The first expedition in which Mr. Esmond had the honor to be engaged, rather resembled one of the invasions projected by the redoubted Captain Avory or Captain Kidd, than a war between crowned heads, carried on by generals of rank and honor. On the 1st day of July, 1702, a great fleet, of a hundred and fifty sail, set sail from Spithead, under the command of Admiral Shovell, having on board 12,000 troops, with his Grace the Duke of Ormond as the Capt.-General of the expedition. One of these 12,000 heroes having never been to sea before, or, at least, only once in his infancy2, when he made the voyage to England from that unknown country where he was born — one of those 12,000 — the junior ensign of Colonel Quin’s regiment3 of Fusileers — was in a quite unheroic state of corporal prostration4 a few hours after sailing; and an enemy, had he boarded the ship, would have had easy work of him. From Portsmouth we put into Plymouth, and took in fresh reinforcements. We were off Finisterre on the 31st of July, so Esmond’s table-book informs him: and on the 8th of August made the rock of Lisbon. By this time the Ensign was grown as bold as an admiral, and a week afterwards had the fortune to be under fire for the first time — and under water, too,— his boat being swamped in the surf in Toros Bay, where the troops landed. The ducking of his new coat was all the harm the young soldier got in this expedition, for, indeed, the Spaniards made no stand before our troops, and were not in strength to do so.
But the campaign, if not very glorious, was very pleasant. New sights of nature, by sea and land — a life of action, beginning now for the first time — occupied and excited the young man. The many accidents, and the routine of shipboard — the military duty — the new acquaintances, both of his comrades in arms, and of the officers of the fleet — served to cheer and occupy his mind, and waken it out of that selfish depression into which his late unhappy fortunes had plunged6 him. He felt as if the ocean separated him from his past care, and welcomed the new era of life which was dawning for him. Wounds heal rapidly in a heart of two-and-twenty; hopes revive daily; and courage rallies in spite of a man. Perhaps, as Esmond thought of his late despondency and melancholy7, and how irremediable it had seemed to him, as he lay in his prison a few months back, he was almost mortified8 in his secret mind at finding himself so cheerful.
To see with one’s own eyes men and countries, is better than reading all the books of travel in the world: and it was with extreme delight and exultation9 that the young man found himself actually on his grand tour, and in the view of people and cities which he had read about as a boy. He beheld10 war for the first time — the pride, pomp, and circumstance of it, at least, if not much of the danger. He saw actually, and with his own eyes, those Spanish cavaliers and ladies whom he had beheld in imagination in that immortal11 story of Cervantes, which had been the delight of his youthful leisure. ’Tis forty years since Mr. Esmond witnessed those scenes, but they remain as fresh in his memory as on the day when first he saw them as a young man. A cloud, as of grief, that had lowered over him, and had wrapped the last years of his life in gloom, seemed to clear away from Esmond during this fortunate voyage and campaign. His energies seemed to awaken12 and to expand under a cheerful sense of freedom. Was his heart secretly glad to have escaped from that fond but ignoble13 bondage14 at home? Was it that the inferiority to which the idea of his base birth had compelled him, vanished with the knowledge of that secret, which though, perforce, kept to himself, was yet enough to cheer and console him? At any rate, young Esmond of the army was quite a different being to the sad little dependant15 of the kind Castlewood household, and the melancholy student of Trinity Walks; discontented with his fate, and with the vocation16 into which that drove him, and thinking, with a secret indignation, that the cassock and bands, and the very sacred office with which he had once proposed to invest himself, were, in fact, but marks of a servitude which was to continue all his life long. For, disguise it as he might to himself, he had all along felt that to be Castlewood’s chaplain was to be Castlewood’s inferior still, and that his life was but to be a long, hopeless servitude. So, indeed, he was far from grudging17 his old friend Tom Tusher’s good fortune (as Tom, no doubt, thought it). Had it been a mitre and Lambeth which his friends offered him, and not a small living and a country parsonage, he would have felt as much a slave in one case as in the other, and was quite happy and thankful to be free.
The bravest man I ever knew in the army, and who had been present in most of King William’s actions, as well as in the campaigns of the great Duke of Marlborough, could never be got to tell us of any achievement of his, except that once Prince Eugene ordered him up a tree to reconnoitre the enemy, which feat18 he could not achieve on account of the horseman’s boots he wore; and on another day that he was very nearly taken prisoner because of these jack19-boots, which prevented him from running away. The present narrator shall imitate this laudable reserve, and doth not intend to dwell upon his military exploits, which were in truth not very different from those of a thousand other gentlemen. This first campaign of Mr. Esmond’s lasted but a few days; and as a score of books have been written concerning it, it may be dismissed very briefly20 here.
When our fleet came within view of Cadiz, our commander sent a boat with a white flag and a couple of officers to the Governor of Cadiz, Don Scipio de Brancaccio, with a letter from his Grace, in which he hoped that as Don Scipio had formerly21 served with the Austrians against the French, ’twas to be hoped that his Excellency would now declare himself against the French King, and for the Austrian in the war between King Philip and King Charles. But his Excellency, Don Scipio, prepared a reply, in which he announced that, having served his former king with honor and fidelity22, he hoped to exhibit the same loyalty23 and devotion towards his present sovereign, King Philip V.; and by the time this letter was ready, the two officers had been taken to see the town, and the alameda, and the theatre, where bull-fights are fought, and the convents, where the admirable works of Don Bartholomew Murillo inspired one of them with a great wonder and delight — such as he had never felt before — concerning this divine art of painting; and these sights over, and a handsome refection and chocolate being served to the English gentlemen, they were accompanied back to their shallop with every courtesy, and were the only two officers of the English army that saw at that time that famous city.
The general tried the power of another proclamation on the Spaniards, in which he announced that we only came in the interest of Spain and King Charles, and for ourselves wanted to make no conquest nor settlement in Spain at all. But all this eloquence25 was lost upon the Spaniards, it would seem: the Captain-General of Andalusia would no more listen to us than the Governor of Cadiz; and in reply to his Grace’s proclamation, the Marquis of Villadarias fired off another, which those who knew the Spanish thought rather the best of the two; and of this number was Harry26 Esmond, whose kind Jesuit in old days had instructed him, and now had the honor of translating for his Grace these harmless documents of war. There was a hard touch for his Grace, and, indeed, for other generals in her Majesty’s service, in the concluding sentence of the Don: “That he and his council had the generous example of their ancestors to follow, who had never yet sought their elevation27 in the blood or in the flight of their kings. ‘Mori pro1 patria’ was his device, which the Duke might communicate to the Princess who governed England.”
Whether the troops were angry at this repartee28 or no, ’tis certain something put them in a fury; for, not being able to get possession of Cadiz, our people seized upon Port Saint Mary’s and sacked it, burning down the merchants’ storehouses, getting drunk with the famous wines there, pillaging29 and robbing quiet houses and convents, murdering and doing worse. And the only blood which Mr. Esmond drew in this shameful30 campaign, was the knocking down an English sentinel with a half-pike, who was offering insult to a poor trembling nun31. Is she going to turn out a beauty? or a princess? or perhaps Esmond’s mother that he had lost and never seen? Alas32 no, it was but a poor wheezy old dropsical woman, with a wart33 upon her nose. But having been early taught a part of the Roman religion, he never had the horror of it that some Protestants have shown, and seem to think to be a part of ours.
After the pillage34 and plunder35 of St. Mary’s and an assault upon a fort or two, the troops all took shipping36, and finished their expedition, at any rate, more brilliantly than it had begun. Hearing that the French fleet with a great treasure was in Vigo Bay, our Admirals, Rooke and Hopson, pursued the enemy thither37; the troops landed and carried the forts that protected the bay, Hopson passing the boom first on board his ship the “Torbay,” and the rest of the ships, English and Dutch, following him. Twenty ships were burned or taken in the Port of Redondilla, and a vast deal more plunder than was ever accounted for; but poor men before that expedition were rich afterwards, and so often was it found and remarked that the Vigo officers came home with pockets full of money, that the notorious Jack Shafto, who made such a figure at the coffeehouses and gaming-tables in London, and gave out that he had been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when he was about to be hanged, that Bagshot Heath had been HIS Vigo, and that he only spoke38 of La Redondilla to turn away people’s eyes from the real place where the booty lay. Indeed, Hounslow or Vigo — which matters much? The latter was a bad business, though Mr. Addison did sing its praises in Latin. That honest gentleman’s muse39 had an eye to the main chance; and I doubt whether she saw much inspiration in the losing side.
But though Esmond, for his part, got no share of this fabulous40 booty, one great prize which he had out of the campaign was, that excitement of action and change of scene, which shook off a great deal of his previous melancholy. He learnt at any rate to bear his fate cheerfully. He brought back a browned face, a heart resolute41 enough, and a little pleasant store of knowledge and observation, from that expedition, which was over with the autumn, when the troops were back in England again; and Esmond giving up his post of secretary to General Lumley, whose command was over, and parting with that officer with many kind expressions of good will on the General’s side, had leave to go to London, to see if he could push his fortunes any way further, and found himself once more in his dowager aunt’s comfortable quarters at Chelsey, and in greater favor than ever with the old lady. He propitiated42 her with a present of a comb, a fan, and a black mantle43, such as the ladies of Cadiz wear, and which my Lady Viscountess pronounced became her style of beauty mightily44. And she was greatily edified45 at hearing of that story of his rescue of the nun, and felt very little doubt but that her King James’s relic46, which he had always dutifully worn in his desk, had kept him out of danger, and averted47 the shot of the enemy. My lady made feasts for him, introduced him to more company, and pushed his fortunes with such enthusiasm and success, that she got a promise of a company for him through the Lady Marlborough’s interest, who was graciously pleased to accept of a diamond worth a couple of hundred guineas, which Mr. Esmond was enabled to present to her ladyship through his aunt’s bounty48, and who promised that she would take charge of Esmond’s fortune. He had the honor to make his appearance at the Queen’s drawing-room occasionally, and to frequent my Lord Marlborough’s levees. That great man received the young one with very especial favor, so Esmond’s comrades said, and deigned49 to say that he had received the best reports of Mr. Esmond, both for courage and ability, whereon you may be sure the young gentleman made a profound bow, and expressed himself eager to serve under the most distinguished50 captain in the world.
Whilst his business was going on thus prosperously, Esmond had his share of pleasure too, and made his appearance along with other young gentlemen at the coffee-houses, the theatres, and the Mall. He longed to hear of his dear mistress and her family: many a time, in the midst of the gayeties and pleasures of the town, his heart fondly reverted51 to them; and often as the young fellows of his society were making merry at the tavern52, and calling toasts (as the fashion of that day was) over their wine, Esmond thought of persons — of two fair women, whom he had been used to adore almost, and emptied his glass with a sigh.
By this time the elder Viscountess had grown tired again of the younger, and whenever she spoke of my lord’s widow, ’twas in terms by no means complimentary53 towards that poor lady: the younger woman not needing her protection any longer, the elder abused her. Most of the family quarrels that I have seen in life (saving always those arising from money disputes, when a division of twopence halfpenny will often drive the dearest relatives into war and estrangement,) spring out of jealousy54 and envy. Jack and Tom, born of the same family and to the same fortune, live very cordially together, not until Jack is ruined when Tom deserts him, but until Tom makes a sudden rise in prosperity, which Jack can’t forgive. Ten times to one ’tis the unprosperous man that is angry, not the other who is in fault. ’Tis Mrs. Jack, who can only afford a chair, that sickens at Mrs. Tom’s new coach-and-sick, cries out against her sister’s airs, and sets her husband against his brother. ’Tis Jack who sees his brother shaking hands with a lord (with whom Jack would like to exchange snuff-boxes himself), that goes home and tells his wife how poor Tom is spoiled, he fears, and no better than a sneak55, parasite56, and beggar on horse back. I remember how furious the coffee-house wits were with Dick Steele when he set up his coach and fine house in Bloomsbury: they began to forgive him when the bailiffs were after him, and abused Mr. Addison for selling Dick’s country-house. And yet Dick in the sponging-house, or Dick in the Park, with his four mares and plated harness, was exactly the same gentle, kindly57, improvident58, jovial59 Dick Steele: and yet Mr. Addison was perfectly60 right in getting the money which was his, and not giving up the amount of his just claim, to be spent by Dick upon champagne61 and fiddlers, laced clothes, fine furniture, and parasites62, Jew and Christian63, male and female, who clung to him. As, according to the famous maxim64 of Monsieur de Rochefoucault, “in our friends’ misfortunes there’s something secretly pleasant to us;” so, on the other hand, their good fortune is disagreeable. If ’tis hard for a man to bear his own good luck, ’tis harder still for his friends to bear it for him and but few of them ordinarily can stand that trial: whereas one of the “precious uses” of adversity is, that it is a great reconciler; that it brings back averted kindness, disarms65 animosity, and causes yesterday’s enemy to fling his hatred66 aside, and hold out a hand to the fallen friend of old days. There’s pity and love, as well as envy, in the same heart and towards the same person. The rivalry67 stops when the competitor tumbles; and, as I view it, we should look at these agreeable and disagreeable qualities of our humanity humbly68 alike. They are consequent and natural, and our kindness and meanness both manly69.
So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of Esmond’s two kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty, when that had lost somewhat of its freshness, perhaps; and forgot most her grievances70 against the other, when the subject of them was no longer prosperous and enviable; or we may say more benevolently71 (but the sum comes to the same figures, worked either way,) that Isabella repented73 of her unkindness towards Rachel, when Rachel was unhappy; and, bestirring herself in behalf of the poor widow and her children, gave them shelter and friendship. The ladies were quite good friends as long as the weaker one needed a protector. Before Esmond went away on his first campaign, his mistress was still on terms of friendship (though a poor little chit, a woman that had evidently no spirit in her, &c.) with the elder Lady Castlewood; and Mistress Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty.
But between the first year of Queen Anne’s reign24, and the second, sad changes for the worse had taken place in the two younger ladies, at least in the elder’s description of them. Rachel, Viscountess Castlewood, had no more face than a dumpling, and Mrs. Beatrix was grown quite coarse, and was losing all her beauty. Little Lord Blandford —(she never would call him Lord Blandford; his father was Lord Churchill — the King, whom he betrayed, had made him Lord Churchill, and he was Lord Churchill still)— might be making eyes at her; but his mother, that vixen of a Sarah Jennings, would never hear of such a folly74. Lady Marlborough had got her to be a maid of honor at Court to the Princess, but she would repent72 of it. The widow Francis (she was but Mrs. Francis Esmond) was a scheming, artful, heartless hussy. She was spoiling her brat75 of a boy, and she would end by marrying her chaplain.
“What, Tusher!” cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange pang76 of rage and astonishment77.
“Yes — Tusher, my maid’s son; and who has got all the qualities of his father the lackey78 in black, and his accomplished79 mamma the waiting-woman,” cries my lady. “What do you suppose that a sentimental80 widow, who will live down in that dingy81 dungeon82 of a Castlewood, where she spoils her boy, kills the poor with her drugs, has prayers twice a day and sees nobody but the chaplain — what do you suppose she can do, mon Cousin, but let the horrid83 parson, with his great square toes and hideous84 little green eyes, make love to her? Cela c’est vu, mon Cousin. When I was a girl at Castlewood, all the chaplains fell in love with me — they’ve nothing else to do.”
My lady went on with more talk of this kind, though, in truth, Esmond had no idea of what she said further, so entirely85 did her first words occupy his thought. Were they true? Not all, nor half, nor a tenth part of what the garrulous86 old woman said, was true. Could this be so? No ear had Esmond for anything else, though his patroness chatted on for an hour.
Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond had made acquaintance, had promised to present him to that most charming of actresses, and lively and agreeable of women, Mrs. Bracegirdle, about whom Harry’s old adversary87 Mohun had drawn88 swords, a few years before my poor lord and he fell out. The famous Mr. Congreve had stamped with his high approval, to the which there was no gainsaying89, this delightful90 person: and she was acting91 in Dick Steele’s comedies, and finally, and for twenty-four hours after beholding92 her, Mr. Esmond felt himself, or thought himself, to be as violently enamored of this lovely brunette, as were a thousand other young fellows about the city. To have once seen her was to long to behold93 her again; and to be offered the delightful privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very idea of which set the young lieutenant’s heart on fire. A man cannot live with comrades under the tents without finding out that he too is five-and-twenty. A young fellow cannot be cast down by grief and misfortune ever so severe but some night he begins to sleep sound, and some day when dinner-time comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak. Time, youth and good health, new scenes and the excitement of action and a campaign, had pretty well brought Esmond’s mourning to an end; and his comrades said that Don Dismal94, as they called him, was Don Dismal no more. So when a party was made to dine at the “Rose,” and go to the playhouse afterward5, Esmond was as pleased as another to take his share of the bottle and the play.
How was it that the old aunt’s news, or it might be scandal, about Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and sudden excitement in Tom’s old playfellow? Hadn’t he sworn a thousand times in his own mind that the Lady of Castlewood, who had treated him with such kindness once, and then had left him so cruelly, was, and was to remain henceforth, indifferent to him for ever? Had his pride and his sense of justice not long since helped him to cure the pain of that desertion — was it even a pain to him now? Why, but last night as he walked across the fields and meadows to Chelsey from Pall95 Mall, had he not composed two or three stanzas96 of a song, celebrating Bracegirdle’s brown eyes, and declaring them a thousand times more beautiful than the brightest blue ones that ever languished97 under the lashes98 of an insipid99 fair beauty! But Tom Tusher! Tom Tusher, the waiting-woman’s son, raising up his little eyes to his mistress! Tom Tusher presuming to think of Castlewood’s widow! Rage and contempt filled Mr. Harry’s heart at the very notion; the honor of the family, of which he was the chief, made it his duty to prevent so monstrous100 an alliance, and to chastise101 the upstart who could dare to think of such an insult to their house. ’Tis true Mr. Esmond often boasted of republican principles, and could remember many fine speeches he had made at college and elsewhere, with WORTH and not BIRTH for a text: but Tom Tusher to take the place of the noble Castlewood — faugh! ’twas as monstrous as King Hamlet’s widow taking off her weeds for Claudius. Esmond laughed at all widows, all wives, all women; and were the banns about to be published, as no doubt they were, that very next Sunday at Walcote Church, Esmond swore that he would be present to shout No! in the face of the congregation, and to take a private revenge upon the ears of the bridegroom.
Instead of going to dinner then at the “Rose” that night, Mr. Esmond bade his servant pack a portmanteau and get horses, and was at Farnham, half-way on the road to Walcote, thirty miles off, before his comrades had got to their supper after the play. He bade his man give no hint to my Lady Dowager’s household of the expedition on which he was going; and as Chelsey was distant from London, the roads bad, and infested102 by footpads, and Esmond often in the habit, when engaged in a party of pleasure, of lying at a friend’s lodging103 in town, there was no need that his old aunt should be disturbed at his absence — indeed, nothing more delighted the old lady than to fancy that mon cousin, the incorrigible104 young sinner, was abroad boxing the watch, or scouring105 St. Giles’s. When she was not at her books of devotion, she thought Etheridge and Sedley very good reading. She had a hundred pretty stories about Rochester, Harry Jermyn, and Hamilton; and if Esmond would but have run away with the wife even of a citizen, ’tis my belief she would have pawned106 her diamonds (the best of them went to our Lady of Chaillot) to pay his damages.
My lord’s little house of Walcote — which he inhabited before he took his title and occupied the house of Castlewood — lies about a mile from Winchester, and his widow had returned to Walcote after my lord’s death as a place always dear to her, and where her earliest and happiest days had been spent, cheerfuller than Castlewood, which was too large for her straitened means, and giving her, too, the protection of the ex-dean, her father. The young Viscount had a year’s schooling107 at the famous college there, with Mr. Tusher as his governor. So much news of them Mr. Esmond had had during the past year from the old Viscountess, his own father’s widow; from the young one there had never been a word.
Twice or thrice in his benefactor’s lifetime, Esmond had been to Walcote; and now, taking but a couple of hours’ rest only at the inn on the road, he was up again long before daybreak, and made such good speed that he was at Walcote by two o’clock of the day. He rid to the end of the village, where he alighted and sent a man thence to Mr. Tusher, with a message that a gentleman from London would speak with him on urgent business. The messenger came back to say the Doctor was in town, most likely at prayers in the Cathedral. My Lady Viscountess was there, too; she always went to Cathedral prayers every day.
The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester. Esmond mounted again and rode on to the “George;” whence he walked, leaving his grumbling108 domestic at last happy with a dinner, straight to the Cathedral. The organ was playing: the winter’s day was already growing gray: as he passed under the street-arch into the Cathedral yard, and made his way into the ancient solemn edifice109.
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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afterward
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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melancholy
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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exultation
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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vocation
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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feat
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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briefly
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formerly
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fidelity
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loyalty
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reign
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eloquence
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harry
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elevation
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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pillaging
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的现在分词 ) | |
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shameful
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nun
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alas
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wart
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pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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36
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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37
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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38
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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39
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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40
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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41
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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42
propitiated
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| v.劝解，抚慰，使息怒( propitiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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44
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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45
edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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47
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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49
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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51
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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52
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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53
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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54
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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55
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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56
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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57
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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61
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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62
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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63
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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65
disarms
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| v.裁军( disarm的第三人称单数 )；使息怒 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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67
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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75
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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76
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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77
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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78
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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79
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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80
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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81
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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82
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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83
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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84
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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85
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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86
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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87
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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89
gainsaying
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的现在分词 ) | |
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90
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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91
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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92
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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93
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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94
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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95
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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96
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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97
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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98
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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99
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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100
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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101
chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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102
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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103
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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104
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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105
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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106
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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107
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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108
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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109
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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