You have paid the heavens your function,
and the prisoner the very debt of your calling.
Measure for Measure.
Jeanie Deans — for here our story unites itself with that part of the narrative1 which broke off at the end of the fourteenth chapter — while she waited, in terror and amazement2, the hasty advance of three or four men towards her, was yet more startled at their suddenly breaking asunder3, and giving chase in different directions to the late object of her terror, who became at that moment, though she could not well assign a reasonable cause, rather the cause of her interest. One of the party (it was Sharpitlaw) came straight up to her, and saying, “Your name is Jeanie Deans, and you are my prisoner,” immediately added, “But if you will tell me which way he ran I will let you go.”
“I dinna ken6, sir,” was all the poor girl could utter; and, indeed, it is the phrase which rises most readily to the lips of any person in her rank, as the readiest reply to any embarrassing question.
“But,” said Sharpitlaw, “ye ken wha it was ye were speaking wi’, my leddy, on the hill side, and midnight sae near; ye surely ken that, my bonny woman?”
“I dinna ken, sir,” again iterated Jeanie, who really did not comprehend in her terror the nature of the questions which were so hastily put to her in this moment of surprise.
“We will try to mend your memory by and by, hinny,” said Sharpitlaw, and shouted, as we have already told the reader, to Ratcliffe, to come up and take charge of her, while he himself directed the chase after Robertson, which he still hoped might be successful. As Ratcliffe approached, Sharpitlaw pushed the young woman towards him with some rudeness, and betaking himself to the more important object of his quest, began to scale crags and scramble8 up steep banks, with an agility9 of which his profession and his general gravity of demeanour would previously10 have argued him incapable11. In a few minutes there was no one within sight, and only a distant halloo from one of the pursuers to the other, faintly heard on the side of the hill, argued that there was any one within hearing. Jeanie Deans was left in the clear moonlight, standing12 under the guard of a person of whom she knew nothing, and, what was worse, concerning whom, as the reader is well aware, she could have learned nothing that would not have increased her terror.
When all in the distance was silent, Ratcliffe for the first time addressed her, and it was in that cold sarcastic13 indifferent tone familiar to habitual14 depravity, whose crimes are instigated15 by custom rather than by passion. “This is a braw night for ye, dearie,” he said, attempting to pass his arm across her shoulder, “to be on the green hill wi’ your jo.” Jeanie extricated16 herself from his grasp, but did not make any reply.
“I think lads and lasses,” continued the ruffian, “dinna meet at Muschat’s Cairn at midnight to crack nuts,” and he again attempted to take hold of her.
“If ye are an officer of justice, sir,” said Jeanie, again eluding18 his attempt to seize her, “ye deserve to have your coat stripped from your back.”
“Very true, hinny,” said he, succeeding forcibly in his attempt to get hold of her, “but suppose I should strip your cloak off first?”
“Ye are more a man, I am sure, than to hurt me, sir,” said Jeanie; “for God’s sake have pity on a half-distracted creature!”
“Come, come,” said Ratcliffe, “you’re a good-looking wench, and should not be cross-grained. I was going to be an honest man — but the devil has this very day flung first a lawyer, and then a woman, in my gate. I’ll tell you what, Jeanie, they are out on the hill-side — if you’ll be guided by me, I’ll carry you to a wee bit corner in the Pleasance, that I ken o’ in an auld19 wife’s, that a’ the prokitors o’ Scotland wot naething o’, and we’ll send Robertson word to meet us in Yorkshire, for there is a set o’ braw lads about the midland counties, that I hae dune20 business wi’ before now, and sae we’ll leave Mr. Sharpitlaw to whistle on his thumb.”
It was fortunate for Jeanie, in an emergency like the present, that she possessed21 presence of mind and courage, so soon as the first hurry of surprise had enabled her to rally her recollection. She saw the risk she was in from a ruffian, who not only was such by profession, but had that evening been stupifying, by means of strong liquors, the internal aversion which he felt at the business on which Sharpitlaw had resolved to employ him.
“Dinna speak sae loud,” said she, in a low voice; “he’s up yonder.”
“Who? — Robertson?” said Ratcliffe, eagerly.
“Ay,” replied Jeanie; “up yonder;” and she pointed23 to the ruins of the hermitage and chapel24.
“By G— d, then,” said Ratcliffe, “I’ll make my ain of him, either one way or other — wait for me here.”
But no sooner had he set off as fast as he could run, towards the chapel, than Jeanie started in an opposite direction, over high and low, on the nearest path homeward. Her juvenile25 exercise as a herdswoman had put “life and mettle” in her heels, and never had she followed Dustiefoot, when the cows were in the corn, with half so much speed as she now cleared the distance betwixt Muschat’s Cairn and her father’s cottage at St. Leonard’s. To lift the latch26 — to enter — to shut, bolt, and double bolt the door — to draw against it a heavy article of furniture (which she could not have moved in a moment of less energy), so as to make yet farther provision against violence, was almost the work of a moment, yet done with such silence as equalled the celerity.
Her next anxiety was upon her father’s account, and she drew silently to the door of his apartment, in order to satisfy herself whether he had been disturbed by her return. He was awake — probably had slept but little; but the constant presence of his own sorrows, the distance of his apartment from the outer door of the house, and the precautions which Jeanie had taken to conceal27 her departure and return, had prevented him from being sensible of either. He was engaged in his devotions, and Jeanie could distinctly hear him use these words:—“And for the other child thou hast given me to be a comfort and stay to my old age, may her days be long in the land, according to the promise thou hast given to those who shall honour father and mother; may all her purchased and promised blessings29 be multiplied upon her; keep her in the watches of the night, and in the uprising of the morning, that all in this land may know that thou hast not utterly30 hid thy face from those that seek thee in truth and in sincerity31.” He was silent, but probably continued his petition in the strong fervency32 of mental devotion.
His daughter retired33 to her apartment, comforted, that while she was exposed to danger, her head had been covered by the prayers of the just as by an helmet, and under the strong confidence, that while she walked worthy34 of the protection of Heaven, she would experience its countenance35. It was in that moment that a vague idea first darted36 across her mind, that something might yet be achieved for her sister’s safety, conscious as she now was of her innocence37 of the unnatural38 murder with which she stood charged. It came, as she described it, on her mind, like a sun-blink on a stormy sea; and although it instantly vanished, yet she felt a degree of composure which she had not experienced for many days, and could not help being strongly persuaded that, by some means or other, she would be called upon, and directed, to work out her sister’s deliverance. She went to bed, not forgetting her usual devotions, the more fervently39 made on account of her late deliverance, and she slept soundly in spite of her agitation40.
We must return to Ratcliffe, who had started, like a greyhound from the slips when the sportsman cries halloo, as soon as Jeanie had pointed to the ruins. Whether he meant to aid Robertson’s escape, or to assist his pursuers, may be very doubtful; perhaps he did not himself know but had resolved to be guided by circumstances. He had no opportunity, however, of doing either; for he had no sooner surmounted41 the steep ascent42, and entered under the broken arches of the rains, than a pistol was presented at his head, and a harsh voice commanded him, in the king’s name, to surrender himself prisoner. “Mr. Sharpitlaw!” said Ratcliffe, surprised, “is this your honour?”
“Is it only you, and be d — d to you?” answered the fiscal43, still more disappointed —“what made you leave the woman?”
“She told me she saw Robertson go into the ruins, so I made what haste I could to cleek the callant.”
“It’s all over now,” said Sharpitlaw; “we shall see no more of him to-night; but he shall hide himself in a bean-hool, if he remains44 on Scottish ground without my finding him. Call back the people, Ratcliffe.”
Ratcliffe hollowed to the dispersed45 officers, who willingly obeyed the signal; for probably there was no individual among them who would have been much desirous of a rencontre, hand to hand, and at a distance from his comrades, with such an active and desperate fellow as Robertson.
“And where are the two women?” said Sharpitlaw.
“Both made their heels serve them, I suspect,” replied Ratcliffe, and he hummed the end of the old song —
“Then hey play up the rin-awa bride,
“One woman,” said Sharpitlaw — for, like all rogues47, he was a great calumniator48 of the fair sex,1 —“one woman is enough to dark the fairest ploy22 that was ever planned; and how could I be such an ass4 as to expect to carry through a job that had two in it? But we know how to come by them both, if they are wanted, that’s one good thing.”
Accordingly, like a defeated general, sad and sulky, he led back his discomfited49 forces to the metropolis50, and dismissed them for the night.
The next morning early, he was under the necessity of making his report to the sitting magistrate51 of the day. The gentleman who occupied the chair of office on this occasion (for the bailies, Anglice’, aldermen, take it by rotation) chanced to be the same by whom Butler was committed, a person very generally respected among his fellow-citizens. Something he was of a humorist, and rather deficient53 in general education; but acute, patient, and upright, possessed of a fortune acquired by honest industry which made him perfectly55 independent; and, in short, very happily qualified56 to support the respectability of the office, which he held.
Mr. Middleburgh had just taken his seat, and was debating in an animated57 manner, with one of his colleagues, the doubtful chances of a game at golf which they had played the day before, when a letter was delivered to him, addressed “For Bailie Middleburgh; These: to be forwarded with speed.” It contained these words:—
“Sir — I know you to be a sensible and a considerate magistrate, and one who, as such, will be content to worship God, though the devil bid you. I therefore expect that, notwithstanding the signature of this letter acknowledges my share in an action, which, in a proper time and place, I would not fear either to avow58 or to justify60, you will not on that account reject what evidence I place before you. The clergyman, Butler, is innocent of all but involuntary presence at an action which he wanted spirit to approve of, and from which he endeavoured, with his best set phrases, to dissuade61 us. But it was not for him that it is my hint to speak. There is a woman in your jail, fallen under the edge of a law so cruel, that it has hung by the wall like unsecured armour62, for twenty years, and is now brought down and whetted63 to spill the blood of the most beautiful and most innocent creature whom the walls of a prison ever girdled in. Her sister knows of her innocence, as she communicated to her that she was betrayed by a villain64. — O that high Heaven
Would put in every honest hand a whip,
To scourge65 me such a villain through the world!
“I write distractedly — But this girl — this Jeanie Deans, is a peevish66 puritan, superstitious67 and scrupulous68 after the manner of her sect69; and I pray your honour, for so my phrase must go, to press upon her, that her sister’s life depends upon her testimony70. But though she should remain silent, do not dare to think that the young woman is guilty — far less to permit her execution. Remember the death of Wilson was fearfully avenged72; and those yet live who can compel you to drink the dregs of your poisoned chalice73. — I say, remember Porteous, and say that you had good counsel from
“One of his Slayers.”
The magistrate read over this extraordinary letter twice or thrice. At first he was tempted17 to throw it aside as the production of a madman, so little did “the scraps74 from play-books,” as he termed the poetical75 quotation76, resemble the correspondence of a rational being. On a re-perusal, however, he thought that, amid its incoherence, he could discover something like a tone of awakened77 passion, though expressed in a manner quaint78 and unusual.
“It is a cruelly severe statute79,” said the magistrate to his assistant, “and I wish the girl could be taken from under the letter of it. A child may have been born, and it may have been conveyed away while the mother was insensible, or it may have perished for want of that relief which the poor creature herself — helpless, terrified, distracted, despairing, and exhausted80 — may have been unable to afford to it. And yet it is certain, if the woman is found guilty under the statute, execution will follow. The crime has been too common, and examples are necessary.”
“But if this other wench,” said the city-clerk, “can speak to her sister communicating her situation, it will take the case from under the statute.”
“Very true,” replied the Bailie; “and I will walk out one of these days to St. Leonard’s, and examine the girl myself. I know something of their father Deans — an old true-blue Cameronian, who would see house and family go to wreck81 ere he would disgrace his testimony by a sinful complying with the defections of the times; and such he will probably uphold the taking an oath before a civil magistrate. If they are to go on and flourish with their bull-headed obstinacy82, the legislature must pass an act to take their affirmations, as in the case of Quakers. But surely neither a father nor a sister will scruple83 in a case of this kind. As I said before, I will go speak with them myself, when the hurry of this Porteous investigation84 is somewhat over; their pride and spirit of contradiction will be far less alarmed, than if they were called into a court of justice at once.”
“And I suppose Butler is to remain incarcerated85?” said the city-clerk.
“For the present, certainly,” said the magistrate. “But I hope soon to set him at liberty upon bail52.”
“Do you rest upon the testimony of that light-headed letter?” asked the clerk.
“Not very much,” answered the Bailie; “and yet there is something striking about it too — it seems the letter of a man beside himself, either from great agitation, or some great sense of guilt71.”
“Yes,” said the town-clerk, “it is very like the letter of a mad strolling play-actor, who deserves to be hanged with all the rest of his gang, as your honour justly observes.”
“I was not quite so bloodthirsty,” continued the magistrate. “But to the point, Butler’s private character is excellent; and I am given to understand, by some inquiries86 I have been making this morning, that he did actually arrive in town only the day before yesterday, so that it was impossible he could have been concerned in any previous machinations of these unhappy rioters, and it is not likely that he should have joined them on a suddenty.”
“There’s no saying anent that — zeal87 catches fire at a slight spark as fast as a brunstane match,” observed the secretary. “I hae kend a minister wad be fair gude-day and fair gude-e’en wi’ ilka man in the parochine, and hing just as quiet as a rocket on a stick, till ye mentioned the word abjuration-oath, or patronage88, or siclike, and then, whiz, he was off, and up in the air an hundred miles beyond common manners, common sense, and common comprehension.”
“I do not understand,” answered the burgher-magistrate, “that the young man Butler’s zeal is of so inflammable a character. But I will make farther investigation. What other business is there before us?”
And they proceeded to minute investigations89 concerning the affair of Porteous’s death, and other affairs through which this history has no occasion to trace them.
In the course of their business they were interrupted by an old woman of the lower rank, extremely haggard in look, and wretched in her appearance, who thrust herself into the council room.
“What do you want, gudewife? — Who are you?” said Bailie Middleburgh.
“What do I want!” replied she, in a sulky tone —“I want my bairn, or I want naething frae nane o’ ye, for as grand’s ye are.” And she went on muttering to herself with the wayward spitefulness of age —“They maun hae lordships and honours, nae doubt — set them up, the gutter-bloods! and deil a gentleman amang them.”— Then again addressing the sitting magistrate, “Will your honour gie me back my puir crazy bairn? — His honour! — I hae kend the day when less wad ser’d him, the oe of a Campvere skipper.”
“Good woman,” said the magistrate to this shrewish supplicant90 —“tell us what it is you want, and do not interrupt the court.”
“That’s as muckle as till say, Bark, Bawtie, and be dune wi’t! — I tell ye,” raising her termagant voice, “I want my bairn! is na that braid Scots?”
“Who are you? — who is your bairn?” demanded the magistrate.
“Wha am I? — wha suld I be, but Meg Murdockson, and wha suld my bairn be but Magdalen Murdockson? — Your guard soldiers, and your constables91, and your officers, ken us weel eneugh when they rive the bits o’ duds aff our backs, and take what penny o’ siller we hae, and harle us to the Correctionhouse in Leith Wynd, and pettle us up wi’ bread and water and siclike sunkets.”
“Who is she?” said the magistrate, looking round to some of his people.
“Other than a gude ane, sir,” said one of the city officers, shrugging his shoulders and smiling.
“Will ye say sae?” said the termagant, her eye gleaming with impotent fury; “an I had ye amang the Figgat-Whins,2 wadna I set my ten talents in your wuzzent face for that very word?” and she suited the word to the action, by spreading out a set of claws resembling those of St. George’s dragon on a country sign-post.
“What does she want here?” said the impatient magistrate —“Can she not tell her business, or go away?”
“It’s my bairn! — it’s Magdalen Murdockson I’m wantin’,” answered the beldam, screaming at the highest pitch of her cracked and mistuned voice —“havena I been telling ye sae this half-hour? And if ye are deaf, what needs ye sit cockit up there, and keep folk scraughin’ t’ye this gate?”
“She wants her daughter, sir,” said the same officer whose interference had given the hag such offence before —“her daughter, who was taken up last night — Madge Wildfire, as they ca’ her.”
“Madge Hellfire, as they ca’ her!” echoed the beldam “and what business has a blackguard like you to ca’ an honest woman’s bairn out o’ her ain name?”
“An honest woman’s bairn, Maggie?” answered the peace-officer, smiling and shaking his head with an ironical92 emphasis on the adjective, and a calmness calculated to provoke to madness the furious old shrew.
“If I am no honest now, I was honest ance,” she replied; “and that’s mair than ye can say, ye born and bred thief, that never kend ither folks’ gear frae your ain since the day ye was cleckit. Honest, say ye? — ye pykit your mother’s pouch93 o’ twalpennies Scots when ye were five years auld, just as she was taking leave o’ your father at the fit o’ the gallows94.”
“She has you there, George,” said the assistants, and there was a general laugh; for the wit was fitted for the meridian95 of the place where it was uttered. This general applause somewhat gratified the passions of the old hag; the “grim feature” smiled and even laughed — but it was a laugh of bitter scorn. She condescended97, however, as if appeased98 by the success of her sally, to explain her business more distinctly, when the magistrate, commanding silence, again desired her either to speak out her errand, or to leave the place.
“Her bairn,” she said, “was her bairn, and she came to fetch her out of ill haft and waur guiding. If she wasna sae wise as ither folk, few ither folk had suffered as muckle as she had done; forby that she could fend99 the waur for hersell within the four wa’s of a jail. She could prove by fifty witnesses, and fifty to that, that her daughter had never seen Jock Porteous, alive or dead, since he had gien her a laundering100 wi’ his cane101, the neger that he was! for driving a dead cat at the provost’s wig102 on the Elector of Hanover’s birthday.”
Notwithstanding the wretched appearance and violent demeanour of this woman, the magistrate felt the justice of her argument, that her child might be as dear to her as to a more fortunate and more amiable103 mother. He proceeded to investigate the circumstances which had led to Madge Murdockson’s (or Wildfire’s) arrest, and as it was clearly shown that she had not been engaged in the riot, he contented104 himself with directing that an eye should be kept upon her by the police, but that for the present she should be allowed to return home with her mother. During the interval105 of fetching Madge from the jail, the magistrate endeavoured to discover whether her mother had been privy106 to the change of dress betwixt that young woman and Robertson. But on this point he could obtain no light. She persisted in declaring, that she had never seen Robertson since his remarkable107 escape during service-time; and that, if her daughter had changed clothes with him, it must have been during her absence at a hamlet about two miles out of town, called Duddingstone, where she could prove that she passed that eventful night. And, in fact, one of the town-officers, who had been searching for stolen linen108 at the cottage of a washer-woman in that village, gave his evidence, that he had seen Maggie Murdockson there, whose presence had considerably109 increased his suspicion of the house in which she was a visitor, in respect that he considered her as a person of no good reputation.
“I tauld ye sae,” said the hag; “see now what it is to hae a character, gude or bad! — Now, maybe, after a’, I could tell ye something about Porteous that you council-chamber bodies never could find out, for as muckle stir as ye mak.”
All eyes were turned towards her — all ears were alert. “Speak out!” said the magistrate.
“It will be for your ain gude,” insinuated110 the town-clerk.
“Dinna keep the Bailie waiting,” urged the assistants.
She remained doggedly111 silent for two or three minutes, casting around a malignant112 and sulky glance, that seemed to enjoy the anxious suspense113 with which they waited her answer. And then she broke forth114 at once — “A’ that I ken about him is, that he was neither soldier nor gentleman, but just a thief and a blackguard, like maist o’ yoursells, dears — What will ye gie me for that news, now? — He wad hae served the gude town lang or provost or bailie wad hae fund that out, my jo!”
While these matters were in discussion, Madge Wildfire entered, and her first exclamation115 was, “Eh! see if there isna our auld ne’er-do-weel deevil’s-buckie o’ a mither — Hegh, sirs! but we are a hopeful family, to be twa o’ us in the Guard at ance — But there were better days wi’ us ance — were there na, mither?”
Old Maggie’s eyes had glistened116 with something like an expression of pleasure when she saw her daughter set at liberty. But either her natural affection, like that of the tigress, could not be displayed without a strain of ferocity, or there was something in the ideas which Madge’s speech awakened, that again stirred her cross and savage117 temper. “What signifies what we, were, ye street-raking limmer!” she exclaimed, pushing her daughter before her to the door, with no gentle degree of violence. “I’se tell thee what thou is now — thou’s a crazed hellicat Bess o’ Bedlam118, that sall taste naething but bread and water for a fortnight, to serve ye for the plague ye hae gien me — and ower gude for ye, ye idle taupie!”
Madge, however, escaped from her mother at the door, ran back to the foot of the table, dropped a very low and fantastic courtesy to the judge, and said, with a giggling119 laugh — “Our minnie’s sair mis-set, after her ordinar, sir — She’ll hae had some quarrel wi’ her auld gudeman — that’s Satan, ye ken, sirs.” This explanatory note she gave in a low confidential120 tone, and the spectators of that credulous121 generation did not hear it without an involuntary shudder122. “The gudeman and her disna aye gree weel, and then I maun pay the piper; but my back’s broad eneugh to bear’t a’— an’ if she hae nae havings, that’s nae reason why wiser folk shouldna hae some.” Here another deep courtesy, when the ungracious voice of her mother was heard.
“Madge, ye limmer! If I come to fetch ye!”
“Hear till her,” said Madge. “But I’ll wun out a gliff the night for a’ that, to dance in the moonlight, when her and the gudeman will be whirrying through the blue lift on a broom-shank, to see Jean Jap, that they hae putten intill the Kirkcaldy Tolbooth — ay, they will hae a merry sail ower Inchkeith, and ower a’ the bits o’ bonny waves that are poppling and plashing against the rocks in the gowden glimmer123 o’ the moon, ye ken. — I’m coming, mother — I’m coming,” she concluded, on hearing a scuffle at the door betwixt the beldam and the officers, who were endeavouring to prevent her re-entrance. Madge then waved her hand wildly towards the ceiling, and sung, at the topmost pitch of her voice,
“Up in the air,
And I see, and I see, and I see her yet;”
and with a hop7, skip, and jump, sprung out of the room, as the witches of Macbeth used, in less refined days, to seem to fly upwards125 from the stage.
Some weeks intervened before Mr. Middleburgh, agreeably to his benevolent126 resolution, found an opportunity of taking a walk towards St. Leonard’s, in order to discover whether it might be possible to obtain the evidence hinted at in the anonymous127 letter respecting Effie Deans.
In fact, the anxious perquisitions made to discover the murderers of Porteous occupied the attention of all concerned with the administration of justice.
In the course of these inquiries, two circumstances happened material to our story. Butler, after a close investigation of his conduct, was declared innocent of accession to the death of Porteous; but, as having been present during the whole transaction, was obliged to find bail not to quit his usual residence at Liberton, that he might appear as a witness when called upon. The other incident regarded the disappearance128 of Madge Wildfire and her mother from Edinburgh. When they were sought, with the purpose of subjecting them to some farther interrogatories, it was discovered by Mr. Sharpitlaw that they had eluded129 the observation of the police, and left the city so soon as dismissed from the council-chamber. No efforts could trace the place of their retreat.
In the meanwhile the excessive indignation of the Council of Regency, at the slight put upon their authority by the murder of Porteous, had dictated130 measures, in which their own extreme desire of detecting the actors in that conspiracy131 were consulted in preference to the temper of the people and the character of their churchmen. An act of Parliament was hastily passed, offering two hundred pounds reward to those who should inform against any person concerned in the deed, and the penalty of death, by a very unusual and severe enactment132, was denounced against those who should harbour the guilty. But what was chiefly accounted exceptionable, was a clause, appointing the act to be read in churches by the officiating clergyman, on the first Sunday of every month, for a certain period, immediately before the sermon. The ministers who should refuse to comply with this injunction were declared, for the first offence, incapable of sitting or voting in any church judicature, and for the second, incapable of holding any ecclesiastical preferment in Scotland.
This last order united in a common cause those who might privately133 rejoice in Porteous’s death, though they dared not vindicate134 the manner of it, with the more scrupulous Presbyterians, who held that even the pronouncing the name of the “Lords Spiritual” in a Scottish pulpit was, quodammodo, an acknowledgment of prelacy, and that the injunction of the legislature was an interference of the civil government with the jus divinum of Presbytery, since to the General Assembly alone, as representing the invisible head of the kirk, belonged the sole and exclusive right of regulating whatever pertained135 to public worship. Very many also, of different political or religious sentiments, and therefore not much moved by these considerations, thought they saw, in so violent an act of parliament, a more vindictive136 spirit than became the legislature of a great country, and something like an attempt to trample137 upon the rights and independence of Scotland. The various steps adopted for punishing the city of Edinburgh, by taking away her charter and liberties, for what a violent and overmastering mob had done within her walls, were resented by many, who thought a pretext138 was too hastily taken for degrading the ancient metropolis of Scotland. In short, there was much heart-burning, discontent, and disaffection, occasioned by these ill-considered measures.3
Amidst these heats and dissensions, the trial of Effie Deans, after she had been many weeks imprisoned139, was at length about to be brought forward, and Mr. Middleburgh found leisure to inquire into the evidence concerning her. For this purpose, he chose a fine day for his walk towards her father’s house.
The excursion into the country was somewhat distant, in the opinion of a burgess of those days, although many of the present inhabit suburban140 villas141 considerably beyond the spot to which we allude142. Three-quarters of an hour’s walk, however, even at a pace of magisterial143 gravity, conducted our benevolent office-bearer to the Crags of St. Leonard’s, and the humble144 mansion145 of David Deans.
The old man was seated on the deas, or turf-seat, at the end of his cottage, busied in mending his cart-harness with his own hands; for in those days any sort of labour which required a little more skill than usual fell to the share of the goodman himself, and that even when he was well to pass in the world. With stern and austere146 gravity he persevered147 in his task, after having just raised his head to notice the advance of the stranger. It would have been impossible to have discovered, from his countenance and manner, the internal feelings of agony with which he contended. Mr. Middleburgh waited an instant, expecting Deans would in some measure acknowledge his presence, and lead into conversation; but, as he seemed determined148 to remain silent, he was himself obliged to speak first.
“My name is Middleburgh — Mr. James Middleburgh, one of the present magistrates149 of the city of Edinburgh.”
“It may be sae,” answered Deans laconically150, and without interrupting his labour.
“You must understand,” he continued, “that the duty of a magistrate is sometimes an unpleasant one.”
“It may be sae,” replied David; “I hae naething to say in the contrair;” and he was again doggedly silent.
“You must be aware,” pursued the magistrate, “that persons in my situation are often obliged to make painful and disagreeable inquiries of individuals, merely because it is their bounden duty.”
“It may be sae,” again replied Deans; “I hae naething to say anent it, either the tae way or the t’other. But I do ken there was ance in a day a just and God-fearing magistracy in yon town o’ Edinburgh, that did not bear the sword in vain, but were a terror to evil-doers, and a praise to such as kept the path. In the glorious days of auld worthy faithfu’ Provost Dick,4 when there was a true and faithfu’ General Assembly of
the Kirk, walking hand in hand with the real noble Scottish-hearted barons151, and with the magistrates of this and other towns, gentles, burgesses, and commons of all ranks, seeing with one eye, hearing with one ear, and upholding the ark with their united strength — And then folk might see men deliver up their silver to the state’s use, as if it had been as muckle sclate stanes. My father saw them toom the sacks of dollars out o’ Provost Dick’s window intill the carts that carried them to the army at Dunse Law; and if ye winna believe his testimony, there is the window itsell still standing in the Luckenbooths — I think it’s a claith-merchant’s booth the day5 — at the airn stanchells, five doors abune Gossford’s Close.
— But now we haena sic spirit amang us; we think mair about the warst wallydraigle in our ain byre, than about the blessing28 which the angel of the covenant152 gave to the Patriarch even at Peniel and Mahanaim, or the binding153 obligation of our national vows154; and we wad rather gie a pund Scots to buy an unguent155 to clear out auld rannell-trees and our beds o’ the English bugs156 as they ca’ them, than we wad gie a plack to rid the land of the swarm157 of Arminian caterpillars158, Socinian pismires, and deistical Miss Katies, that have ascended159 out of the bottomless pit, to plague this perverse160, insidious161, and lukewarm generation.”
It happened to Davie Deans on this occasion, as it has done to many other habitual orators162; when once he became embarked163 on his favourite subject, the stream of his own enthusiasm carried him forward in spite of his mental distress164, while his well-exercised memory supplied him amply with all the types and tropes of rhetoric165 peculiar166 to his sect and cause.
Mr. Middleburgh contented himself with answering —“All this may be very true, my friend; but, as you said just now, I have nothing to say to it at present, either one way or other. — You have two daughters, I think, Mr. Deans?”
The old man winced167, as one whose smarting sore is suddenly galled168; but instantly composed himself, resumed the work which, in the heat of his declamation169, he had laid down, and answered with sullen170 resolution, “Ae daughter, sir — only ane.”
“I understand you,” said Mr. Middleburgh; “you have only one daughter here at home with you — but this unfortunate girl who is a prisoner — she is, I think, your youngest daughter?”
The Presbyterian sternly raised his eyes. “After the world, and according to the flesh, she is my daughter; but when she became a child of Belial, and a company-keeper, and a trader in guilt and iniquity171, she ceased to be a bairn of mine.”
“Alas, Mr. Deans,” said Middleburgh, sitting down by him, and endeavouring to take his hand, which the old man proudly withdrew, “we are ourselves all sinners; and the errors of our offspring, as they ought not to surprise us, being the portion which they derive172 of a common portion of corruption173 inherited through us, so they do not entitle us to cast them off because they have lost themselves.”
“Sir,” said Deans impatiently, “I ken a’ that as weel as — I mean to say,” he resumed, checking the irritation174 he felt at being schooled — a discipline of the mind which those most ready to bestow175 it on others do themselves most reluctantly submit to receive —“I mean to say, that what ye o serve may be just and reasonable — But I hae nae freedom to enter into my ain private affairs wi’ strangers — And now, in this great national emergency, When there’s the Porteous’ Act has come doun frae London, that is a deeper blow to this poor sinfu’ kingdom and suffering kirk than ony that has been heard of since the foul176 and fatal Test — at a time like this —”
“But, goodman,” interrupted Mr. Middleburgh, “you must think of your own household first, or else you are worse even than the infidels.”
“I tell ye, Bailie Middleburgh,” retorted David Deans, “if ye be a bailie, as there is little honour in being ane in these evil days — I tell ye, I heard the gracious Saunders Peden — I wotna whan it was; but it was in killing177 time, when the plowers were drawing alang their furrows178 on the back of the Kirk of Scotland — I heard him tell his hearers, gude and waled Christians179 they were too, that some o’ them wad greet mair for a bit drowned calf181 or stirk than for a’ the defections and oppressions of the day; and that they were some o’ them thinking o’ ae thing, some o’ anither, and there was Lady Hundleslope thinking o’ greeting Jock at the fireside! And the lady confessed in my hearing that a drow of anxiety had come ower her for her son that she had left at hame weak of a decay6 — And what wad he hae said of me if I had ceased to think of the gude cause for a castaway — a — It kills me to think of what she is!”
“But the life of your child, goodman — think of that — if her life could be saved,” said Middleburgh.
“Her life!” exclaimed David —“I wadna gie ane o’ my grey hairs for her life, if her gude name be gane — And yet,” said he, relenting and retracting182 as he spoke183, “I wad make the niffer, Mr. Middleburgh — I wad gie a’ these grey hairs that she has brought to shame and sorrow — I wad gie the auld head they grow on for her life, and that she might hae time to amend184 and return, for what hae the wicked beyond the breath of their nosthrils? — but I’ll never see her mair — No! — that — that I am determined in-I’ll never see her mair!” His lips continued to move for a minute after his voice ceased to be heard, as if he were repeating the same vow59 internally.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Middleburgh, “I speak to you as a man of sense; if you would save your daughter’s life, you must use human means.”
“I understand what you mean; but Mr. Novit, who is the procurator and doer of an honourable185 person, the Laird of Dumbiedikes, is to do what carnal wisdom can do for her in the circumstances. Mysell am not clear to trinquet and traffic wi’ courts o’ justice as they are now constituted; I have a tenderness and scruple in my mind anent them.”
“That is to say,” said Middleburgh, “that you are a Cameronian, and do not acknowledge the authority of our courts of judicature, or present government?”
“Sir, under your favour,” replied David, who was too proud of his own polemical knowledge to call himself the follower186 of any one, “ye take me up before I fall down. I canna see why I suld be termed a Cameronian, especially now that ye hae given the name of that famous and savoury sufferer, not only until a regimental band of souldiers, [H. M. 26th Foot] whereof I am told many can now curse, swear, and use profane187 language, as fast as ever Richard Cameron could preach or pray, but also because ye have, in as far as it is in your power, rendered that martyr’s name vain and contemptible188, by pipes, drums, and fifes, playing the vain carnal spring called the Cameronian Rant189, which too many professors of religion dance to — a practice maist unbecoming a professor to dance to any tune54 whatsoever190, more especially promiscuously191, that is, with the female sex.7 A brutish fashion it is, whilk is the beginning of defection with many, as I may hae as muckle cause as maist folk to testify.”
“Well, but, Mr. Deans,” replied Mr. Middleburgh, “I only meant to say that you were a Cameronian, or MacMillanite, one of the society people, in short, who think it inconsistent to take oaths under a government where the Covenant is not ratified96.”
“Sir,” replied the controversialist, who forgot even his present distress in such discussions as these, “you cannot fickle192 me sae easily as you do opine. I am not a MacMillanite, or a Russelite, or a Hamiltonian, or a Harleyite, or a Howdenite8 — I will be led by the nose by none — I take my name as a Christian180 from no vessel193 of clay. I have my own principles and practice to answer for, and am an humble pleader for the gude auld cause in a legal way.”
“That is to say, Mr. Deans,” said Middleburgh, “that you are a Deanite, and have opinions peculiar to yourself.”
“It may please you to say sae,” said David Deans; “but I have maintained my testimony before as great folk, and in sharper times; and though I will neither exalt194 myself nor pull down others, I wish every man and woman in this land had kept the true testimony, and the middle and straight path, as it were, on the ridge195 of a hill, where wind and water shears196, avoiding right-hand snares197 and extremes, and left-hand way-slidings, as weel as Johnny Dodds of Farthing’s Acre, and ae man mair that shall be nameless.”
“I suppose,” replied the magistrate, “that is as much as to say, that Johnny Dodds of Farthing’s Acre, and David Deans of St. Leonard’s, constitute the only members of the true, real, unsophisticated Kirk of Scotland?”
“God forbid that I suld make sic a vain-glorious speech, when there are sae mony professing198 Christians!” answered David; “but this I maun say, that all men act according to their gifts and their grace, ‘sae that it is nae marvel199 that —”
“This is all very fine,” interrupted Mr. Middleburgh; “but I have no time to spend in hearing it. The matter in hand is this — I have directed a citation200 to be lodged201 in your daughter’s hands — If she appears on the day of trial and gives evidence, there is reason to hope she may save her sister’s life — if, from any constrained202 scruples203 about the legality of her performing the office of an affectionate sister and a good subject, by appearing in a court held under the authority of the law and government, you become the means of deterring204 her from the discharge of this duty, I must say, though the truth may sound harsh in your ears, that you, who gave life to this unhappy girl, will become the means of her losing it by a premature205 and violent death.”
So saying, Mr. Middleburgh turned to leave him.
“Bide206 awee — bide awee, Mr. Middleburgh,” said Deans, in great perplexity and distress of mind; but the Bailie, who was probably sensible that protracted207 discussion might diminish the effect of his best and most forcible argument, took a hasty leave, and declined entering farther into the controversy208.
Deans sunk down upon his seat, stunned209 with a variety of conflicting emotions. It had been a great source of controversy among those holding his opinions in religious matters how far the government which succeeded the Revolution could be, without sin, acknowledged by true Presbyterians, seeing that it did not recognise the great national testimony of the Solemn League and Covenant? And latterly, those agreeing in this general doctrine210, and assuming the sounding title of “The anti-Popish, anti-Prelatic, anti-Erastian, anti-Sectarian, true Presbyterian remnant,” were divided into many petty sects211 among themselves, even as to the extent of submission212 to the existing laws and rulers, which constituted such an acknowledgment as amounted to sin.
At a very stormy and tumultuous meeting, held in 1682, to discuss these important and delicate points, the testimonies213 of the faithful few were found utterly inconsistent with each other.9
The place where this conference took place was remarkably214 well adapted for such an assembly. It was a wild and very sequestered215 dell in Tweeddale, surrounded by high hills, and far remote from human habitation. A small river, or rather a mountain torrent216, called the Talla, breaks down the glen with great fury, dashing successively over a number of small cascades217, which has procured218 the spot the name of Talla Linns. Here the leaders among the scattered219 adherents220 to the Covenant, men who, in their banishment221 from human society, and in the recollection of the seventies to which they had been exposed, had become at once sullen in their tempers, and fantastic in their religious opinions, met with arms in their hands, and by the side of the torrent discussed, with a turbulence222 which the noise of the stream could not drown, points of controversy as empty and unsubstantial as its foam223.
It was the fixed224 judgment225 of most of the meeting, that all payment of cess or tribute to the existing government was utterly unlawful, and a sacrificing to idols226. About other impositions and degrees of submission there were various opinions; and perhaps it is the best illustration of the spirit of those military fathers of the church to say, that while all allowed it was impious to pay the cess employed for maintaining the standing army and militia227, there was a fierce controversy on the lawfulness228 of paying the duties levied229 at ports and bridges, for maintaining roads and other necessary purposes; that there were some who, repugnant to these imposts for turnpikes and pontages, were nevertheless free in conscience to make payment of the usual freight at public ferries, and that a person of exceeding and punctilious230 zeal, James Russel, one of the slayers of the Archbishop of St. Andrews, had given his testimony with great warmth even against this last faint shade of subjection to constituted authority. This ardent231 and enlightened person and his followers232 had also great scruples about the lawfulness of bestowing233 the ordinary names upon the days of the week and the months of the year, which savoured in their nostrils234 so strongly of paganism, that at length they arrived at the conclusion that they who owned such names as Monday, Tuesday, January, February, and so forth, “served themselves heirs to the same, if not greater punishment, than had been denounced against the idolaters of old.”
David Deans had been present on this memorable235 occasion, although too young to be a speaker among the polemical combatants. His brain, however, had been thoroughly236 heated by the noise, clamour, and metaphysical ingenuity237 of the discussion, and it was a controversy to which his mind had often returned; and though he carefully disguised his vacillation238 from others, and, perhaps from himself, he had never been able to come to any precise line of decision on the subject. In fact, his natural sense had acted as a counterpoise to his controversial zeal. He was by no means pleased with the quiet and indifferent manner in which King William’s government slurred239 over the errors of the times, when, far from restoring the Presbyterian kirk to its former supremacy240, they passed an act of oblivion even to those who had been its persecutors, and bestowed241 on many of them titles, favours, and employments. When, in the first General Assembly which succeeded the Revolution, an overture242 was made for the revival243 of the League and Covenant, it was with horror that Douce David heard the proposal eluded by the men of carnal wit and policy, as he called them, as being inapplicable to the present times, and not falling under the modern model of the church. The reign244 of Queen Anne had increased his conviction, that the Revolution government was not one of the true Presbyterian complexion245. But then, more sensible than the bigots of his sect, he did not confound the moderation and tolerance246 of these two reigns247 with the active tyranny and oppression exercised in those of Charles II. and James II. The Presbyterian form of religion, though deprived of the weight formerly248 attached to its sentences of excommunication, and compelled to tolerate the coexistence of Episcopacy, and of sects of various descriptions, was still the National Church; and though the glory of the second temple was far inferior to that which had flourished from 1639 till the battle of Dunbar, still it was a structure that, wanting the strength and the terrors, retained at least the form and symmetry, of the original model. Then came the insurrection in 1715, and David Deans’s horror for the revival of the Popish and prelatical faction249 reconciled him greatly to the government of King George, although he grieved that that monarch250 might be suspected of a leaning unto Erastianism. In short, moved by so many different considerations, he had shifted his ground at different times concerning the degree of freedom which he felt in adopting any act of immediate5 acknowledgment or submission to the present government, which, however mild and paternal251, was still uncovenanted, and now he felt himself called upon, by the most powerful motive252 conceivable, to authorise his daughter’s giving testimony in a court of justice, which all who have been since called Cameronians accounted a step of lamentable253 and direct defection. The voice of nature, however, exclaimed loud in his bosom254 against the dictates255 of fanaticism256; and his imagination, fertile in the solution of polemical difficulties, devised an expedient257 for extricating258 himself from the fearful dilemma259, in which he saw, on the one side, a falling off from principle, and, on the other, a scene from which a father’s thoughts could not but turn in shuddering260 horror.
“I have been constant and unchanged in my testimony,” said David Deans; “but then who has said it of me, that I have judged my neighbour over closely, because he hath had more freedom in his walk than I have found in mine? I never was a separatist, nor for quarrelling with tender souls about mint, cummin, or other the lesser261 tithes262. My daughter Jean may have a light in this subject that is hid frae my auld een — it is laid on her conscience, and not on mine — If she hath freedom to gang before this judicatory, and hold up her hand for this poor castaway, surely I will not say she steppeth over her bounds; and if not”— He paused in his mental argument, while a pang263 of unutterable anguish264 convulsed his features, yet, shaking it off, he firmly resumed the strain of his reasoning —“And if not — God forbid that she should go into defection at bidding of mine! I wunna fret265 the tender conscience of one bairn — no, not to save the life of the other.”
A Roman would have devoted266 his daughter to death from different feelings and motives267, but not upon a more heroic principle of duty.
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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incapable
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standing
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempted
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eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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dune
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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ploy
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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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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latch
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conceal
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blessing
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blessings
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utterly
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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fervency
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| n.热情的；强烈的；热烈 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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ascent
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fiscal
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| adj.财政的，会计的，国库的，国库岁入的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dispersed
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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calumniator
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| n.中伤者，诽谤者 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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magistrate
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bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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perfectly
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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avow
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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60
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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61
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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62
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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63
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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64
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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65
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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66
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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67
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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68
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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69
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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70
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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71
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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72
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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73
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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74
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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75
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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76
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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77
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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78
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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79
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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80
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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81
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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82
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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83
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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84
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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85
incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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86
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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87
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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88
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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89
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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90
supplicant
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| adj.恳求的n.恳求者 | |
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91
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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92
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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93
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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94
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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95
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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96
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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98
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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99
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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100
laundering
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| n.洗涤（衣等），洗烫（衣等）；洗（钱）v.洗（衣服等），洗烫（衣服等）( launder的现在分词 )；洗（黑钱）（把非法收入改头换面，变为貌似合法的收入） | |
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101
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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102
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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103
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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104
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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105
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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106
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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107
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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108
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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109
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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110
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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111
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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112
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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113
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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114
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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115
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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116
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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118
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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119
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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120
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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121
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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122
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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123
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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124
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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125
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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126
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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127
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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128
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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129
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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130
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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131
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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132
enactment
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| n.演出，担任…角色；制订，通过 | |
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133
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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134
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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135
pertained
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| 关于( pertain的过去式和过去分词 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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136
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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137
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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138
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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139
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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141
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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142
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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143
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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144
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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145
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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146
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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147
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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149
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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150
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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151
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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152
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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153
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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154
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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155
unguent
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| n.（药）膏；润滑剂；滑油 | |
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156
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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157
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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158
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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159
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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161
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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162
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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163
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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164
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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165
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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166
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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167
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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169
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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170
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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171
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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172
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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173
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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174
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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175
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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176
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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177
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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178
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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180
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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181
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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182
retracting
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|
| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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183
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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184
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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185
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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186
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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187
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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188
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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189
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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190
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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191
promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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192
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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193
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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194
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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195
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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196
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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197
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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198
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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199
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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200
citation
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| n.引用，引证，引用文；传票 | |
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201
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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202
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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203
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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204
deterring
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的现在分词 ) | |
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205
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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206
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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207
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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208
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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209
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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210
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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211
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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212
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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213
testimonies
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| （法庭上证人的）证词( testimony的名词复数 )； 证明，证据 | |
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214
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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215
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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216
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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217
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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218
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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219
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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220
adherents
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| n.支持者，拥护者( adherent的名词复数 )；党羽；徒子徒孙 | |
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221
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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222
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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223
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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224
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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225
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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226
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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227
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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228
lawfulness
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| 法制，合法 | |
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229
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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230
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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231
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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232
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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233
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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234
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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235
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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236
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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237
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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238
vacillation
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| n.动摇；忧柔寡断 | |
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239
slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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240
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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241
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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243
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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244
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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245
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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246
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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247
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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248
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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249
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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250
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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251
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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252
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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253
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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254
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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255
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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256
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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257
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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258
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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259
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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260
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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261
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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262
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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263
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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264
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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265
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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266
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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267
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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