Mrs. Henry Wood
by Adeline Sergeant2
Mrs. Catherine Crowe
Mrs. Catherine Crowe, whose maiden3 name was Stevens, was born at Borough4 Green, in Kent, about 1800, and died in 1876. She married Colonel Crowe in 1822, and took up her residence with him in Edinburgh. Her books were written chiefly between the years 1838 and 1859, and she is best known by her novel, “Susan Hopley,” and her collection of ghost stories, “The Night Side of Nature.” She was a woman of considerable ability, which appears, however, to have run into rather obscure and sombre channels, such as showed a somewhat morbid5 bent6 of mind, with a tendency towards depression, which culminated7 at last in a short but violent attack of insanity8. But love of the unseen and supernatural does not seem to have blunted her keenness of observation in ordinary life, for her novels,
the scenes of which are laid chiefly among homely9 and domestic surroundings, display alike soundness of judgment10 and considerable dramatic power. As a writer, indeed, Mrs. Crowe was extremely versatile11; she wrote plays, children’s stories, short historical tales, romantic novels, as well as the ghost stories with which her name seems chiefly to be associated in the minds of this generation. It is evident too, that she believed herself—rightly or wrongly—to be possessed12 of great philosophical13 discrimination; but it must be acknowledged that her philosophical and metaphysical studies often led her into curious byways of speculation14, into which the reader does not willingly wander.
It is worth noting that Mrs. Crowe’s ideas respecting the status and education of women were, for the days in which she lived, exceedingly “advanced.” In “Lilly Dawson,” for instance, a story published in 1847, she makes an elaborate protest against the kind of education which women were then receiving. “It is true,” she says, “that there is little real culture amongst men; there are few strong minds and fewer honest ones, but they have still more advantages. If their education has been bad, it has at least been a trifle better than ours. Six hours a day at Latin and Greek are better than six hours
a day at worsted work and embroidery15; and time is better spent in acquiring a smattering of mathematics than in strumming Hook’s lessons on a bad pianoforte.”
Her views of women in general are well expressed in the following words from the same work of fiction. “If, as we believe, under no system of training, the intellect of woman would be found as strong as that of a man, she is compensated16 by her intuitions being stronger. If her reason be less majestic17, her insight is clearer; where man reasons she sees. Nature, in short, gave her all that was needful to enable her to play a noble part in the world’s history, if man would but let her play it out, and not treat her like a full-grown baby, to be flattered and spoilt on the one hand, and coerced18 and restricted on the other, vibrating between royal rule and slavish serfdom.” Surely we hear the voice of Nora Helmer herself, the very quintessence of Ibsenism! It must have required considerable courage to write in this way in the year 1847, and Mrs. Crowe should certainly be numbered among the lovers of educational reform. In many ways she seems to have been a woman of strong individuality and decided19 opinions.
Her first work was a drama, “Aristodemus,” published anonymously20 in 1838; it showed considerable ability and
was well regarded by the critics. She then wrote a novel, “Men and Women, or Manorial21 Rights,” in 1839; and in 1841 published her most successful work of fiction: “Susan Hopley, or the Adventures of a Maid-servant.” This story was more generally popular than any other from her pen, but it is to be doubted whether it possesses more literary ability or points of greater interest than the rest.
Mrs. Crowe then embarked23 upon a translation of “The Seeress of Provorst,” by Justinus Kerner, a book of revelations concerning the inner life of man; and in 1848 she published a book called “The Night Side of Nature,” a collection of supernatural tales gathered from many sources, probably the best storehouse of ghost stories in the English language. Its interest is a little marred25 by the credulity of the author. She seems never to disbelieve any ghost story of any kind that comes in her way. From the humble26 apologies, however, with which she opens her dissertation27 on the subject, it is easy to see how great a change has passed over people’s minds in the course of the last fifty years, with respect to the supernatural. If Mrs. Crowe had lived in these days, she would have found herself in intimate relations with the Society for Psychical28 Research, and would have had no reason to excuse herself for the choice of her subject.
She divides her book into sections, which treat of dreams (where we get Sir Noel Paton’s account of his mother’s curious vision); warnings; double-dreaming and trance, with the stories of Colonel Townshend’s voluntary trance and the well-known legend of Lord Balcarres and the ghost of Claverhouse; doppel-g?ngers and apparitions29 (including the stories of Lady Beresford’s branded wrist and Lord Lyttleton’s warning); and other chapters descriptive of haunted houses, with details concerning clairvoyance30 and the use of the crystal. It is interesting to find among these the original account of “Pearlin Jean,” of which Miss Sarah Tytler has made such excellent use in one of her recent books. An account of the phenomena31 of stigmata and the case of Catherine Emmerich, are also described in detail. Lovers of the supernatural will find much to gratify their taste in a perusal32 of “The Night Side of Nature.”
Mrs. Crowe did not exhaust the subject in this volume, for she issued a book on ghosts and family legends, a volume for Christmas, in the year 1859; a work full of the kind of stories which became so popular in the now almost obsolete33 Christmas Annual of succeeding years. It is also curious to note, that in 1848, Mrs. Crowe produced a work of an entirely34 different nature, namely, an excellent story for children, entitled “Pippie’s
Warning, or Mind Your Temper”—another instance of her versatility35 of mind.
“The Adventures of a Beauty” and “Light and Darkness” appeared in 1852. The latter is a collection of short tales from different sources, partly historical and partly imaginative, and certainly more in accordance with the taste of modern days than her elaborate domestic stories. Mrs. Crowe’s taste for the horrible is distinctly perceptible in this collection. There is an account of the celebrated36 poisoners, Frau Gottfried, Madame Ursinus, and Margaret Zwanziger, whose crimes were so numerous that they themselves forgot the number of their victims; and of Mr. Tinius, who went about making morning calls and murdering the persons whom he honoured with a visit. The histories of Lesurques, the hero of the “Lyons Mail,” and of Madame Louise, Princess of France, who became a nun37, are well narrated39; but nearly all the stories are concerned with horrors such as suggest the productions of Mr. Wilkie Collins. “The Priest of St. Quentin” and “The Lycanthropist” are two of the most powerful.
Her next novel, a more purely40 domestic one, was “Linny Lockwood,” issued in 1854. A sentence from the preface to this book anticipates—rather early, as we may think—the approaching death of the three-volume novel:
“Messrs. Routledge and Co. have been for some time soliciting41 me to write them an original novel for their cheap series; and being convinced that the period for publishing at ￡1 11s. 6d., books of a kind that people generally read but once, is gone by, 1 have resolved to make the experiment.”
She wrote another tragedy, “The Cruel Kindness,” in 1853, and abridged42 “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” for children. In 1859 a pamphlet on “Spiritualism and the Age we Live in,” constituted the last of her more important works, although she continued, for some time after recovery from the attack of insanity which we have mentioned, to write papers and stories for periodicals.
In spite of Mrs. Crowe’s love for the supernatural and the horrible, she is one of the pioneers of the purely domestic story—that story of the affections and the emotions peculiar43 to the Victorian Age. She is allied44 to the schools of Richardson and Fanny Burney rather than to those of Sir Walter Scott or Miss Austen; for although her incidents are often romantic and even far-fetched, her characters are curiously45 homely and generally of humble environment. Thus, for instance, “Susan Hopley” is a maid-servant (though not of the Pamela kind nor with the faintest resemblance to Esther Waters); Lilly Dawson, although proved ultimately to be the daughter
of a colonel, passes the greater part of her earlier life as a drudge47 and a dependent; and Linny Lockwood, while refined and educated, is reduced to the situation of a lady’s maid. The circumstances of her heroines are, as a rule, extremely prosaic48, and would possibly have been condemned50 by writers of Miss Austen’s school as hopelessly vulgar; but Mrs. Crowe’s way of treating these characters and their surroundings bears upon it no stamp of vulgarity at all. Its great defect is its want of humour to light up the sordid51 side of the life which she describes. She is almost always serious, full of exalted52 and occasionally overstrained sentiment. And even when treating of childhood, it is rarely that she relaxes so far as (in “Lilly Dawson”) to describe the naughtiness of the little girl who insisted upon praying for the cat. This is almost the sole glimpse of a sense of fun to which Mrs. Crowe treats us in her numerous volumes.
To the present age “Susan Hopley,” although so popular at the time of its publication, is less attractive than the stories of “Linny Lockwood” and “Lilly Dawson.” The form adopted for the recital53 of Susan’s narrative54 is extremely inartistic, for it comprises Susan’s reminiscences, interspersed56 at intervals57 with narrative, and supposed to be told by her in mature age, when she is
housekeeper58 to the hero of the story. Nevertheless, the plot is ingenious, turning on the murder of Susan’s brother by a handsome and gentlemanly villain59, and the subsequent exposure of his guilt60 by means of Susan’s energy and the repentance61 of one of his victims. It has all the elements of a sensational62 story, with the exception of a “sympathetic” heroine or any other really interesting character; for Susan Hopley, the embodiment of all homely virtues63, is distinctly dull, and it is difficult to feel the attractiveness of the “beautiful and haughty” dairymaid, Mabel Lightfoot, whose frailty65 forms an important element in the discovery of Gaveston’s guilt.
“Lilly Dawson” may be said to possess something of a psychological interest, which redeems66 it from the charge of dulness brought against “Susan Hopley.” The heroine is thrown as a child into the hands of a wild and lawless family, smugglers and desperadoes, who make of her a household slave; and the child appears at first to be utterly67 stupid and apathetic68. A touch of affection and sympathy is needed before her intellect awakes. In fear of being forced to marry one of the sons of the house in which she has been brought up, when she is only fifteen, she escapes from her enemies, becomes the guide and adopted child of an old blind man, takes service as a nursemaid, is employed in a milliner’s workroom, narrowly
escapes being murdered by the man whom she refused to marry, and finally acts as maid in the house of her own relations, where she is discovered and received with the greatest affection. Nevertheless, she cannot endure the life of “a fine lady,” and goes back ultimately to marry the humble lover whose kindness had cheered her in the days of her childhood and poverty.
In “Linny Lockwood” there is a touch of emotion, even of passion, which is wanting in the previous stories. It embraces scenes and situations which are quite as moving as any which thrilled the English public in the pages of “Jane Eyre” or “East Lynne,” but, owing possibly to Mrs. Crowe’s obstinate70 realism and somewhat didactic homeliness71 of diction and sentiment, it seems somewhat to have missed its mark. Linny Lockwood marries a man entirely unworthy of her, whose love strays speedily from her to another woman—a married woman with whom he elopes and whom he afterwards abandons. Linny, being poor and destitute73, looks about for work, and takes the post of maid to her husband’s deserted74 mistress, without, of course, knowing what had been the connection between them. But before the birth of Kate’s child, Linny learns the truth and nevertheless remains75 with her to soothe76 her weakness, and lessen77 the pangs78 of remorse79 of which the poor woman ultimately dies. A full explana
tion between the two women takes place before Kate’s death; and the child that is left behind is adopted by Linny Lockwood, who refuses to pardon the husband, who sues to her for forgiveness, or to live with him again.
The character of Linny Lockwood is a very beautiful one, and the story appeals to the reader’s sensibilities more strongly than the recital of Susan Hopley’s adventures or the girlish sorrows of Lilly Dawson.
Mrs. Crowe’s writings certainly heralded80 the advent22 of a new kind of fiction: a kind which has been, perhaps more than any other, characteristic of the early years of the Victorian Age. It is the literature of domestic realism, of homely unromantic characters, which no accessories of exciting adventure can render interesting or remarkable81 in themselves—characters distinguished82 by every sort of virtue64, yet not possessed of any ideal attractiveness. She is old-fashioned enough to insist upon a happy ending, to punish the wicked and to reward the good. But amid all the conventionality of her style, one is conscious of a note of hard common sense and a power of seeing things as they really are, which in these days would probably have forced her (perhaps against her will) into the realistic school. She seems, in fact, to hover83 between two ages of
literature, and to be possessed at times of two different spirits—one the romantic and the supernatural, the other distinctly commonplace and workaday. Perhaps it is by the former that she will be chiefly remembered, but it is through the latter that she takes a place in English literature. She left a mark upon the age in which she lived, and she helped, in a quiet, undemonstrative fashion, to mould the women of England after higher ideals than had been possible in the early days of the century. Those who consider the development of women to be one of the distinguishing features of Queen Victoria’s reign84 should not forget that they owe deep gratitude85 to writers like Mrs. Crowe, who upheld the standard of a woman’s right to education and economic independence long before these subjects were discussed in newspapers and upon public platforms. For, as George Eliot has said, with her usual wisdom, it is owing to the labours of those who have lived in comparative obscurity and lie in forgotten graves, that things are well with us here and now.
Caroline Clive
Caroline Clive was the second daughter and co-heiress of Edmund Meysey-Wigley, of Shakenhurst, Worcestershire. She was born in 1801, at Brompton Green, London, and was married in 1840 to the Rev24. Archer Clive, Rector of Solihull, Warwickshire. In the latest edition of her poems, her daughter states that “Mrs. Archer Clive, from a severe illness when she was three years old, was lame87; and though her strong mind and high spirit carried her happily through childhood and early life, as she grew up she felt sharply the loss of all the active pleasures enjoyed by others.”
Her novel, “Paul Ferroll,” contains a touching88 poem which shows how deeply she felt the privations consequent on her infirmity.
“Gaeta’s orange groves89 were there
Half circling round the sun-kissed sea;
And all were gone and left the fair
Rich garden solitude90 but me.
“My feeble feet refused to tread
The rugged91 pathway to the bay;
Down the steep rocky way they tread
And gain the boat and glide92 away.
“Above me hung the golden glow
Of fruit which is at one with flowers;
Below me gleamed the ocean’s flow,
Like sapphires93 in the midday hours.
“A passing by there was of wings,
Of silent, flower-like butterflies;
The sudden beetle94 as it springs
Full of the life of southern skies.
“It was an hour of bliss95 to die,
But not to sleep, for ever came
The warm thin air, and, passing by,
Fanned sense and soul and heart to flame.”
A great love of nature and a yearning96 to tread its scenes breathe in every word of these lines, which possess an essentially97 pathetic charm of their own.
Mrs. Clive died in July 1873, from the result of an accident, by which her dress was set on fire when she was writing in her boudoir at Whitfield, with her books and papers around her. Her health was extremely delicate, and she had been for many years a confirmed invalid98.
Her first work consisted of the well-known “IX Poems by V.” published in 1840. These poems were very favourably99 received, and were much praised by Dugald Stewart, by Lockhart, and by Mr. Gladstone, who says of them, “They form a small book, which is the life and
soul of a great book.” They were also very favourably reviewed in the Quarterly (66. 408-11). Her other poems, “I Watch the Heavens,” “The Queen’s Ball,” “The Vale of the Rea,” etc., have been re-published with the original “IX” in a separate volume. “Year After Year,” published in 1858, passed into two editions; but Mrs. Clive’s reputation chiefly rests upon her story of “Paul Ferroll,” published in 1855, and its sequel, “Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.” The second story was, however, in no way equal to the first; and a subsequent novel, “John Greswold,” which appeared in 1864, was decidedly inferior to its predecessors100, although containing passages of considerable literary merit.
“Paul Ferroll” has passed through several editions, and has been translated into French. It was not until the fourth edition that the concluding chapter, which brings the story down to the death of Paul Ferroll, was added.
There is little difference in date between the writings of Mrs. Crowe and those of Mrs. Archer Clive, but there is a tremendous gap between their methods and the tone of their novels. As a matter of fact they belong to different generations, in spite of their similarity of age. Mrs. Crowe belongs to the older school of fictionists,
while Mrs. Archer Clive is curiously modern. The tone and style are like the tone and style of the present day, not so much in the dialogue, which is generally stilted101, after the fashion of the age in which she lived, as in the mental attitude of the characters, in the atmosphere of the books, and the elaborate, sometimes even artistic55, collocation of scenes and incidents.
“Paul Ferroll” is often looked upon merely as a novel of plot, almost the first “sensational” novel, as we call it, of the century. But it is more than that. There is a distinct working out of character and a subordination of mere102 incident to its development; and the original ending was of so striking and pathetic a nature that we can only regret the subsequent addition, which probably the influence of others made necessary, just as in “Villette” Charlotte Bront? was obliged to soften103 down her own conception, in order to satisfy the conventional requirements of her friends.
The story of “Paul Ferroll” displays a good deal of constructive104 skill, although the mystery enfolded in its pages is more easily penetrated105 than would be the case in a modern sensational novel. The fact is, we have increased our knowledge of the intricacies both of human nature and of criminal law in these latter days, and our novelists
are cleverer in concealing106 or half revealing their mysteries than they were in “the forties.” For a few pages, at least, the reader may be deluded107 into the belief that Paul Ferroll is a worthy72 and innocent man, and that his wife has been murdered by some revengeful servant or ruffianly vagabond. But the secret of his guilt is too speedily fathomed108; and from that point to the end of the book, the question turns on the possibilities of its discovery or the likelihood and effects of his own confession109.
Mrs. Clive’s picture of the “bold bad man” is not so successful as that of Charlotte Bront?‘s Rochester. Rochester, with all his faults, commands sympathy, but our sympathies are alienated110 from Paul Ferroll when we find (in the first chapter) that he could ride out tranquilly111 on a summer’s morning, scold his gardener, joke with the farmer’s wife, and straighten out the farmer’s accounts, when he had just previously112 murdered his wife in her sleep by thrusting a sharp pointed113 knife through her head “below the ear.” Even although he afterwards exhibits agitation114 on being brought face to face with the corpse115 of his wife, we cannot rid ourselves of our remembrance of the insensibility which he had shown. The motive116 for the crime is not far to seek. He had fixed117 his affections on a young girl, his marriage with whom had been prevented by the woman who became his wife.
Dissension and increasing bitterness grew up between the pair; and her death was held as a release by Paul Ferroll, who hastened to bring home, as his second wife, the girl whom he had formerly118 loved.
No suspicion attached to him, and he is careful to provide means of defence for the labourer Franks and his wife, who have been accused of the murder. On returning home with his second wife, to whom he is passionately120 attached, he devotes himself entirely to literary pursuits, refusing to mix with any of the society of the place. From time to time his motive is allowed to appear; he has determined121 never to accept a favour from, nor become a friend of, the country gentlemen, with whom he is thrown into contact, so that they shall never have to say, supposing the truth should ever be acknowledged, that he has made his way into their houses on false pretences122. But in spite of his seclusion123, he lives a life of ideal happiness with his wife, Ellinor, and their beautiful little child, Janet, who, however, occupies quite a secondary place in the hearts of her father and mother, who are wrapt up in one another.
The events of the next few years are not treated in detail, although there is at one point a most interesting description of the state of a town in which cholera124 rages, when Paul Ferroll flings himself with heroic ardour into
every effort to stem the tide of the disease. Owing to a riot at the time of the Assizes, Ferroll fires on one of the crowd and kills him, so that by a curious coincidence, he is tried for murder, and has full experience of the horrors accompanying the situation of a criminal. He is sentenced to death but pardoned, and returns to his old life at home. The widow of the labourer who had formerly been accused of the murder of his first wife then returns to England, and Ferroll knows that her return increases the danger of discovery. He tries to escape it by going abroad, but finds on his return that Martha Franks, the widow, is in possession of some trinkets which belonged to the late Mrs. Ferroll, that she has been accused of theft and finally of the murder of her mistress. This is the very conjuncture which had always appeared possible to Paul Ferroll; the moment has come when he feels himself obliged to confess the truth, in order to save a fellow creature from unjust condemnation125. He thereupon acknowledges his guilt, is at once conveyed to prison, and after a merely formal trial is condemned to death—the execution to take place, apparently126, in three days, according to the inhuman127 custom of the time.
Ellinor dies on the day when she hears of his confession; and Janet, his daughter, now eighteen years old, and Janet’s young lover, Hugh Bartlett, are the only persons
who remain faithful to him or make efforts for his safety. Through Hugh’s efforts and the treachery of the gaoler, Paul Ferroll manages, in a somewhat improbable manner, to escape from prison; and he and Janet make their way to Spain, whence they will be able to take ship for America.
The conclusion of the story, as at first written, is particularly striking. Janet, after an illness, has come to herself: “She did not know the place where she was. The air was warm and perfumed, the windows shaded, the room quite a stranger to her. An elderly woman, with a black silk mantle128 on her head and over her shoulders, spoke129 to her. She did not understand the meaning, but she knew the words were Spanish. Then the tide of recollection rushed back, and the black cold night came fully130 before her, which was the last thing she recollected131. ‘My father,’ she said, rising as well as she could. The woman had gone to the window and beckoned132, and in another minute Mr. Ferroll stood by her bedside. ‘Can you still love me, Janet?’ said he. ‘Love you! oh yes, my father.’”
It seems a pity that a concluding chapter was afterwards added, containing a description of Janet’s life with her father in Boston, and of his dying moments and last words, which might well have been left to the imagi
nation. The original conclusion was more impressive without these details.
It is rather curious, too, that Mrs. Clive should have written another volume to explain why Paul Ferroll killed his wife; but possibly she thought further explanation was necessary, since she prefixed to the latter volume a quotation133 from Froude’s “Henry the Eighth”: “A man does not murder his wife gratuitously134.” In this book she changes the names of all the characters except that of Ellinor. Paul Ferroll is Leslie, and his wife, Anne, is Laura. Ellinor, the young and beautiful girl out of a convent, completely enchants135 Leslie, whom Laura had intended to marry; and Laura contrives136, by deliberate malice137, so completely to sever86 them that he makes Laura his wife, while Ellinor returns to the convent. “Violent were the passions of the strong but bitter man; fierce the hatred138 of the powerful but baffled intellect. Wild was the fury of the man who believed in but one world of good, and saw the mortal moments pass away unenjoyed and irretrievable. Out of these hours arose a purpose. The reader sees the man and knows the deed. From the premises139 laid before him, he need not indeed conclude that even that man would do the deed, but since it was told in 1855 that the husband killed his wife, so now in 1860 it is explained why he killed her.”
This second volume is decidedly inferior to the first, but it shared in the popularity which “Paul Ferroll” had already achieved, and the author’s vigorous portraiture140 of characters and events was well marked in both volumes.
With her third volume, “John Greswold,” came a sudden falling off, at any rate as regards dramatic force. “John Greswold” is the autobiography141 of a young man who has very little story to tell and does not know how to tell it. No grip is laid on the reader’s attention; no character claims especial interest, but the thing that is remarkable in the book is the literary touch, which is far more perceptible than in the more interesting story of “Paul Ferroll.” The book is somewhat inchoate142, but contains short passages of real beauty, keen shafts143 of observation, and an occasional flight of emotional expression, which raise the writer to a greater literary elevation144 than the merely sensational incidents of her earlier novels. She has gained in reflective power, but lost her dramatic instinct. Consequently “John Greswold” was less successful than “Paul Ferroll.”
The conclusion of the book, vague and indecisive, shows the author to be marked out by nature as one of the Impressionist School. It is powerful and yet indefinite; in fact it could only have been written by one with
a true poetic145 gift. “The seven stars that never set are going westward146. The funeral car of Lazarus moves on and the three mourners follow behind. They are above the fir wood and that’s the sign of midnight. Twenty-three years ago 1 was born into this world and now the twenty-third has run out. The time is gone. The known things are all over and buried in the darkness behind. Before me lies the great blank page of the future and no writing traced upon it. But it is nothing to me. I won’t ask nor think, nor hope, nor fear about it. The leaf of the book is turned and there’s an end—the tale is told.”
“Paul Ferroll” may be considered as the precursor147 of the purely sensational novel, or of what may be called the novel of mystery. Miss Bront? in “Jane Eyre” uses to some extent the same kind of material, but her work is far more a study of character than the story of “Paul Ferroll” can claim to be. In “Paul Ferroll,” indeed, the analysis of motive is entirely absent. The motives148 that actuated Paul Ferroll are to be gathered simply from chance expressions or his actions. No description of the human heart has been attempted. The picture of the violent, revengeful, strongly passionate119 nature of the man is forcible enough, but it is displayed by action and
not by introspection. It is for this reason that Mrs. Clive may be placed in the forefront of the sensational novelists of the century. She anticipated the work of Wilkie Collins, of Charles Reade, of Miss Braddon, and many others of their school, in showing human nature as expressed by its energies, neither diagnosing it like a physician, nor analysing it like a priest. A vigorous representation of the outside semblance46 of things is the peculiar characteristic of the so-called sensational novelist; and it is in this respect that “Paul Ferroll” excels many of the novels of incident written during the first half of this century. It heralded a new departure in the ways of fiction. It set forth149 the delights of a mystery, the pleasures of suspense150, together with a thrilling picture of “the strong man in adversity,” which has been beloved of fiction-mongers from the first days of fable151 in the land.
But perhaps it was successful, most of all, because it introduced its readers to a new sensation. Hitherto they had been taught to look on the hero of a novel as necessarily a noble and virtuous152 being, endowed with heroic, not to say angelic qualities; but this conviction was now to be reversed. The change was undoubtedly153 startling. Even Scott had not got beyond the tradition of a good young man as hero, a tradition which the Bront?s and Mrs. Archer Clive were destined154 to break down. For Scott’s
most fascinating character, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, was confessedly the villain of the piece; and the splendidly picturesque155 figure of Dundee was supposed to be less attractive than the tame and scrupulous156 personality of Henry Morton. It was a convention amongst writers that vice69 and crime must be repulsive157, and that there was something inherently attractive in virtue—a wholesome158 doctrine159, insufficiently160 preached in these days, but not strictly161 consistent with facts. To find, therefore, a villain—and a thorough-paced villain, the murderer of his wife—installed in the place of hero and represented as noble, handsome, and gifted, naturally thrilled the readers’ minds with a mixture of horror and delight. The substitution of villain for hero is now too common to excite remark, but it was a striking event in the days when “Paul Ferroll” was published, although there had been instances of a similar kind in the novels of the eighteenth century. The new fashion gained ground and speedily exceeded the limits which Mrs. Archer Clive would no doubt have set to it; but it is nevertheless in part to her that we owe this curious transposition of r?les, which has revolutionised the aims and objects of fiction in the latter half of the nineteenth century.
Mrs. Henry Wood
The art of the raconteur162, pure and simple, is apt to be undervalued in our days. A rage for character-painting, for analysis, for subtle discrimination, down to the minutest detail, has taken hold upon us; and although we have lately returned to a taste for adventure of the more stirring kind, there is still an underlying163 conviction that the highest forms of literary art deal with mental states and degrees of emotions, instead of with the ordinary complications of every-day life. Hence the person who is gifted simply with a desire (and the power) of telling a story as a story, with no ulterior motive, with no ambition of intellectual achievement, the Scheherazade of our quiet evenings and holiday afternoons, is apt to take a much lower place in our estimation than she deserves.
This is especially the case with Mrs. Henry Wood. It is impossible to claim for her any lofty literary position; she is emphatically un-literary and middle-class. But she never has cause to say, “Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, Sir,” for she always has a very distinct and convincing story, which she handles with a skill which can perhaps be valued only by the professional novelist, who knows the technical difficulty of handling the numerous groups of
characters which Mrs. Wood especially affects. There is no book of hers which deals—as so many novels deal—with merely one or two characters. She takes the whole town into her story, wherever it may be. We not only know the Lord-Lieutenant and the High Sheriff and the Squire164, but we are intimate (particularly intimate) with the families of the local lawyer and doctor. We are almost equally well acquainted with their bootmaker and green-grocer, while their maids and their grooms165 are as much living entities166 to us as if they had served us in our own houses. To take a great group of dramatis person?, widely differing in circumstances, in character, in individuality; to keep them all perfectly167 clear without confusion and without wavering; to evolve from them some central figures on which the attention of the subsidiary characters shall be unavoidably fixed, and to weave a plot of mystery, intrigue168, treachery or passion which must be resolved to its ultimate elements before the last page of the book—to do all this is really an achievement of which many a writer, who values himself on his intellectual superiority to Mrs. Henry Wood, might well be proud. It is no more easy to marshal a multitude of characters in the pages of your book than to dispose bodies of soldiers in advantageous169 positions over an unknown country. The eye of a general is in some respects needed for both opera
tions, and the true balance and proportion of a plot are not matters which come by accident or can be accomplished170 without skill. It may not be literary skill, but it is skill of a kind which deserves recognition, under what name soever it may be classed.
Mrs. Henry Wood was born in Worcestershire in 1814, and died in London in 1887. She suffered from delicate health and passed the greater part of her life as an invalid. She was the daughter of Mr. Thomas Price, one of the largest glove manufacturers in the city of Worcester. She married Mr. Henry Wood, the head of a large banking171 and shipping172 firm, who retired173 early from work and died comparatively young. It was not until middle life that Mrs. Wood began to write; and her first work,—perhaps, of all her works, the most popular—was “East Lynne,” which first appeared in Colburn’s New Monthly Magazine. Its success was prodigious174 and it is still one of the most popular novels upon the shelves of every circulating library. It has been translated into many languages and dramatised in different forms. It was published in 1861, and reached a fifth edition within the year.
Amongst her most popular works also are “The Channings” and “Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles,” 1862; “The Shadow of Ashlydyat,” 1863; “St. Martin’s Eve,” 1866;
“A Life’s Secret,” 1867; “Roland Yorke,” a sequel to “The Channings,” 1869; “Johnny Ludlow,” stories re-printed from the Argosy, 1874 to 1885; “Edina,” 1876; “Pomeroy Abbey,” 1878; “Court Netherleigh,” 1881; and many other stories and novels. Mrs. Wood was for many years the editor of the Argosy.
The reason of the popularity of “East Lynne” is not far to seek. It is, to begin with, a very touching story; and its central situation, which in some respects recalls the relation of the two women in Mrs. Crowe’s “Linny Lockwood,” is genuinely striking. It is perhaps not worth while to argue as to its probability. It is, of course, barely possible that a woman should come disguised into the house where she formerly reigned175 as mistress, and act as governess to her own children, without being recognised. As a matter of fact, she is recognised by one of the servants only on account of a momentary176 forgetfulness of her disguise. Her own husband, her own children, do not know her in the least; and although he and his kinswoman are vaguely177 troubled by what they consider a chance resemblance, they dismiss it from their minds as utterly impossible, until the day when Lady Isabel, dying in her husband’s house, begs to see him for the last time. The changes in her personal appearance,
her lameness178, for instance, and the greyness of her hair, are very ingeniously contrived179; but it certainly seems almost impossible that two or three years should have so completely changed her that nobody should even guess at her identity.
The present generation complains that the pathos180 of the story is overdone181; but even if detail after detail is multiplied, so as to harrow the reader’s feelings almost unnecessarily, the fact still remains that Mrs. Wood has imagined as pitiful and tragic182 a situation as could possibly exist in the domestic relations of man and woman. The erring183 wife returning to find her husband married to another woman, to nurse one of her own children through his last illness without being recognised by him or by her husband, and to die at last in her husband’s house with the merest shadow of consolation184 in the shape of his somewhat grudging185 forgiveness, presents us with a figure which cannot fail to be extremely pathetic.
The faults of Mrs. Henry Wood’s style, its occasional prolixity186 and commonplaceness, the iteration of the moral reflections, as well as the triteness187 and feebleness sometimes of the dialogue, very nearly disappear from view when we resign ourselves to a consideration of this tragic situation. It cannot be denied that there is just a touch of mawkishness188 now and then, just a slight ring of false sentiment in the
pity accorded to Lady Isabel, who was certainly one of the silliest young women that ever existed in the realms of fiction. Nevertheless the spectacle of the mother nursing the dying boy, who does not know her, is one that will always appeal to the heart of the ordinary reader, and will go far to account for the extraordinary popularity of “East Lynne.”
A novelist of more aspiring189 genius would perhaps have concentrated our attention exclusively upon Lady Isabel’s feelings and tragic fate. Here Mrs. Wood’s failings, as well as her capacities, reveal themselves. She sees the tragic side of things, but she sees also (and perhaps too much) the pathos of small incidents, the importance of trifles. She spares us no jot190 of the sordid side of life. And in a novel of the undoubted power of “East Lynne” there are some details which might have been spared us. The rapacity191 of the creditors192 who seize the body of Lady Isabel’s father, the gossip of the servants, the suspicions of Afy Hallijohn, and, in short, almost all the underplot respecting Richard Hare—these matters are superfluous193. The reader’s eye ought to be kept more attentively194 upon the heroine and her relations with Mr. Carlisle and Sir Francis. The one inexplicable195 point in the story is Lady Isabel’s desertion of her husband for a man whom she must despise. It is never hinted that she had for one
moment lost her heart to Francis Levison. She left her husband out of sheer pique196 and jealousy197, loving him ardently198 all the while, although, in her ignorance and folly199, she scarcely knew that she loved him. Here the story is weak. We feel that Mrs. Wood sacrifices probability in her effort to obtain a striking situation. For the strongest part of “East Lynne” is the description of what occurs when Lady Isabel returns as a governess to her old home, when her husband, supposing her to be dead, has married his old love Barbara Hare. To this situation, everything is subordinate; and it is in itself so strong that we cannot wonder if the author strains a point or two in order to achieve it.
But the curious, the characteristic, thing is that even in this supreme200 crisis of the story, Mrs. Wood’s essential love of detail, and of somewhat commonplace detail, asserts itself over and over again. The incidents she takes pains to narrate38 are rational enough. There is no reason why pathos should be marred because a dying child asks for cheese with his tea, or because the sensible stepmother condemns201 Lucy to a diet of bread and water for some trifling202 offence, or because Miss Cornelia Carlisle displays her laughable eccentricities203 at Lady Isabel’s bedside. The pathos is marred now and then, not because of these trifling yet irritating incidents, but because we get an
impression that the author has forced a number of utterly prosaic people into a tragic situation for which they are eminently204 unfitted. The ducking of Sir Francis Levison in the horsepond is an example of this. The man was a heartless villain and murderer, yet he is presented to us in a scene of almost vulgar farce205 as part of his retribution. If the author had herself realised the insufficiency of her characters to rise to the tragic height demanded of them, she might have achieved either satire206 or intense realism; but there is a certain smugness in Mrs. Henry Wood’s acceptance of the commonplaces of life which makes us feel her an inadequate207 painter of tragedy. We close the book with a suspicion that she preferred the intolerable Barbara to the winsome208 and erring Lady Isabel.
“East Lynne” owes half its popularity, however, to that reaction against inane209 and impossible goodness which has taken place since the middle of the century. Just as Rochester and Paul Ferroll are protests against the conventional hero, so Lady Isabel is a protest against the conventional heroine—and a portent210 of her time! We were all familiar with beauty and virtue in distress211, from Clarissa Harlowe downwards212. It is during later years that we have become conversant213 with beauty and guilt as objects of our sympathy and commiseration214.
The moralists of the time—Saturday Reviewers, and others—perceived the change from one point of view, and were not slow to comment on it. Their opposition215 to the modern novel was chiefly based upon what they called a glorification216 of vice and crime. Now that the mists of prejudice have cleared away, we can see very well that no more praise of wrong-doing was implied by Mrs. Wood’s portrait of Lady Isabel than by Thackeray’s keen-edged delineation217 of Becky Sharp or George Eliot’s sorrowful sympathy with Maggie Tulliver. What was at first set down as a new and revolutionary kind of admiration218 for weakness and criminality soon resolved itself into a manifestation219 of that remarkable Zeit-Geist which has made itself felt in every department of human life. It is that side of the modern spirit which leads to the comprehension of the sufferings of others, to a new pity for their faults and weaknesses, a new breadth of tolerance220, and a generous reluctance221 to judge harshly of one’s fellow man. It has crept into the domain222 of law, of religious thought, of philanthropic effort, and it cannot be excluded from the realms of literature and art. It is, in fact, the scientific spirit, which says “there’s nothing good or ill but thinking makes it so;” which refuses to dogmatise or hastily to condemn49; which looks for the motives and reasons and causes of men’s actions,
and knows the infinite gradations between folly and wisdom, between black and white, between right and wrong. If science had done nothing else, it would be an enormous gain that she should teach us to suspend our judgment, to weigh evidence, and thus to pave the way for that diviner spirit by which we refuse to consider any sinner irreclaimable or any criminal beyond the reach of human sympathy.
“East Lynne” was received with general acclamation, and has been translated, it is said, into every known tongue, including Parsee and Hindustanee. “Some years ago,” her son states, “one of the chief librarians in Madrid informed Mrs. Henry Wood that the most popular book on his shelves, original or translated, was ‘East Lynne.’ Not very long ago it was translated into Welsh and brought out in a Welsh newspaper. It has been dramatised and played so often that had the author received a small royalty223 from every representation it was long since estimated that it would have returned to her no less than a quarter of a million sterling224, but she never received anything. . . . In the English Colonies the sale of the various works increased steadily225 year by year. In France the story has been dramatised and is frequently played in Paris and the Provinces.” On its first appearance, an enthusiastic review in the Times produced a tremendous effect upon the
public; the libraries were besieged226 for copies, and the printers had to work night and day upon new editions. In fact the success of “East Lynne” was one of the most remarkable literary incidents of the century.
The most popular of Mrs. Henry Wood’s books, next to “East Lynne,” seem to be “Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles” and “The Channings.” These are stories of more entirely quiet domestic interest than “East Lynne.” The situations are less tragical227 and the plots less complicated. Mrs. Halliburton’s quiet endurance of the privations and difficulties of her life, the pathetic life and death of her little Janey, and the ultimate success and achievements of her sons, linger in the memory of the reader as a pleasant and homely picture of the vicissitudes228 of English life.
There is a more humorous element in “The Channings,” from the introduction of so many youthful characters—the boys of the Cathedral school, notably229 Bywater, who is the incarnation of good-humoured impudence230, giving brightness to the tone of the story. The schoolboys are in this, as in many other of Mrs. Wood’s novels, particularly well drawn231. They are not prigs; they are anything but angels, in spite of their white surplices and their beautiful voices; and their escapades and adventures in
the old cloisters232 were wild enough to make the old monks233 turn in their graves. No doubt many incidents of this kind were drawn from life and owe their origin to Mrs. Wood’s acquaintance with the Choir234 School belonging to Worcester Cathedral.
It was not the only occasion on which the manufacturer’s daughter turned her knowledge of Worcester to good account. It may be said that the majority of her novels are coloured, more or less, by the author’s lengthy235 residence in a cathedral town. It was in 1874 that the first series of short stories, supposed to be narrated by Johnny Ludlow, began in the Argosy. Johnny Ludlow is a young lad belonging to a Worcestershire family, who is supposed to narrate incidents which have come under his observation at school or at home. Some of the stories thus produced are striking and vigorous; others are of less merit, but all are distinguished by the strong individuality of the characters, and by the fidelity236 with which Worcester and Worcestershire life are described. It now seems extraordinary that there should have been the slightest doubt as to the authorship of these stories, for Mrs. Wood’s peculiarities237 of style are observable on every page. Mr. Charles W. Wood, her son, remarks that “no one knew, or even guessed at, the authorship;” but this is a rather exaggerated statement, as we have reason to
be aware that the author was recognised at once by critics of discrimination. Still the general public were for some time deceived, imagining Johnny Ludlow to be a new author, whose stories they occasionally contrasted with those of Mrs. Henry Wood, and were said to prefer, probably much to the novelist’s own amusement.
The great variety of plot and incident found in the “Johnny Ludlow” stories is their most remarkable feature. The same characters are, of course, introduced again and again, as Johnny Ludlow moves in a circle of country squires238, clergy239, and townspeople. But it is astonishing with how much effect the stories of different lives can be placed in the same setting, and with what infinite changes the life of a country district can be reproduced. The characters are clearly drawn and often very well contrasted, and no doubt Mrs. Henry Wood’s memories of her earlier life in the district contributed largely to the success of this series. The first series ran in the Argosy and were re-printed, 1874-1880, while a second and third series maintained their popularity in 1881 and in 1885.
It has been computed240 that Mrs. Wood wrote not fewer than from three to four hundred short stories, every one
of them with a distinct and carefully worked-out plot, in addition to nearly forty long novels: a proof, if any were wanted, of the extreme fertility of her imagination and the facility of her pen.
It has, however, sometimes been wondered why Mrs. Henry Wood’s works should have attained241 so great a circulation when they are conspicuously242 wanting in the higher graces of literary style or intellectual attainment243. The reason appears to lie chiefly in certain qualities of her writings which appeal in an entirely creditable way to the heart and mind of the British public. Mrs. Wood’s stories, although sensational in plot, are purely domestic. They are concerned chiefly with the great middle-class of England, and she describes lower middle-class life with a zest244 and a conviction and a sincerity245 which we do not find in many modern writers, who are apt to sneer246 at the bourgeois247 habits and modes of thought found in so many English households. Now the bourgeoisie does not like to be sneered248 at. If it eats tripe249 and onions, and wears bright blue silk dresses, and rejoices in dinner-tea, it nevertheless considers its fashions to be as well worth serious attention as those of the Upper Ten. Mrs. Henry Wood never satirises, she only records. It is her fidelity to truth, to the smallest domestic detail, which has charmed and will continue to charm, a large circle of readers,
who are inclined perhaps to glory in the name of “Philistine.”
Then there is the loftier quality of a high, if somewhat conventional, moral tone. Mrs. Wood’s novels are emphatically on the side of purity, honesty, domestic life and happiness. There is no book of hers which does not breathe this spirit, or can be said to be anything but harmless. Her character-drawing has merit; but it is not to be wondered at, considering the number of works she produced, that she should repeat the same type over and over again with a certain monotonous250 effect. The sweet and gentle wife and mother, not too strong in character, but perfectly refined and conscientious251, such as Maria in the “Shadow of Ashlydyat”; the “perfect gentleman,” noble, upright, proud, generally with blue eyes and straight features, like Oswald Cray and Mr. Carlisle and Mr. North—these are characters with which we continually meet and of which, admirable in themselves as they are, we sometimes weary. But although the portraiture is not very subtle, it is on the whole faithful to life.
Then there is that especial group of Mrs. Wood’s stories already mentioned, into which an element of freshness, then somewhat unusual in fiction, is largely introduced. These are the stories which have much to do with boys and
boy-life—notably “The Channings,” “Roland Yorke,” “Orville College,” “Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles,” “Lady Grace,” and the “Johnny Ludlow” series. These books, less sensational in plot than many of Mrs. Wood’s novels, have been peculiarly successful, perhaps because the scenes and characters are largely drawn from real life. Mrs. Wood’s long residence at Worcester made her familiar with the life of the college boys, who haunt the precincts of the stately old cathedral, and she has introduced her knowledge of their pranks252 with very great effect. Her descriptions of the old city itself, of the streets, of the cloisters, of the outlying villages and byways, are remarkably253 accurate, and remind one of the use which Charles Dickens made, in the same way, of Rochester and its cathedral.
It is really extraordinary to see how large a part of Mrs. Wood’s work is concerned with Worcester, and how well she could render, when she chose, the dialogue of the country and the customs of its people. The reason is, of course, that these things are true; that she gives us in these books a part of her own experience, of her own life. Another group of her books is interesting for a similar reason—the novels in which she deals with business life, and the relations of employers to their men. Such are “A Life’s Secret,” which is the very interesting history of
a strike; “The Foggy Night at Offord,” “Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles,” and several of the “Johnny Ludlow” stories, where incidents of the manufacturing districts of England have been introduced with very good effect, Mrs. Wood’s own connection with glove manufacturers in Worcester having supplied her with ample materials for this kind of fiction. In “A Life’s Secret” there is an extremely clever picture of the lower type of workman, and some excellent sketches254 of poor people and of the misery255 they suffer during the strike and subsequent lockout.
The third class of Mrs. Wood’s books consists of what may be called works of pure imagination, with sometimes a slight touch of the romantic and supernatural—such as “The Shadow of Ashlydyat,” “St. Martin’s Eve,” “Lady Adelaide’s Oath,” “Lord Oakburn’s Daughters,” “George Canterbury’s Will,” etc. From the literary point of view these books are less worthy than the others, but they are particularly well constructed and ingenious. There are no loose ends, and Mrs. Wood’s skill in weaving a plot seems never to have diminished to the last day of her life. But her earlier and perhaps simpler work had more real value than even the books which display such great constructive skill. Mrs. Wood would possibly have taken a higher place amongst English novelists if she had avoided
mere sensation, and confined herself to what she could do well—namely, the faithful and realistic rendering256 of English middle class life. She has had, perhaps, more popularity than any novelist of the Victorian age; and her popularity is justified257 by the wholesomeness258 and purity of her moral tone, the ingenuity259 and sustained interest of her plots, and the quiet truthfulness260, in many cases, of her delineation of character.
Her faults are those of the class for which she wrote, her merits are theirs also. It is no small praise to say that she never revelled261 in dangerous situations, nor justified the wrong-doing of any of her characters. When one considers the amount of work that she produced, and the nature of that work, it is amazing to reflect on the variety of incident and character which she managed to secure. Her plots often turned upon sad or even tragic events, but the sadness and the tragedy were natural and simple. There was nothing unwholesome about her books. She will probably be read and remembered longer than many writers of a far higher literary standing262; and although fashions, even in fiction, have greatly changed since the days when “East Lynne” and “The Channings” made their mark, there is no doubt that they hold their place in the affections of many an English novel-reader. They neither aim high nor fall low: their gentle mediocrity
is soothing263; and they are not without those gleams of insight and intensity264 which reveal the gift of the born story-teller—a title to which Mrs. Henry Wood may well lay claim.
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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borough
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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bent
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culminated
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insanity
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homely
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judgment
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versatile
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possessed
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philosophical
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speculation
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embroidery
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compensated
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majestic
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coerced
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decided
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anonymously
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manorial
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advent
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embarked
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marred
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humble
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dissertation
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psychical
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apparitions
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clairvoyance
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phenomena
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perusal
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obsolete
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entirely
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versatility
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celebrated
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nun
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narrate
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narrated
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purely
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soliciting
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abridged
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peculiar
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allied
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curiously
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semblance
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drudge
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prosaic
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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52
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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53
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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54
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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55
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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56
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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57
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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58
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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59
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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60
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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61
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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62
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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63
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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64
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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65
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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66
redeems
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| 补偿( redeem的第三人称单数 )； 实践； 解救； 使…免受责难 | |
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67
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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68
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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69
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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70
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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71
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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72
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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73
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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74
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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75
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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76
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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77
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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78
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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79
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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80
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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81
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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82
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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83
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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84
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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85
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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86
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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87
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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88
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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89
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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90
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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91
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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92
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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93
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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94
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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95
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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96
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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97
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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98
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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99
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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100
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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101
stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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102
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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103
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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104
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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105
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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106
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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107
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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109
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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110
alienated
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|
| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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111
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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112
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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113
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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114
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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115
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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116
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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117
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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118
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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119
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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120
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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121
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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122
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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123
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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124
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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125
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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126
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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127
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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128
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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129
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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130
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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131
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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134
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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135
enchants
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| 使欣喜，使心醉( enchant的第三人称单数 )； 用魔法迷惑 | |
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136
contrives
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的第三人称单数 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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137
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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138
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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139
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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140
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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141
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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142
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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143
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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144
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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145
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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146
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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147
precursor
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| n.先驱者；前辈；前任；预兆；先兆 | |
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148
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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149
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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150
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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151
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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152
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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153
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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154
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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155
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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156
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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157
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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158
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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159
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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160
insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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161
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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162
raconteur
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| n.善讲故事者 | |
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163
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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164
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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165
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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166
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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167
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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168
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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169
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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170
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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171
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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172
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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173
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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174
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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175
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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176
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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177
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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178
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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179
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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180
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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181
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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182
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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183
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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184
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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185
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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186
prolixity
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| n.冗长，罗嗦 | |
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187
triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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188
mawkishness
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189
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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190
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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191
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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192
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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193
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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194
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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195
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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196
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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197
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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198
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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199
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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200
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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201
condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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202
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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203
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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204
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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205
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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206
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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207
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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208
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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209
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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210
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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211
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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213
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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214
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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216
glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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217
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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218
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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219
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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220
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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221
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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222
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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224
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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225
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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226
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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227
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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228
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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229
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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230
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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231
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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232
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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233
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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234
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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235
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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236
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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237
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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238
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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239
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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240
computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
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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242
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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243
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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244
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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245
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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246
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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247
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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248
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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249
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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250
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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251
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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252
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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253
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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254
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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255
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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256
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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257
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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258
wholesomeness
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| 卫生性 | |
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259
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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260
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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261
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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262
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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263
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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264
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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