No more shalt thou behold1 thy sister’s face;
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
Elegy2 on Mrs. Anne Killigrew.
This second surprise had been accomplished3 for Jeanie Deans by the rod of the same benevolent4 enchanter, whose power had transplanted her father from the Crags of St. Leonard’s to the banks of the Gare Loch. The Duke of Argyle was not a person to forget the hereditary5 debt of gratitude6, which had been bequeathed to him by his grandfather, in favour of the grandson of old Bible Butler. He had internally resolved to provide for Reuben Butler in this kirk of Knocktarlitie, of which the incumbent7 had just departed this life. Accordingly, his agent received the necessary instructions for that purpose, under the qualifying condition always, that the learning and character of Mr. Butler should be found proper for the charge. Upon inquiry8, these were found as highly satisfactory as had been reported in the case of David Deans himself.
By this preferment, the Duke of Argyle more essentially9 benefited his friend and protegee, Jeanie, than he himself was aware of, since he contributed to remove objections in her father’s mind to the match, which he had no idea had been in existence.
We have already noticed that Deans had something of a prejudice against Butler, which was, perhaps, in some degree owing to his possessing a sort of consciousness that the poor usher10 looked with eyes of affection upon his eldest11 daughter. This, in David’s eyes, was a sin of presumption12, even although it should not be followed by any overt13 act, or actual proposal. But the lively interest which Butler had displayed in his distresses14, since Jeanie set forth15 on her London expedition, and which, therefore, he ascribed to personal respect for himself individually, had greatly softened17 the feelings of irritability18 with which David had sometimes regarded him. And, while he was in this good disposition19 towards Butler, another incident took place which had great influence on the old man’s mind. So soon as the shock of Effie’s second elopement was over, it was Deans’s early care to collect and refund20 to the Laird of Dumbiedikes the money which he had lent for Effie’s trial, and for Jeanie’s travelling expenses. The Laird, the pony21, the cocked hat, and the tabacco-pipe, had not been seen at St. Leonard’s Crags for many a day; so that, in order to pay this debt, David was under the necessity of repairing in person to the mansion22 of Dumbiedikes.
He found it in a state of unexpected bustle23. There were workmen pulling down some of the old hangings, and replacing them with others, altering, repairing, scrubbing, painting, and white-washing. There was no knowing the old house, which had been so long the mansion of sloth24 and silence. The Laird himself seemed in some confusion, and his reception, though kind, lacked something of the reverential cordiality, with which he used to greet David Deans. There was a change also, David did not very well know of what nature, about the exterior25 of this landed proprietor26 — an improvement in the shape of his garments, a spruceness in the air with which they were put on, that were both novelties. Even the old hat looked smarter; the cock had been newly pointed27, the lace had been refreshed, and instead of slouching backward or forward on the Laird’s head, as it happened to be thrown on, it was adjusted with a knowing inclination28 over one eye.
David Deans opened his business, and told down the cash. Dumbiedikes steadily29 inclined his ear to the one, and counted the other with great accuracy, interrupting David, while he was talking of the redemption of the captivity30 of Judah, to ask him whether he did not think one or two of the guineas looked rather light. When he was satisfied on this point, had pocketed his money, and had signed a receipt, he addressed David with some little hesitation31 — “Jeanie wad be writing ye something, gudeman?”
“About the siller?” replied David —“Nae doubt, she did.”
“And did she say nae mair about me?” asked the Laird.
“Nae mair but kind and Christian32 wishes — what suld she hae said?” replied David, fully33 expecting that the Laird’s long courtship (if his dangling34 after Jeanie deserves so active a name) was now coming to a point. And so indeed it was, but not to that point which he wished or expected.
“Aweel, she kens35 her ain mind best, gudeman. I hae made a clean house o’ Jenny Balchristie, and her niece. They were a bad pack — steal’d meat and mault, and loot the carters magg the coals — I’m to be married the morn, and kirkit on Sunday.”
Whatever David felt, he was too proud and too steady-minded to show any unpleasant surprise in his countenance36 and manner.
“I wuss ye happy, sir, through Him that gies happiness — marriage is an honourable37 state.”
“And I am wedding into an honourable house, David — the Laird of Lickpelf’s youngest daughter — she sits next us in the kirk, and that’s the way I came to think on’t.”
There was no more to be said but again to wish the Laird joy, to taste a cup of his liquor, and to walk back again to St. Leonard’s, musing38 on the mutability of human affairs and human resolutions. The expectation that one day or other Jeanie would be Lady Dumbiedikes, had, in spite of himself, kept a more absolute possession of David’s mind than he himself was aware of. At least, it had hitherto seemed a union at all times within his daughter’s reach, whenever she might choose to give her silent lover any degree of encouragement, and now it was vanished for ever. David returned, therefore, in no very gracious humour for so good a man. He was angry with Jeanie for not having encouraged the Laird — he was angry with the Laird for requiring encouragement — and he was angry with himself for being angry at all on the occasion.
On his return he found the gentleman who managed the Duke of Argyle’s affairs was desirous of seeing him, with a view to completing the arrangement between them. Thus, after a brief repose40, he was obliged to set off anew for Edinburgh, so that old May Hettly declared, “That a’ this was to end with the master just walking himself aff his feet.”
When the business respecting the farm had been talked over and arranged, the professional gentleman acquainted David Deans, in answer to his inquiries41 concerning the state of public worship, that it was the pleasure of the Duke to put an excellent young clergyman, called Reuben Butler, into the parish, which was to be his future residence.
“Reuben Butler!” exclaimed David —“Reuben Butler, the usher at Liberton?”
“The very same,” said the Duke’s commissioner43; “his Grace has heard an excellent character of him, and has some hereditary obligations to him besides — few ministers will be so comfortable as I am directed to make Mr. Butler.”
“Obligations? — The Duke? — Obligations to Reuben Butler — Reuben Butler a placed minister of the Kirk of Scotland?” exclaimed David, in interminable astonishment45, for somehow he had been led by the bad success which Butler had hitherto met with in all his undertakings46, to consider him as one of those step-sons of Fortune, whom she treats with unceasing rigour, and ends with disinheriting altogether.
There is, perhaps, no time at which we are disposed to think so highly of a friend, as when we find him standing47 higher than we expected in the esteem48 of others. When assured of the reality of Butler’s change of prospects50, David expressed his great satisfaction at his success in life, which, he observed, was entirely51 owing to himself (David). “I advised his puir grand-mother, who was but a silly woman, to breed him up to the ministry52; and I prophesied53 that, with a blessing54 on his endeavours, he would become a polished shaft55 in the temple. He may be something ower proud o’ his carnal learning, but a gude lad, and has the root of the matter — as ministers gang now, where yell find ane better, ye’ll find ten waur, than Reuben Butler.”
He took leave of the man of business, and walked homeward, forgetting his weariness in the various speculations56 to which this wonderful piece of intelligence gave rise. Honest David had now, like other great men, to go to work to reconcile his speculative57 principles with existing circumstances; and, like other great men, when they set seriously about that task, he was tolerably successful.
Ought Reuben Butler in conscience to accept of this preferment in the Kirk of Scotland, subject as David at present thought that establishment was to the Erastian encroachments of the civil power? This was the leading question, and he considered it carefully. “The Kirk of Scotland was shorn of its beams, and deprived of its full artillery58 and banners of authority; but still it contained zealous59 and fructifying60 pastors61, attentive63 congregations, and, with all her spots and blemishes64, the like of this Kirk was nowhere else to be seen upon earth.”
David’s doubts had been too many and too critical to permit him ever unequivocally to unite himself with any of the dissenters65, who upon various accounts absolutely seceded66 from the national church. He had often joined in communion with such of the established clergy42 as approached nearest to the old Presbyterian model and principles of 1640. And although there were many things to be amended67 in that system, yet he remembered that he, David Deans, had himself ever been an humble68 pleader for the good old cause in a legal way, but without rushing into right-hand excesses, divisions and separations. But, as an enemy to separation, he might join the right-hand of fellowship with a minister of the Kirk of Scotland in its present model. Ergo, Reuben Butler might take possession of the parish of Knocktarlitie, without forfeiting69 his friendship or favour — Q. E. D. But, secondly70, came the trying point of lay-patronage71, which David Deans had ever maintained to be a coming in by the window, and over the wall, a cheating and starving the souls of a whole parish, for the purpose of clothing the back and filling the belly72 of the incumbent.
This presentation, therefore, from the Duke of Argyle, whatever was the worth and high character of that nobleman, was a limb of the brazen73 image, a portion of the evil thing, and with no kind of consistency74 could David bend his mind to favour such a transaction. But if the parishioners themselves joined in a general call to Reuben Butler to be their pastor62, it did not seem quite so evident that the existence of this unhappy presentation was a reason for his refusing them the comforts of his doctrine75. If the Presbytery admitted him to the kirk, in virtue76 rather of that act of patronage than of the general call of the congregation, that might be their error, and David allowed it was a heavy one. But if Reuben Butler accepted of the cure as tendered to him by those whom he was called to teach, and who had expressed themselves desirous to learn, David, after considering and reconsidering the matter, came, through the great virtue of if, to be of opinion that he might safely so act in that matter.
There remained a third stumbling-block — the oaths to Government exacted from the established clergymen, in which they acknowledge an Erastian king and parliament, and homologate the incorporating Union between England and Scotland, through which the latter kingdom had become part and portion of the former, wherein Prelacy, the sister of Popery, had made fast her throne, and elevated the horns of her mitre. These were symptoms of defection which had often made David cry out, “My bowels77 — my bowels! — I am pained at the very heart!” And he remembered that a godly Bow-head matron had been carried out of the Tolbooth church in a swoon, beyond the reach of brandy and burnt feathers, merely on hearing these fearful words, “It is enacted79 by the Lords spiritual and temporal,” pronounced from a Scottish pulpit, in the proem to the Porteous Proclamation. These oaths were, therefore, a deep compliance80 and dire44 abomination — a sin and a snare81, and a danger and a defection. But this shibboleth82 was not always exacted. Ministers had respect to their own tender consciences, and those of their brethren; and it was not till a later period that the reins83 of discipline were taken up tight by the General Assemblies and Presbyteries. The peacemaking particle came again to David’s assistance. If an incumbent was not called upon to make such compliances, and if he got a right entry into the church without intrusion, and by orderly appointment, why, upon the whole, David Deans came to be of opinion, that the said incumbent might lawfully84 enjoy the spirituality and temporality of the cure of souls at Knocktarlitie, with stipend85, manse, glebe, and all thereunto appertaining.
The best and most upright-minded men are so strongly influenced by existing circumstances, that it would be somewhat cruel to inquire too nearly what weight parental86 affection gave to these ingenious trains of reasoning. Let David Deans’s situation be considered. He was just deprived of one daughter, and his eldest, to whom he owed so much, was cut off, by the sudden resolution of Dumbiedikes, from the high hope which David had entertained, that she might one day be mistress of that fair lordship. Just while this disappointment was bearing heavy on his spirits, Butler comes before his imagination — no longer the half-starved threadbare usher, but fat and sleek87 and fair, the beneficed minister of Knocktarlitie, beloved by his congregation — exemplary in his life — powerful in his doctrine — doing the duty of the kirk as never Highland88 minister did before — turning sinners as a colley dog turns sheep — a favourite of the Duke of Argyle, and drawing a stipend of eight hundred punds Scots, and four chalders of victual. Here was a match, making up in David’s mind, in a tenfold degree, the disappointment in the case of Dumbiedikes, in so far as the goodman of St. Leonard’s held a powerful minister in much greater admiration89 than a mere78 landed proprietor. It did not occur to him, as an additional reason in favour of the match, that Jeanie might herself have some choice in the matter; for the idea of consulting her feelings never once entered into the honest man’s head, any more than the possibility that her inclination might perhaps differ from his own.
The result of his meditations90 was, that he was called upon to take the management of the whole affair into his own hand, and give, if it should be found possible without sinful compliance, or backsliding, or defection of any kind, a worthy92 pastor to the kirk of Knocktarlitie. Accordingly, by the intervention93 of the honest dealer94 in butter-milk who dwelt in Liberton, David summoned to his presence Reuben Butler. Even from this worthy messenger he was unable to conceal95 certain swelling96 emotions of dignity, insomuch, that, when the carter had communicated his message to the usher, he added, that “Certainly the Gudeman of St. Leonard’s had some grand news to tell him, for he was as uplifted as a midden-cock upon pattens.”
Butler, it may readily be conceived, immediately obeyed the summons. He was a plain character, in which worth and good sense and simplicity97 were the principal ingredients; but love, on this occasion, gave him a certain degree of address. He had received an intimation of the favour designed him by the Duke of Argyle, with what feelings those only can conceive who have experienced a sudden prospect49 of being raised to independence and respect from penury98 and toil99. He resolved, however, that the old man should retain all the consequence of being, in his own opinion, the first to communicate the important intelligence. At the same time, he also determined100 that in the expected conference he would permit David Deans to expatiate101 at length upon the proposal, in all its bearings, without irritating him either by interruption or contradiction. This last was the most prudent102 plan he could have adopted; because, although there were many doubts which David Deans could himself clear up to his own satisfaction, yet he might have been by no means disposed to accept the solution of any other person; and to engage him in an argument would have been certain to confirm him at once and for ever in the opinion which Butler chanced to impugn103.
He received his friend with an appearance of important gravity, which real misfortune had long compelled him to lay aside, and which belonged to those days of awful authority in which he predominated over Widow Butler, and dictated104 the mode of cultivating the crofts of Beersheba. He made known to Reuben, with great prolixity105, the prospect of his changing his present residence for the charge of the Duke of Argyle’s stock-farm in Dumbartonshire, and enumerated106 the various advantages of the situation with obvious self-congratulation; but assured the patient hearer, that nothing had so much moved him to acceptance, as the sense that, by his skill in bestial107, he could render the most important services to his Grace the Duke of Argyle, to whom, “in the late unhappy circumstance” (here a tear dimmed the sparkle of pride in the old man’s eye), “he had been sae muckle obliged.”
“To put a rude Hielandman into sic a charge,” he continued, “what could be expected but that he suld be sic a chiefest herdsman, as wicked Doeg the Edomite? whereas, while this grey head is to the fore16, not a clute o’ them but sall be as weel cared for as if they were the fatted kine of Pharaoh. — And now, Reuben, lad, seeing we maun remove our tent to a strange country, ye will be casting a dolefu’ look after us, and thinking with whom ye are to hold counsel anent your government in thae slippery and backsliding times; and nae doubt remembering, that the auld108 man, David Deans, was made the instrument to bring you out of the mire109 of schism110 and heresy111, wherein your father’s house delighted to wallow; aften also, nae doubt, when ye are pressed wi’ ensnaring trials and tentations and heart-plagues, you, that are like a recruit that is marching for the first time to the touk of drum, will miss the auld, bauld, and experienced veteran soldier that has felt the brunt of mony a foul112 day, and heard the bullets whistle as aften as he has hairs left on his auld pow.”
It is very possible that Butler might internally be of opinion, that the reflection on his ancestor’s peculiar113 tenets might have been spared, or that he might be presumptuous114 enough even to think, that, at his years, and with his own lights, he might be able to hold his course without the pilotage of honest David. But he only replied, by expressing his regret, that anything should separate him from an ancient, tried, and affectionate friend.
“But how can it be helped, man?” said David, twisting his features into a sort of smile —“How can we help it? — I trow, ye canna tell me that — Ye maun leave that to ither folk — to the Duke of Argyle and me, Reuben. It’s a gude thing to hae friends in this warld — how muckle better to hae an interest beyond it!”
And David, whose piety115, though not always quite rational, was as sincere as it was habitual116 and fervent117, looked reverentially upward and paused. Mr. Butler intimated the pleasure with which he would receive his friend’s advice on a subject so important, and David resumed.
“What think ye now, Reuben, of a kirk — a regular kirk under the present establishment? — Were sic offered to ye, wad ye be free to accept it, and under whilk provisions? — I am speaking but by way of query118.”
Butler replied, “That if such a prospect were held out to him, he would probably first consult whether he was likely to be useful to the parish he should be called to; and if there appeared a fair prospect of his proving so, his friend must be aware, that in every other point of view, it would be highly advantageous119 for him.”
“Right, Reuben, very right, lad,” answered the monitor, “your ain conscience is the first thing to be satisfied — for how sall he teach others that has himself sae ill learned the Scriptures120, as to grip for the lucre121 of foul earthly preferment, sic as gear and manse, money and victual, that which is not his in a spiritual sense — or wha makes his kirk a stalking-horse, from behind which he may tak aim at his stipend? But I look for better things of you — and specially122 ye maun be minded not to act altogether on your ain judgment123, for therethrough comes sair mistakes, backslidings and defections, on the left and on the right. If there were sic a day of trial put to you, Reuben, you, who are a young lad, although it may be ye are gifted wi’ the carnal tongues, and those whilk were spoken at Rome, whilk is now the seat of the scarlet125 abomination, and by the Greeks, to whom the Gospel was as foolishness, yet nae-the-less ye may be entreated126 by your weel-wisher to take the counsel of those prudent and resolved and weather-withstanding professors, wha hae kend what it was to lurk127 on banks and in mosses128, in bogs129 and in caverns130, and to risk the peril131 of the head rather than renounce132 the honesty of the heart.”
Butler replied, “That certainly, possessing such a friend as he hoped and trusted he had in the goodman himself, who had seen so many changes in the preceding century, he should be much to blame if he did not avail himself of his experience and friendly counsel.”
“Eneugh said — eneugh said, Reuben,” said David Deans, with internal exultation133; “and say that ye were in the predicament whereof I hae spoken, of a surety I would deem it my duty to gang to the root o’ the matter, and lay bare to you the ulcers134 and imposthumes, and the sores and the leprosies, of this our time, crying aloud and sparing not.”
David Deans was now in his element. He commenced his examination of the doctrines135 and belief of the Christian Church with the very Culdees, from whom he passed to John Knox — from John Knox to the recusants in James the Sixth’s time — Bruce, Black, Blair, Livingstone — from them to the brief, and at length triumphant136 period of the Presbyterian Church’s splendour, until it was overrun by the English Independents. Then followed the dismal137 times of prelacy, the indulgences, seven in number, with all their shades and bearings, until he arrived at the reign138 of King James the Second, in which he himself had been, in his own mind, neither an obscure actor nor an obscure sufferer. Then was Butler doomed139 to hear the most detailed140 and annotated141 edition of what he had so often heard before — David Deans’s confinement142, namely, in the iron cage in the Canongate Tolbooth, and the cause thereof.
We should be very unjust to our friend David Deans, if we should “pretermit”— to use his own expression — a narrative143 which he held essential to his fame. A drunken trooper of the Royal Guards, Francis Gordon by name, had chased five or six of the skulking144 Whigs, among whom was our friend David; and after he had compelled them to stand, and was in the act of brawling145 with them, one of their number fired a pocket-pistol, and shot him dead. David used to sneer146 and shake his head when any one asked him whether he had been the instrument of removing this wicked persecutor147 from the face of the earth. In fact the merit of the deed lay between him and his friend, Patrick Walker, the pedlar, whose words he was so fond of quoting. Neither of them cared directly to claim the merit of silencing Mr. Francis Gordon of the Life-Guards, there being some wild cousins of his about Edinburgh, who might have been even yet addicted148 to revenge, but yet neither of them chose to disown or yield to the other the merit of this active defence of their religious rights. David said, that if he had fired a pistol then, it was what he never did after or before. And as for Mr. Patrick Walker, he has left it upon record, that his great surprise was, that so small a pistol could kill so big a man. These are the words of that venerable biographer, whose trade had not taught him by experience, that an inch was as good as an ell. “He,” (Francis Gordon) “got a shot in his head out of a pocket-pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than killing149 such a furious, mad, brisk man, which notwithstanding killed him dead!”1
Upon the extensive foundation which the history of the kirk afforded, during its short-lived triumph and long tribulation150, David, with length of breath and of narrative, which would have astounded151 any one but a lover of his daughter, proceeded to lay down his own rules for guiding the conscience of his friend, as an aspirant152 to serve in the ministry. Upon this subject, the good man went through such a variety of nice and casuistical problems, supposed so many extreme cases, made the distinctions so critical and nice betwixt the right hand and the left hand — betwixt compliance and defection — holding back and stepping aside — slipping and stumbling — snares153 and errors — that at length, after having limited the path of truth to a mathematical line, he was brought to the broad admission, that each man’s conscience, after he had gained a certain view of the difficult navigation which he was to encounter, would be the best guide for his pilotage. He stated the examples and arguments for and against the acceptance of a kirk on the present revolution model, with much more impartiality154 to Butler than he had been able to place them before his own view. And he concluded, that his young friend ought to think upon these things, and be guided by the voice of his own conscience, whether he could take such an awful trust as the charge of souls without doing injury to his own internal conviction of what is right or wrong.
When David had finished his very long harangue156, which was only interrupted by monosyllables, or little more, on the part of Butler, the orator157 himself was greatly astonished to find that the conclusion, at which he very naturally wished to arrive, seemed much less decisively attained158 than when he had argued the case in his own mind.
In this particular, David’s current of thinking and speaking only illustrated159 the very important and general proposition, concerning the excellence160 of the publicity161 of debate. For, under the influence of any partial feeling, it is certain, that most men can more easily reconcile themselves to any favourite measure, when agitating162 it in their own mind, than when obliged to expose its merits to a third party, when the necessity of seeming impartial155 procures163 for the opposite arguments a much more fair statement than that which he affords it in tacit meditation91. Having finished what he had to say, David thought himself obliged to be more explicit164 in point of fact, and to explain that this was no hypothetical case, but one on which (by his own influence and that of the Duke of Argyle) Reuben Butler would soon be called to decide.
It was even with something like apprehension165 that David Deans heard Butler announce, in return to this communication, that he would take that night to consider on what he had said with such kind intentions, and return him an answer the next morning. The feelings of the father mastered David on this occasion. He pressed Butler to spend the evening with him — He produced, most unusual at his meals, one, nay166, two bottles of aged39 strong ale. — He spoke124 of his daughter — of her merits — her housewifery — her thrift167 — her affection. He led Butler so decidedly up to a declaration of his feelings towards Jeanie, that, before nightfall, it was distinctly understood she was to be the bride of Reuben Butler; and if they thought it indelicate to abridge168 the period of deliberation which Reuben had stipulated169, it seemed to be sufficiently170 understood betwixt them, that there was a strong probability of his becoming minister of Knocktarlitie, providing the congregation were as willing to accept of him, as the Duke to grant him the presentation. The matter of the oaths, they agreed, it was time enough to dispute about, whenever the shibboleth should be tendered.
Many arrangements were adopted that evening, which were afterwards ripened171 by correspondence with the Duke of Argyle’s man of business, who intrusted Deans and Butler with the benevolent wish of his principal, that they should all meet with Jeanie, on her return from England, at the Duke’s hunting-lodge in Roseneath.
This retrospect172, so far as the placid173 loves of Jeanie Deans and Reuben Butler are concerned, forms a full explanation of the preceding narrative up to their meeting on the island, as already mentioned.
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behold
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elegy
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accomplished
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benevolent
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hereditary
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gratitude
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incumbent
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inquiry
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essentially
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usher
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eldest
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presumption
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overt
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distresses
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forth
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fore
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softened
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irritability
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disposition
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refund
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pony
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mansion
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bustle
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sloth
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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26
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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27
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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28
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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29
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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30
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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31
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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32
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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33
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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34
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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35
kens
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| vt.知道（ken的第三人称单数形式） | |
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36
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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37
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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38
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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39
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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40
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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41
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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42
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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43
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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44
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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45
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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46
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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47
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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48
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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49
prospect
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|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
prospects
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|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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51
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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52
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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53
prophesied
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|
| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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55
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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56
speculations
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|
| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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57
speculative
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|
| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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58
artillery
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|
| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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59
zealous
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|
| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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60
fructifying
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|
| v.结果实( fructify的现在分词 )；使结果实，使多产，使土地肥沃 | |
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61
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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62
pastor
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|
| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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63
attentive
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|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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64
blemishes
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|
| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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65
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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66
seceded
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| v.脱离，退出( secede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
Amended
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|
| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
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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69
forfeiting
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的现在分词 ) | |
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70
secondly
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|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
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71
patronage
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|
| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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72
belly
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|
| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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73
brazen
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|
| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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74
consistency
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|
| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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75
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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76
virtue
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|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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77
bowels
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|
| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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78
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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79
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
compliance
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|
| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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81
snare
|
|
| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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82
shibboleth
|
|
| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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83
reins
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|
| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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84
lawfully
|
|
| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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85
stipend
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|
| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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86
parental
|
|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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87
sleek
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|
| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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88
highland
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|
| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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89
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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90
meditations
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|
| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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91
meditation
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|
| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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92
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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93
intervention
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|
| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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94
dealer
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|
| n.商人，贩子 | |
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95
conceal
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|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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96
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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97
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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98
penury
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|
| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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99
toil
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|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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100
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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101
expatiate
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|
| v.细说，详述 | |
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102
prudent
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|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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103
impugn
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|
| v.指责，对…表示怀疑 | |
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104
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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105
prolixity
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|
| n.冗长，罗嗦 | |
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106
enumerated
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|
| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
bestial
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|
| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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108
auld
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|
| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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109
mire
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|
| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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110
schism
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|
| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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111
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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112
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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113
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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114
presumptuous
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|
| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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115
piety
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|
| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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116
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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117
fervent
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|
| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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118
query
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|
| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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119
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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120
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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121
lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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122
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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123
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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124
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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125
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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126
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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128
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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129
bogs
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|
| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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130
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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131
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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132
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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133
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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134
ulcers
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| n.溃疡( ulcer的名词复数 )；腐烂物；道德败坏；腐败 | |
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135
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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136
triumphant
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|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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137
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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138
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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139
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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140
detailed
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|
| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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141
annotated
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|
| v.注解，注释( annotate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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143
narrative
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|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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144
skulking
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|
| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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145
brawling
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|
| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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146
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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147
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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148
addicted
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|
| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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149
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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150
tribulation
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|
| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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151
astounded
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|
| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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152
aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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153
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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154
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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155
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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156
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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157
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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158
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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159
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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160
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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161
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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162
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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163
procures
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的第三人称单数 )；拉皮条 | |
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164
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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165
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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166
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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167
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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168
abridge
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| v.删减，删节，节略，缩短 | |
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169
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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170
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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171
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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173
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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