with a smile.
It was wonderful to think that here was a young gentleman who had actually been brought up with His Highness, and conversed105 with him, and was telling us about him.
‘Well,’ said the Bishop, ‘they may have made him fitter for the Mass than the march. Pity —— pity —— a thousand pities that his father must needs throw away his crown for his creed106 —— your pardon, my lord —— when he had already, had he pleased, the ancient, yet reformed, Church of England. It likes me not. I would rather he were more of a soldier and less of a priest. These things are well known to me already, but I wished that these gentlemen here also should hear them. For, believe me, all is not yet clear before us, my lord. I have watched the times for fifty years and more. The crowd hath shouted now for one side, and now for another; but never, saving your lordship’s presence, have their greasy107 caps been tossed up for a Roman Catholic. And, even if the general opinion be true, and the voice of the country be for the young Prince, I am very certain that he will not win the English heart, and so secure his throne, unless he consent to change his religion.’
‘It may be so,’ replied the Earl. ‘Yet sure I am that he will never change his religion.’
‘Then,’ said the Bishop, ‘if he comes home this year, or next, the very next year after his priests will get him sent abroad again. We are a people who have religion much upon the lips —— and it is the Protestant religion —— but it hinders not the luxury of the rich or the vices108 of the poor. There are still living among us —— I say this in presence of you Catholic gentlemen —— those whose fathers and grandfathers have spoken with men and women who remembered the flames of Smithfield. Your lordship is young, but you will never —— I prophesy109 —— no, never —— see England so changed that she will look without jealousy110 and hatred111 upon a court of priests.’
‘The King may surround himself, if he pleases, with Protestant advisers,’ said the Earl. ‘We of the old faith are content to sit at home in obscurity. Your lordship will not seek to burn us. We ask but toleration and our civil rights.’
The Bishop shook his head.
‘Will he be allowed?’ he asked. ‘Meantime, my lord, it does my heart good to see you —— still a young man and an Englishman —— no Frenchman —— back again among your own people. Trust me, you will be happier here than at St. Germain’s or Versailles. Believe an old man who was about the Court for nearly thirty years: it is an air which begetteth bad humours of the blood —— with jealousies112, envies, and heartburnings. He who waiteth upon Princes must expect rubs such as happen not to quiet men. And, young man,’ he laid his hand upon the Earl’s shoulder, ‘listen not, I entreat113 you, to vapouring Irish captains or to Scotchmen disappointed of their pensions, or to soured English Papists, or to those who have waited in antechamber till rage has seized their heart. Let us remain on the right side. Some day it will prevail. On that day the voice of the whole country will call their Sovereign home. It may be that they will make him first embrace the faith as contained in the Thirty-nine Articles. Justice is mighty114, and shall prevail. But, gentlemen, no plots! And you, sir, as you are the nearest among us all to the throne, so be the most cautious. Set the young hot heads of the north a good example. Gentlemen’ —— he rose, tall and majestic115, with white waving locks and stooping shoulders, and his wife rose at the same time and gave him her arm ——‘my lords and gentlemen, Anglican or Catholic, whether of the old or the reformed faith, I give my prayers for the rightful cause, and to all here the blessing of a Bishop. Yea!’—— he raised his tall figure to the full height, ‘the blessing of one who is a successor of the Apostles by unbroken and lineal descent and right divine!’
Lord Derwentwater bent116 a knee, and kissed the Bishop’s hand. Then the company parted right and left, bowing low, while the old Bishop, with his lady and her niece, left the room.
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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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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luncheon
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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19
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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20
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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21
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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22
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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23
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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24
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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25
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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26
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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27
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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28
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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29
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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30
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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31
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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32
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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33
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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34
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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35
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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36
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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37
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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38
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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39
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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40
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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41
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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42
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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43
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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44
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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45
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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46
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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47
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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48
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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49
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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50
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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51
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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52
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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53
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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56
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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57
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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58
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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59
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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60
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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65
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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66
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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67
mime
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| n.指手画脚，做手势，哑剧演员，哑剧；vi./vt.指手画脚的表演，用哑剧的形式表演 | |
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68
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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69
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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70
satirize
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| v.讽刺 | |
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71
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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72
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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73
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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74
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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75
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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76
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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77
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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78
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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79
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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82
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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83
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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84
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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85
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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86
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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87
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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88
agitators
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| n.（尤指政治变革的）鼓动者( agitator的名词复数 )；煽动者；搅拌器；搅拌机 | |
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89
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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90
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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91
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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92
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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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
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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95
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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96
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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97
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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98
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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99
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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100
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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101
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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102
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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103
depose
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| vt.免职；宣誓作证 | |
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104
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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105
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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106
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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107
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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108
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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109
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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110
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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111
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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112
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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113
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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114
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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115
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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116
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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