Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me,
St. Anton’s well shall be my drink,
Sin’ my true-love’s forsaken1 me.
Old Song.
If I were to choose a spot from which the rising or setting sun could be seen to the greatest possible advantage, it would be that wild path winding3 around the foot of the high belt of semicircular rocks, called Salisbury Crags, and marking the verge4 of the steep descent which slopes down into the glen on the south-eastern side of the city of Edinburgh. The prospect5, in its general outline, commands a close-built, high-piled city, stretching itself out beneath in a form, which, to a romantic imagination, may be supposed to represent that of a dragon; now, a noble arm of the sea, with its rocks, isles6, distant shores, and boundary of mountains; and now, a fair and fertile champaign country, varied7 with hill, dale, and rock, and skirted by the picturesque8 ridge9 of the Pentland mountains. But as the path gently circles around the base of the cliffs, the prospect, composed as it is of these enchanting10 and sublime11 objects, changes at every step, and presents them blended with, or divided from, each other, in every possible variety which can gratify the eye and the imagination. When a piece of scenery so beautiful, yet so varied — so exciting by its intricacy, and yet so sublime — is lighted up by the tints12 of morning or of evening, and displays all that variety of shadowy depth, exchanged with partial brilliancy, which gives character even to the tamest of landscapes, the effect approaches near to enchantment13. This path used to be my favourite evening and morning resort, when engaged with a favourite author, or new subject of study. It is, I am informed, now become totally impassable; a circumstance which, if true, reflects little credit on the taste of the Good Town or its leaders.1
It was from this fascinating path — the scene to me of so much delicious musing14, when life was young and promised to be happy, that I have been unable to pass it over without an episodical description — it was, I say, from this romantic path that Butler saw the morning arise the day after the murder of Porteous. It was possible for him with ease to have found a much shorter road to the house to which he was directing his course, and, in fact, that which he chose was extremely circuitous15. But to compose his own spirits, as well as to while away the time, until a proper hour for visiting the family without surprise or disturbance16, he was induced to extend his circuit by the foot of the rocks, and to linger upon his way until the morning should be considerably17 advanced. While, now standing18 with his arms across, and waiting the slow progress of the sun above the horizon, now sitting upon one of the numerous fragments which storms had detached from the rocks above him, he is meditating19, alternately upon the horrible catastrophe20 which he had witnessed, and upon the melancholy21, and to him most interesting, news which he had learned at Saddletree’s, we will give the reader to understand who Butler was, and how his fate was connected with that of Effie Deans, the unfortunate handmaiden of the careful Mrs. Saddletree.
Reuben Butler was of English extraction, though born in Scotland. His grandfather was a trooper in Monk22’s army, and one of the party of dismounted dragoons which formed the forlorn hope at the storming of Dundee in 1651. Stephen Butler (called from his talents in reading and expounding23, Scripture24 Stephen, and Bible Butler) was a stanch25 Independent, and received in its fullest comprehension the promise that the saints should inherit the earth. As hard knocks were what had chiefly fallen to his share hitherto in the division of this common property, he lost not the opportunity which the storm and plunder26 of a commercial place afforded him, to appropriate as large a share of the better things of this world as he could possibly compass. It would seem that he had succeeded indifferently well, for his exterior27 circumstances appeared, in consequence of this event, to have been much mended.
The troop to which he belonged was quartered at the village of Dalkeith, as forming the bodyguard28 of Monk, who, in the capacity of general for the Commonwealth29, resided in the neighbouring castle. When, on the eve of the Restoration, the general commenced his march from Scotland, a measure pregnant with such important consequences, he new-modelled his troops, and more especially those immediately about his person, in order that they might consist entirely30 of individuals devoted31 to himself. On this occasion Scripture Stephen was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. It was supposed he felt no call to any expedition which might endanger the reign32 of the military sainthood, and that he did not consider himself as free in conscience to join with any party which might be likely ultimately to acknowledge the interest of Charles Stuart, the son of “the last man,” as Charles I. was familiarly and irreverently termed by them in their common discourse33, as well as in their more elaborate predications and harangues34. As the time did not admit of cashiering such dissidents, Stephen Butler was only advised in a friendly way to give up his horse and accoutrements to one of Middleton’s old troopers who possessed35 an accommodating conscience of a military stamp, and which squared itself chiefly upon those of the colonel and paymaster. As this hint came recommended by a certain sum of arrears36 presently payable37, Stephen had carnal wisdom enough to embrace the proposal, and with great indifference39 saw his old corps40 depart for Coldstream, on their route for the south, to establish the tottering41 Government of England on a new basis.
The zone of the ex-trooper, to use Horace’s phrase, was weighty enough to purchase a cottage and two or three fields (still known by the name of Beersheba), within about a Scottish mile of Dalkeith; and there did Stephen establish himself with a youthful helpmate, chosen out of the said village, whose disposition42 to a comfortable settlement on this side of the grave reconciled her to the gruff manners, serious temper, and weather-beaten features of the martial43 enthusiast44. Stephen did not long survive the falling on “evil days and evil tongues,” of which Milton, in the same predicament, so mournfully complains. At his death his consort45 remained an early widow, with a male child of three years old, which, in the sobriety wherewith it demeaned itself, in the old-fashioned and even grim cast of its features, and in its sententious mode of expressing itself, would sufficiently46 have vindicated47 the honour of the widow of Beersheba, had any one thought proper to challenge the babe’s descent from Bible Butler.
Butler’s principles had not descended48 to his family, or extended themselves among his neighbours. The air of Scotland was alien to the growth of independency, however favourable49 to fanaticism50 under other colours. But, nevertheless, they were not forgotten; and a certain neighbouring Laird, who piqued51 himself upon the loyalty52 of his principles “in the worst of times” (though I never heard they exposed him to more peril53 than that of a broken head, or a night’s lodging54 in the main guard, when wine and cavalierism predominated in his upper storey), had found it a convenient thing to rake up all matter of accusation55 against the deceased Stephen. In this enumeration56 his religious principles made no small figure, as, indeed, they must have seemed of the most exaggerated enormity to one whose own were so small and so faintly traced, as to be well nigh imperceptible. In these circumstances, poor widow Butler was supplied with her full proportion of fines for nonconformity, and all the other oppressions of the time, until Beersheba was fairly wrenched57 out of her hands, and became the property of the Laird who had so wantonly, as it had hitherto appeared, persecuted58 this poor forlorn woman. When his purpose was fairly achieved, he showed some remorse59 or moderation, of whatever the reader may please to term it, in permitting her to occupy her husband’s cottage, and cultivate, on no very heavy terms, a croft of land adjacent. Her son, Benjamin, in the meanwhile, grew up to mass estate, and, moved by that impulse which makes men seek marriage, even when its end can only be the perpetuation60 of misery61, he wedded62 and brought a wife, and, eventually, a son, Reuben, to share the poverty of Beersheba.
The Laird of Dumbiedikes2 had hitherto been moderate in his exactions, perhaps because he was ashamed to tax too highly the miserable63 means of support which remained to the widow Butler.
But when a stout64 active young fellow appeared as the labourer of the croft in question, Dumbiedikes began to think so broad a pair of shoulders might bear an additional burden. He regulated, indeed, his management of his dependants65 (who fortunately were but few in number) much upon the principle of the carters whom he observed loading their carts at a neighbouring coal-hill, and who never failed to clap an additional brace38 of hundredweights on their burden, so soon as by any means they had compassed a new horse of somewhat superior strength to that which had broken down the day before. However reasonable this practice appeared to the Laird of Dumbiedikes, he ought to have observed, that it may be overdone66, and that it infers, as a matter of course, the destruction and loss of both horse, and cart, and loading. Even so it befell when the additional “prestations” came to be demanded of Benjamin Butler. A man of few words, and few ideas, but attached to Beersheba with a feeling like that which a vegetable entertains to the spot in which it chances to be planted, he neither remonstrated67 with the Laird, nor endeavoured to escape from him, but, toiling68 night and day to accomplish the terms of his taskmaster, fell into a burning fever and died. His wife did not long survive him; and, as if it had been the fate of this family to be left orphans69, our Reuben Butler was, about the year 1704-5, left in the same circumstances in which his father had been placed, and under the same guardianship70, being that of his grandmother, the widow of Monk’s old trooper.
The same prospect of misery hung over the head of another tenant72 of this hardhearted lord of the soil. This was a tough true-blue Presbyterian, called Deans, who, though most obnoxious73 to the Laird on account of principles in church and state, contrived74 to maintain his ground upon the estate by regular payment of mail-duties, kain, arriage, carriage, dry multure, lock, gowpen, and knaveship, and all the various exactions now commuted75 for money, and summed up in the emphatic76 word rent. But the years 1700 and 1701, long remembered in Scotland for dearth77 and general distress78, subdued79 the stout heart of the agricultural whig. Citations80 by the ground-officer, decreets of the Baron81 Court, sequestrations, poindings of outside and inside plenishing, flew about his ears as fast as the tory bullets whistled around those of the Covenanters at Pentland, Bothwell Brigg, or Airsmoss. Struggle as he might, and he struggled gallantly82, “Douce David Deans” was routed horse and foot, and lay at the mercy of his grasping landlord just at the time that Benjamin Butler died. The fate of each family was anticipated; but they who prophesied83 their expulsion to beggary and ruin were disappointed by an accidental circumstance.
On the very term-day when their ejection should have taken place, when all their neighbours were prepared to pity, and not one to assist them, the minister of the parish, as well as a doctor from Edinburgh, received a hasty summons to attend the Laird of Dumbiedikes. Both were surprised, for his contempt for both faculties84 had been pretty commonly his theme over an extra bottle, that is to say, at least once every day. The leech85 for the soul, and he for the body, alighted in the court of the little old manor-house at almost the same time; and when they had gazed a moment at each other with some surprise, they in the same breath expressed their conviction that Dumbiedikes must needs be very ill indeed, since he summoned them both to his presence at once. Ere the servant could usher86 them to his apartment, the party was augmented87 by a man of law, Nichil Novit, writing himself procurator before the sheriff-court, for in those days there were no solicitors88. This latter personage was first summoned to the apartment of the Laird, where, after some short space, the soul-curer and the body-curer were invited to join him.
Dumbiedikes had been by this time transported into the best bedroom, used only upon occasions of death and marriage, and called, from the former of these occupations, the Dead-Room. There were in this apartment, besides the sick person himself and Mr. Novit, the son and heir of the patient, a tall gawky silly-looking boy of fourteen or fifteen, and a housekeeper89, a good buxom90 figure of a woman, betwixt forty and fifty, who had kept the keys and managed matters at Dumbiedikes since the lady’s death. It was to these attendants that Dumbiedikes addressed himself pretty nearly in the following words; temporal and spiritual matters, the care of his health and his affairs, being strangely jumbled91 in a head which was never one of the clearest.
“These are sair times wi’ me, gentlemen and neighbours! amaist as ill as at the aughty-nine, when I was rabbled by the collegeaners.3 — They mistook me muckle — they ca’d me a papist, but there was never a papist bit about me, minister. — Jock, ye’ll take warning — it’s a debt we maun a’ pay, and there stands Nichil Novit that will tell ye I was never gude at paying debts in my life. — Mr. Novit, ye’ll no forget to draw the annual rent that’s due on the yerl’s band — if I pay debt to other folk, I think they suld pay it to me — that equals aquals. — Jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye’re sleeping.4
“My father tauld me sae forty years sin’, but I ne’er fand time to mind him — Jock, ne’er drink brandy in the morning, it files the stamach sair; gin ye take a morning’s draught93, let it be aqua mirabilis; Jenny there makes it weel — Doctor, my breath is growing as scant94 as a broken-winded piper’s, when he has played for four-and-twenty hours at a penny wedding — Jenny, pit the cod95 aneath my head — but it’s a’ needless! — Mass John, could ye think o’ rattling96 ower some bit short prayer, it wad do me gude maybe, and keep some queer thoughts out o’ my head, Say something, man.”
“I cannot use a prayer like a rat-rhyme,” answered the honest clergyman; “and if you would have your soul redeemed97 like a prey98 from the fowler, Laird, you must needs show me your state of mind.”
“And shouldna ye ken2 that without my telling you?” answered the patient. “What have I been paying stipend99 and teind, parsonage and vicarage, for, ever sin’ the aughty-nine, and I canna get a spell of a prayer for’t, the only time I ever asked for ane in my life? — Gang awa wi’ your whiggery, if that’s a’ ye can do; auld92 Curate Kilstoup wad hae read half the prayer-book to me by this time — Awa wi’ ye! — Doctor, let’s see if ye can do onything better for me.”
The doctor, who had obtained some information in the meanwhile from the housekeeper on the state of his complaints, assured him the medical art could not prolong his life many hours.
“Then damn Mass John and you baith!” cried the furious and intractable patient. “Did ye come here for naething but to tell me that ye canna help me at the pinch? Out wi’ them, Jenny — out o’ the house! and, Jock, my curse, and the curse of Cromwell, go wi’ ye, if ye gie them either fee or bountith, or sae muckle as a black pair o’ cheverons!”5
The clergyman and doctor made a speedy retreat out of the apartment, while Dumbiedikes fell into one of those transports of violent and profane100 language, which had procured101 him the surname of Damn-me-dikes. “Bring me the brandy bottle, Jenny, ye b — ” he cried, with a voice in which passion contended with pain. “I can die as I have lived, without fashing ony o’ them. But there’s ae thing,” he said, sinking his voice —“there’s ae fearful thing hings about my heart, and an anker of brandy winna wash it away. — The Deanses at Woodend! — I sequestrated them in the dear years, and now they are to flit, they’ll starve — and that Beersheba, and that auld trooper’s wife and her oe, they’ll starve — they’ll starve! — Look out, Jock; what kind o’ night is’t?”
“On-ding o’ snaw, father,” answered Jock, after having opened the window, and looked out with great composure.
“They’ll perish in the drifts!” said the expiring sinner —“they’ll perish wi’ cauld! — but I’ll be het eneugh, gin a’ tales be true.”
This last observation was made under breath, and in a tone which made the very attorney shudder103. He tried his hand at ghostly advice, probably for the first time in his life, and recommended as an opiate for the agonised conscience of the Laird, reparation of the injuries he had done to these distressed104 families, which, he observed by the way, the civil law called restitutio in integrum. But Mammon was struggling with Remorse for retaining his place in a bosom105 he had so long possessed; and he partly succeeded, as an old tyrant106 proves often too strong for his insurgent107 rebels.
“I canna do’t,” he answered, with a voice of despair. “It would kill me to do’t — how can ye bid me pay back siller, when ye ken how I want it? or dispone Beersheba, when it lies sae weel into my ain plaid-nuik? Nature made Dumbiedikes and Beersheba to be ae man’s land — She did, by Nichil, it wad kill me to part them.”
“But ye maun die whether or no, Laird,” said Mr. Novit; “and maybe ye wad die easier — it’s but trying. I’ll scroll108 the disposition in nae time.”
“Dinna speak o’t, sir,” replied Dumbiedikes, “or I’ll fling the stoup at your head. — But, Jock, lad, ye see how the warld warstles wi’ me on my deathbed — be kind to the puir creatures, the Deanses and the Butlers — be kind to them, Jock. Dinna let the warld get a grip o’ ye, Jock — but keep the gear thegither! and whate’er ye do, dispone Beersheba at no rate. Let the creatures stay at a moderate mailing, and hae bite and soup; it will maybe be the better wi’ your father whare he’s gaun, lad.”
After these contradictory109 instructions, the Laird felt his mind so much at ease, that he drank three bumpers110 of brandy continuously, and “soughed awa,” as Jenny expressed it, in an attempt to sing “Deil stick the Minister.”
His death made a revolution in favour of the distressed families. John Dumbie, now of Dumbiedikes, in his own right, seemed to be close and selfish enough, but wanted the grasping spirit and active mind of his father; and his guardian71 happened to agree with him in opinion, that his father’s dying recommendation should be attended to. The tenants111, therefore, were not actually turned out of doors among the snow-wreaths, and were allowed wherewith to procure102 butter-milk and peas-bannocks, which they ate under the full force of the original malediction112. The cottage of Deans, called Woodend, was not very distant from that at Beersheba. Formerly113 there had been but little intercourse114 between the families. Deans was a sturdy Scotsman, with all sort of prejudices against the southern, and the spawn115 of the southern. Moreover, Deans was, as we have said, a stanch Presbyterian, of the most rigid116 and unbending adherence117 to what he conceived to be the only possible straight line, as he was wont118 to express himself, between right-hand heats and extremes and left-hand defections; and, therefore, he held in high dread119 and horror all Independents, and whomsoever he supposed allied120 to them.
But, notwithstanding these national prejudices and religious professions, Deans and the widow Butler were placed in such a situation, as naturally and at length created some intimacy121 between the families. They had shared a common danger and a mutual122 deliverance. They needed each other’s assistance, like a company, who, crossing a mountain stream, are compelled to cling close together, lest the current should be too powerful for any who are not thus supported.
On nearer acquaintance, too, Deans abated123 some of his prejudices. He found old Mrs. Butler, though not thoroughly124 grounded in the extent and bearing of the real testimony125 against the defections of the times, had no opinions in favour of the Independent party; neither was she an Englishwoman. Therefore, it was to be hoped, that, though she was the widow of an enthusiastic corporal of Cromwell’s dragoons, her grandson might be neither schismatic nor anti-national, two qualities concerning which Goodman Deans had as wholesome126 a terror as against papists and malignants, Above all (for Douce Davie Deans had his weak side), he perceived that widow Butler looked up to him with reverence127, listened to his advice, and compounded for an occasional fling at the doctrines128 of her deceased husbands to which, as we have seen, she was by no means warmly attached, in consideration of the valuable counsels which the Presbyterian afforded her for the management of her little farm. These usually concluded with “they may do otherwise in England, neighbour Butler, for aught I ken;” or, “it may be different in foreign parts;” or, “they wha think differently on the great foundation of our covenanted129 reformation, overturning and mishguggling the government and discipline of the kirk, and breaking down the carved work of our Zion, might be for sawing the craft wi’ aits; but I say peace, peace.” And as his advice was shrewd and sensible, though conceitedly130 given, it was received with gratitude131, and followed with respect.
The intercourse which took place betwixt the families at Beersheba and Woodend became strict and intimate, at a very early period, betwixt Reuben Butler, with whom the reader is already in some degree acquainted, and Jeanie Deans, the only child of Douce Davie Deans by his first wife, “that singular Christian132 woman,” as he was wont to express himself, “whose name was savoury to all that knew her for a desirable professor, Christian Menzies in Hochmagirdle.” The manner of which intimacy, and the consequences thereof, we now proceed to relate.
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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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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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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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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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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bodyguard
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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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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harangues
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| n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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44
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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45
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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46
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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47
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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48
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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49
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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50
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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51
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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52
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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53
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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54
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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55
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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56
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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57
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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58
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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59
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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60
perpetuation
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| n.永存，不朽 | |
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61
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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62
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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65
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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66
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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67
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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68
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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69
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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70
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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71
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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72
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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73
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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74
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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75
commuted
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| 通勤( commute的过去式和过去分词 )； 减（刑）； 代偿 | |
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76
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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77
dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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78
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
citations
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| n.引用( citation的名词复数 )；引证；引文；表扬 | |
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81
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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82
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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83
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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85
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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86
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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87
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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88
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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89
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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90
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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91
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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92
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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93
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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94
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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95
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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96
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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97
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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98
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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99
stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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100
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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101
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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102
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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103
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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104
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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105
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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106
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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107
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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108
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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109
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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110
bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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111
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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112
malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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113
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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114
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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115
spawn
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| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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116
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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117
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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118
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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119
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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120
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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121
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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122
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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123
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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124
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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125
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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126
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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127
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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128
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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129
covenanted
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的过去分词 ) | |
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130
conceitedly
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| 自满地 | |
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131
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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132
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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