‘All this HE told with some confusion and
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand
To expound2 their vain and visionary gleams,
I’ve known some odd ones which seemed really planned
Prophetically, as that which one deems
“A strange coincidence,” to use a phrase
By which such things are settled nowadays.’
BYRON.
Dreams! What age, or what country of the world, has not and acknowledged the mystery of their origin and end? I have thought not a little upon the subject, seeing it is one which has been often forced upon my attention, and sometimes strangely enough; and yet I have never arrived at anything which at all appeared a satisfactory conclusion. It does appear that a mental phenomenon so extraordinary cannot be wholly without its use. We know, indeed, that in the olden times it has been made the organ of communication between the Deity3 and His creatures; and when, as I have seen, a dream produces upon a mind, to all appearance hopelessly reprobate4 and depraved, an effect so powerful and so lasting5 as to break down the inveterate6 habits, and to reform the life of an abandoned sinner, we see in the result, in the reformation of morals which appeared incorrigible7, in the reclamation8 of a human soul which seemed to be irretrievably lost, something more than could be produced by a mere9 chimera10 of the slumbering12 fancy, something more than could arise from the capricious images of a terrified imagination; but once presented, we behold13 in all these things, and in their tremendous and mysterious results, the operation of the hand of God. And while Reason rejects as absurd the superstition14 which will read a prophecy in every dream, she may, without violence to herself, recognise, even in the wildest and most incongruous of the wanderings of a slumbering intellect, the evidences and the fragments of a language which may be spoken, which HAS been spoken, to terrify, to warn, and to command. We have reason to believe too, by the promptness of action which in the age of the prophets followed all intimations of this kind, and by the strength of conviction and strange permanence of the effects resulting from certain dreams in latter times, which effects we ourselves may have witnessed, that when this medium of communication has been employed by the Deity, the evidences of His presence have been unequivocal. My thoughts were directed to this subject, in a manner to leave a lasting impression upon my mind, by the events which I shall now relate, the statement of which, however extraordinary, is nevertheless ACCURATELY16 CORRECT.
About the year 17 — having been appointed to the living of C—-h, I rented a small house in the town, which bears the same name: one morning in the month of November, I was awakened17 before my usual time by my servant, who bustled18 into my bedroom for the purpose of announcing a sick call. As the Catholic Church holds her last rites19 to be totally indispensable to the safety of the departing sinner, no conscientious20 clergyman can afford a moment’s unnecessary delay, and in little more than five minutes I stood ready cloaked and booted for the road, in the small front parlour, in which the messenger, who was to act as my guide, awaited my coming. I found a poor little girl crying piteously near the door, and after some slight difficulty I ascertained21 that her father was either dead or just dying.
‘And what may be your father’s name, my poor child?’ said I. She held down her head, as if ashamed. I repeated the question, and the wretched little creature burst into floods of tears still more bitter than she had shed before. At length, almost provoked by conduct which appeared to me so unreasonable22, I began to lose patience, spite of the pity which I could not help feeling towards her, and I said rather harshly:
‘If you will not tell me the name of the person to whom you would lead me, your silence can arise from no good motive23, and I might be justified24 in refusing to go with you at all.’
‘Oh, don’t say that — don’t say that!’ cried she. ‘Oh, sir, it was that I was afeard of when I would not tell you — I was afeard, when you heard his name, you would not come with me; but it is no use hidin’ it now — it’s Pat Connell, the carpenter, your honour.’
She looked in my face with the most earnest anxiety, as if her very existence depended upon what she should read there; but I relieved her at once. The name, indeed, was most unpleasantly familiar to me; but, however fruitless my visits and advice might have been at another time, the present was too fearful an occasion to suffer my doubts of their utility or my reluctance26 to re-attempting what appeared a hopeless task to weigh even against the lightest chance that a consciousness of his imminent27 danger might produce in him a more docile28 and tractable29 disposition30. Accordingly I told the child to lead the way, and followed her in silence. She hurried rapidly through the long narrow street which forms the great thoroughfare of the town. The darkness of the hour, rendered still deeper by the close approach of the old-fashioned houses, which lowered in tall obscurity on either side of the way; the damp, dreary31 chill which renders the advance of morning peculiarly cheerless, combined with the object of my walk, to visit the death-bed of a presumptuous32 sinner, to endeavour, almost against my own conviction, to infuse a hope into the heart of a dying reprobate — a drunkard but too probably perishing under the consequences of some mad fit of intoxication33; all these circumstances united served to enhance the gloom and solemnity of my feelings, as I silently followed my little guide, who with quick steps traversed the uneven34 pavement of the main street. After a walk of about five minutes she turned off into a narrow lane, of that obscure and comfortless class which is to be found in almost all small old-fashioned towns, chill, without ventilation, reeking35 with all manner of offensive effluviae, and lined by dingy36, smoky, sickly and pent-up buildings, frequently not only in a wretched but in a dangerous condition.
‘Your father has changed his abode37 since I last visited him, and, I am afraid, much for the worse,’ said I.
‘Indeed he has, sir; but we must not complain,’ replied she. ‘We have to thank God that we have lodging38 and food, though it’s poor enough, it is, your honour.’
Poor child! thought I, how many an older head might learn wisdom from thee — how many a luxurious39 philosopher, who is skilled to preach but not to suffer, might not thy patient words put to the blush! The manner and language of this child were alike above her years and station; and, indeed, in all cases in which the cares and sorrows of life have anticipated their usual date, and have fallen, as they sometimes do, with melancholy40 prematurity41 to the lot of childhood, I have observed the result to have proved uniformly the same. A young mind, to which joy and indulgence have been strangers, and to which suffering and self-denial have been familiarised from the first, acquires a solidity and an elevation42 which no other discipline could have bestowed43, and which, in the present case, communicated a striking but mournful peculiarity44 to the manners, even to the voice, of the child. We paused before a narrow, crazy door, which she opened by means of a latch45, and we forthwith began to ascend46 the steep and broken stairs which led upwards47 to the sick man’s room.
As we mounted flight after flight towards the garret-floor, I heard more and more distinctly the hurried talking of many voices. I could also distinguish the low sobbing48 of a female. On arriving upon the uppermost lobby these sounds became fully49 audible.
‘This way, your honour,’ said my little conductress; at the same time, pushing open a door of patched and half-rotten plank50, she admitted me into the squalid chamber51 of death and misery52. But one candle, held in the fingers of a scared and haggard-looking child, was burning in the room, and that so dim that all was twilight53 or darkness except within its immediate54 influence. The general obscurity, however, served to throw into prominent and startling relief the death-bed and its occupant. The light was nearly approximated to, and fell with horrible clearness upon, the blue and swollen55 features of the drunkard. I did not think it possible that a human countenance56 could look so terrific. The lips were black and drawn57 apart; the teeth were firmly set; the eyes a little unclosed, and nothing but the whites appearing. Every feature was fixed58 and livid, and the whole face wore a ghastly and rigid59 expression of despairing terror such as I never saw equalled. His hands were crossed upon his breast, and firmly clenched60; while, as if to add to the corpse61-like effect of the whole, some white cloths, dipped in water, were wound about the forehead and temples.
As soon as I could remove my eyes from this horrible spectacle, I observed my friend Dr. D— — one of the most humane62 of a humane profession, standing63 by the bedside. He had been attempting, but unsuccessfully, to bleed the patient, and had now applied64 his finger to the pulse.
‘Is there any hope?’ I inquired in a whisper.
A shake of the head was the reply. There was a pause while he continued to hold the wrist; but he waited in vain for the throb65 of life — it was not there: and when he let go the hand, it fell stiffly back into its former position upon the other.
‘The man is dead,’ said the physician, as he turned from the bed where the terrible figure lay.
Dead! thought I, scarcely venturing to look upon the tremendous and revolting spectacle. Dead! without an hour for repentance66, even a moment for reflection; dead I without the rites which even the best should have. Is there a hope for him? The glaring eyeball, the grinning mouth, the distorted brow — that unutterable look in which a painter would have sought to embody68 the fixed despair of the nethermost69 hell. These were my answer.
The poor wife sat at a little distance, crying as if her heart would break — the younger children clustered round the bed, looking with wondering curiosity upon the form of death never seen before.
When the first tumult70 of uncontrollable sorrow had passed away, availing myself of the solemnity and impressiveness of the scene, I desired the heart-stricken family to accompany me in prayer, and all knelt down while I solemnly and fervently71 repeated some of those prayers which appeared most applicable to the occasion. I employed myself thus in a manner which, I trusted, was not unprofitable, at least to the living, for about ten minutes; and having accomplished72 my task, I was the first to arise.
I looked upon the poor, sobbing, helpless creatures who knelt so humbly73 around me, and my heart bled for them. With a natural transition I turned my eyes from them to the bed in which the body lay; and, great God! what was the revulsion, the horror which I experienced on seeing the corpse-like terrific thing seated half upright before me; the white cloths which had been wound about the head had now partly slipped from their position, and were hanging in grotesque74 festoons about the face and shoulders, while the distorted eyes leered from amid them —
‘A sight to dream of, not to tell.’
I stood actually riveted75 to the spot. The figure nodded its head and lifted its arm, I thought, with a menacing gesture. A thousand confused and horrible thoughts at once rushed upon my mind. I had often read that the body of a presumptuous sinner, who, during life, had been the willing creature of every satanic impulse, after the human tenant76 had deserted77 it, had been known to become the horrible sport of demoniac possession.
I was roused from the stupefaction of terror in which I stood, by the piercing scream of the mother, who now, for the first time, perceived the change which had taken place. She rushed towards the bed, but stunned78 by the shock, and overcome by the conflict of violent emotions, before she reached it she fell prostrate79 upon the floor.
I am perfectly80 convinced that had I not been startled from the torpidity81 of horror in which I was bound by some powerful and arousing stimulant82, I should have gazed upon this unearthly apparition83 until I had fairly lost my senses. As it was, however, the spell was broken — superstition gave way to reason: the man whom all believed to have been actually dead was living!
Dr. D—— was instantly standing by the bedside, and upon examination he found that a sudden and copious84 flow of blood had taken place from the wound which the lancet had left; and this, no doubt, had effected his sudden and almost preternatural restoration to an existence from which all thought he had been for ever removed. The man was still speechless, but he seemed to understand the physician when he forbid his repeating the painful and fruitless attempts which he made to articulate, and he at once resigned himself quietly into his hands.
I left the patient with leeches85 upon his temples, and bleeding freely, apparently86 with little of the drowsiness87 which accompanies apoplexy; indeed, Dr. D—— told me that he had never before witnessed a seizure88 which seemed to combine the symptoms of so many kinds, and yet which belonged to none of the recognised classes; it certainly was not apoplexy, catalepsy, nor delirium89 tremens, and yet it seemed, in some degree, to partake of the properties of all. It was strange, but stranger things are coming.
During two or three days Dr. D—— would not allow his patient to converse90 in a manner which could excite or exhaust him, with anyone; he suffered him merely as briefly91 as possible to express his immediate wants. And it was not until the fourth day after my early visit, the particulars of which I have just detailed92, that it was thought expedient93 that I should see him, and then only because it appeared that his extreme importunity94 and impatience95 to meet me were likely to retard96 his recovery more than the mere exhaustion97 attendant upon a short conversation could possibly do; perhaps, too, my friend entertained some hope that if by holy confession98 his patient’s bosom99 were eased of the perilous100 stuff which no doubt oppressed it, his recovery would be more assured and rapid. It was then, as I have said, upon the fourth day after my first professional call, that I found myself once more in the dreary chamber of want and sickness.
The man was in bed, and appeared low and restless. On my entering the room he raised himself in the bed, and muttered, twice or thrice:
‘Thank God! thank God!’
I signed to those of his family who stood by to leave the room, and took a chair beside the bed. So soon as we were alone, he said, rather doggedly101:
‘There’s no use in telling me of the sinfulness of bad ways — I know it all. I know where they lead to — I seen everything about it with my own eyesight, as plain as I see you.’ He rolled himself in the bed, as if to hide his face in the clothes; and then suddenly raising himself, he exclaimed with startling vehemence102: ‘Look, sir! there is no use in mincing103 the matter: I’m blasted with the fires of hell; I have been in hell. What do you think of that? In hell — I’m lost for ever — I have not a chance. I am damned already — damned — damned!’
The end of this sentence he actually shouted. His vehemence was perfectly terrific; he threw himself back, and laughed, and sobbed104 hysterically105. I poured some water into a tea-cup, and gave it to him. After he had swallowed it, I told him if he had anything to communicate, to do so as briefly as he could, and in a manner as little agitating106 to himself as possible; threatening at the same time, though I had no intention of doing so, to leave him at once, in case he again gave way to such passionate107 excitement.
‘It’s only foolishness,’ he continued, ‘for me to try to thank you for coming to such a villain108 as myself at all. It’s no use for me to wish good to you, or to bless you; for such as me has no blessings109 to give.’
I told him that I had but done my duty, and urged him to proceed to the matter which weighed upon his mind. He then spoke15 nearly as follows:
‘I came in drunk on Friday night last, and got to my bed here; I don’t remember how. Sometime in the night it seemed to me I wakened, and feeling unasy in myself, I got up out of the bed. I wanted the fresh air; but I would not make a noise to open the window, for fear I’d waken the crathurs. It was very dark and throublesome to find the door; but at last I did get it, and I groped my way out, and went down as asy as I could. I felt quite sober, and I counted the steps one after another, as I was going down, that I might not stumble at the bottom.
‘When I came to the first landing-place — God be about us always! — the floor of it sunk under me, and I went down — down — down, till the senses almost left me. I do not know how long I was falling, but it seemed to me a great while. When I came rightly to myself at last, I was sitting near the top of a great table; and I could not see the end of it, if it had any, it was so far off. And there was men beyond reckoning, sitting down all along by it, at each side, as far as I could see at all. I did not know at first was it in the open air; but there was a close smothering110 feel in it that was not natural. And there was a kind of light that my eyesight never saw before, red and unsteady; and I did not see for a long time where it was coming from, until I looked straight up, and then I seen that it came from great balls of blood-coloured fire that were rolling high over head with a sort of rushing, trembling sound, and I perceived that they shone on the ribs111 of a great roof of rock that was arched overhead instead of the sky. When I seen this, scarce knowing what I did, I got up, and I said, “I have no right to be here; I must go.” And the man that was sitting at my left hand only smiled, and said, “Sit down again; you can NEVER leave this place.” And his voice was weaker than any child’s voice I ever heerd; and when he was done speaking he smiled again.
‘Then I spoke out very loud and bold, and I said, “In the name of God, let me out of this bad place.” And there was a great man that I did not see before, sitting at the end of the table that I was near; and he was taller than twelve men, and his face was very proud and terrible to look at. And he stood up and stretched out his hand before him; and when he stood up, all that was there, great and small, bowed down with a sighing sound, and a dread112 came on my heart, and he looked at me, and I could not speak. I felt I was his own, to do what he liked with, for I knew at once who he was; and he said, “If you promise to return, you may depart for a season;” and the voice he spoke with was terrible and mournful, and the echoes of it went rolling and swelling113 down the endless cave, and mixing with the trembling of the fire overhead; so that when he sat down there was a sound after him, all through the place, like the roaring of a furnace, and I said, with all the strength I had, “I promise to come back — in God’s name let me go!”
‘And with that I lost the sight and the hearing of all that was there, and when my senses came to me again, I was sitting in the bed with the blood all over me, and you and the rest praying around the room.’
Here he paused and wiped away the chill drops of horror which hung upon his forehead.
I remained silent for some moments. The vision which he had just described struck my imagination not a little, for this was long before Vathek and the ‘Hall of Eblis’ had delighted the world; and the description which he gave had, as I received it, all the attractions of novelty beside the impressiveness which always belongs to the narration114 of an EYE-WITNESS, whether in the body or in the spirit, of the scenes which he describes. There was something, too, in the stern horror with which the man related these things, and in the incongruity115 of his description, with the vulgarly received notions of the great place of punishment, and of its presiding spirit, which struck my mind with awe116, almost with fear. At length he said, with an expression of horrible, imploring117 earnestness, which I shall never forget — ‘Well, sir, is there any hope; is there any chance at all? or, is my soul pledged and promised away for ever? is it gone out of my power? must I go back to the place?’
In answering him, I had no easy task to perform; for however clear might be my internal conviction of the groundlessness of his tears, and however strong my scepticism respecting the reality of what he had described, I nevertheless felt that his impression to the contrary, and his humility118 and terror resulting from it, might be made available as no mean engines in the work of his conversion119 from prodigacy, and of his restoration to decent habits, and to religious feeling.
I therefore told him that he was to regard his dream rather in the light of a warning than in that of a prophecy; that our salvation120 depended not upon the word or deed of a moment, but upon the habits of a life; that, in fine, if he at once discarded his idle companions and evil habits, and firmly adhered to a sober, industrious121, and religious course of life, the powers of darkness might claim his soul in vain, for that there were higher and firmer pledges than human tongue could utter, which promised salvation to him who should repent67 and lead a new life.
I left him much comforted, and with a promise to return upon the next day. I did so, and found him much more cheerful and without any remains122 of the dogged sullenness123 which I suppose had arisen from his despair. His promises of amendment124 were given in that tone of deliberate earnestness, which belongs to deep and solemn determination; and it was with no small delight that I observed, after repeated visits, that his good resolutions, so far from failing, did but gather strength by time; and when I saw that man shake off the idle and debauched companions, whose society had for years formed alike his amusement and his ruin, and revive his long discarded habits of industry and sobriety, I said within myself, there is something more in all this than the operation of an idle dream.
One day, sometime after his perfect restoration to health, I was surprised on ascending125 the stairs, for the purpose of visiting this man, to find him busily employed in nailing down some planks126 upon the landing-place, through which, at the commencement of his mysterious vision, it seemed to him that he had sunk. I perceived at once that he was strengthening the floor with a view to securing himself against such a catastrophe127, and could scarcely forbear a smile as I bid ‘God bless his work.’
He perceived my thoughts, I suppose, for he immediately said:
‘I can never pass over that floor without trembling. I’d leave this house if I could, but I can’t find another lodging in the town so cheap, and I’ll not take a better till I’ve paid off all my debts, please God; but I could not be asy in my mind till I made it as safe as I could. You’ll hardly believe me, your honour, that while I’m working, maybe a mile away, my heart is in a flutter the whole way back, with the bare thoughts of the two little steps I have to walk upon this bit of a floor. So it’s no wonder, sir, I’d thry to make it sound and firm with any idle timber I have.’
I applauded his resolution to pay off his debts, and the steadiness with which he perused128 his plans of conscientious economy, and passed on.
Many months elapsed, and still there appeared no alteration129 in his resolutions of amendment. He was a good workman, and with his better habits he recovered his former extensive and profitable employment. Everything seemed to promise comfort and respectability. I have little more to add, and that shall be told quickly. I had one evening met Pat Connell, as he returned from his work, and as usual, after a mutual130, and on his side respectful salutation, I spoke a few words of encouragement and approval. I left him industrious, active, healthy — when next I saw him, not three days after, he was a corpse.
The circumstances which marked the event of his death were somewhat strange — I might say fearful. The unfortunate man had accidentally met an early friend just returned, after a long absence, and in a moment of excitement, forgetting everything in the warmth of his joy, he yielded to his urgent invitation to accompany him into a public-house, which lay close by the spot where the encounter had taken place. Connell, however, previously131 to entering the room, had announced his determination to take nothing more than the strictest temperance would warrant.
But oh! who can describe the inveterate tenacity132 with which a drunkard’s habits cling to him through life? He may repent — he may reform — he may look with actual abhorrence133 upon his past profligacy134; but amid all this reformation and compunction, who can tell the moment in which the base and ruinous propensity135 may not recur136, triumphing over resolution, remorse137, shame, everything, and prostrating138 its victim once more in all that is destructive and revolting in that fatal vice25?
The wretched man left the place in a state of utter intoxication. He was brought home nearly insensible. and placed in his bed, where he lay in the deep calm lethargy of drunkenness. The younger part of the family retired139 to rest much after their usual hour; but the poor wife remained up sitting by the fire, too much grieved and shocked at the occurrence of what she had so little expected, to settle to rest; fatigue140, however, at length overcame her, and she sank gradually into an uneasy slumber11. She could not tell how long she had remained in this state, when she awakened, and immediately on opening her eyes, she perceived by the faint red light of the smouldering turf embers, two persons, one of whom she recognised as her husband, noiselessly gliding141 out of the room.
‘Pat, darling, where are you going?’ said she. There was no answer — the door closed after them; but in a moment she was startled and terrified by a loud and heavy crash, as if some ponderous142 body had been hurled143 down the stair. Much alarmed, she started up, and going to the head of the staircase, she called repeatedly upon her husband, but in vain. She returned to the room, and with the assistance of her daughter, whom I had occasion to mention before, she succeeded in finding and lighting144 a candle, with which she hurried again to the head of the staircase.
At the bottom lay what seemed to be a bundle of clothes, heaped together, motionless, lifeless — it was her husband. In going down the stair, for what purpose can never now be known, he had fallen helplessly and violently to the bottom, and coming head foremost, the spine145 at the neck had been dislocated by the shock, and instant death must have ensued. The body lay upon that landing-place to which his dream had referred. It is scarcely worth endeavouring to clear up a single point in a narrative146 where all is mystery; yet I could not help suspecting that the second figure which had been seen in the room by Connell’s wife on the night of his death, might have been no other than his own shadow. I suggested this solution of the difficulty; but she told me that the unknown person had been considerably147 in advance of the other, and on reaching the door, had turned back as if to communicate something to his companion. It was then a mystery.
Was the dream verified? — whither had the disembodied spirit sped? — who can say? We know not. But I left the house of death that day in a state of horror which I could not describe. It seemed to me that I was scarce awake. I heard and saw everything as if under the spell of a night-mare. The coincidence was terrible.
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1
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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2
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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3
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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4
reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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5
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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7
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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8
reclamation
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| n.开垦；改造；（废料等的）回收 | |
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9
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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10
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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11
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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12
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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15
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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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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17
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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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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30
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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31
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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34
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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35
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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36
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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37
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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38
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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39
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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40
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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41
prematurity
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| n.早熟，过早，早开花 | |
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42
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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43
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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45
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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46
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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47
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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48
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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49
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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50
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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51
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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52
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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53
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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54
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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55
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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56
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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59
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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60
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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62
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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63
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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64
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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65
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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66
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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67
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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68
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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69
nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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70
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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71
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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72
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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73
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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74
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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75
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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76
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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77
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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78
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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79
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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80
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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81
torpidity
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| n.麻痹 | |
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82
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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83
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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84
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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85
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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86
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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87
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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88
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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89
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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90
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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91
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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92
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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93
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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94
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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95
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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96
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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97
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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98
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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99
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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100
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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101
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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102
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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103
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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104
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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105
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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106
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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107
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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108
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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109
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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110
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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111
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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112
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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113
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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114
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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115
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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116
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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117
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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118
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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119
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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120
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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121
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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122
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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123
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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124
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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125
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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126
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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127
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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128
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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129
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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130
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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131
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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132
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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133
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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134
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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135
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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136
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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137
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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138
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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139
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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140
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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141
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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142
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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143
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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144
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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145
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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146
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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147
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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