The three friends sought the bield of the low wall old Edinburgh boys remember well, and sometimes miss now, as they struggle with the stout5 west-wind.
The three were curiously6 unlike each other. One, "a little man of feeble make, who would be unhappy if his pony7 got beyond a foot pace," slight, with "small, elegant features, hectic8 cheek, and soft hazel eyes, the index of the quick, sensitive spirit within, as if he had the warm heart of a woman, her genuine enthusiasm, and some of her weaknesses." Another, as unlike a woman as a man can be; homely9, almost common, in look and figure; his hat and his coat, and indeed his entire covering, worn to the quick, but all of the best material; what redeemed10 him from vulgarity and meanness were his eyes, deep set, heavily thatched, keen, hungry, shrewd, with a slumbering11 glow far in, as if they could be dangerous; a man to care nothing for at first glance, but, somehow, to give a second and not-forgetting look at. The third was the biggest of the three, and though lame12, nimble, and all rough and alive with power; had you met him anywhere else, you would say he was a Liddesdale store-farmer, come of gentle blood; "a stout, blunt carle," as he says of himself, with the swing and stride and the eye of a man of the hills,—a large, sunny, out-of-door air all about him. On his broad and somewhat stooping shoulders was set that head which, with Shakespeare's and Bonaparte's, is the best known in all the world.
He was in high spirits, keeping his companions and himself in roars of laughter, and every now and then seizing them, and stopping, that they might take their fill of the fun; there they stood shaking with laughter, "not an inch of their body free" from its grip. At George Street they parted, one to Rose Court, behind St. Andrew's Church, one to Albany Street, the other, our big and limping friend, to Castle Street.
We need hardly give their names. The first was William Erskine, afterwards Lord Kinnedder, chased out of the world by a calumny13, killed by its foul14 breath,—
"And at the touch of wrong, without a strife15,
Slipped in a moment out of life."
There is nothing in literature more beautiful or more pathetic than Scott's love and sorrow for this friend of his youth.
The second was William Clerk,—the Darsie Latimer of "Redgauntlet"; "a man," as Scott says, "of the most acute intellects and powerful apprehension," but of more powerful indolence, so as to leave the world with little more than the report of what he might have been,—a humorist as genuine, though not quite so savagely16 Swiftian as his brother Lord Eldon, neither of whom had much of that commonest and best of all the humors, called good.
The third we all know. What has he not done for every one of us? Who else ever, except Shakespeare, so diverted mankind, entertained and entertains a world so liberally, so wholesomely17? We are fain to say, not even Shakespeare, for his is something deeper than diversion, something higher than pleasure, and yet who would care to split this hair?
Had any one watched him closely before and after the parting, what a change he would see! The bright, broad laugh, the shrewd, jovial18 word, the man of the Parliament House and of the world, and, next step, moody19, the light of his eye withdrawn20, as if seeing things that were invisible; his shut mouth, like a child's, so impressionable, so innocent, so sad: he was now all within, as before he was all without; hence his brooding look. As the snow blattered in his face, he muttered, "How it raves21 and drifts! On-ding o' snaw,—ay, that's the word,—on-ding—" He was now at his own door, "Castle Street, No. 39." He opened the door, and went straight to his den2; that wondrous22 workshop, where, in one year, 1823, when he was fifty-two, he wrote "Peveril of the Peak," "Quentin Durward," and "St. Ronan's Well," besides much else. We once took the foremost of our novelists, the greatest, we would say, since Scott, into this room, and could not but mark the solemnizing effect of sitting where the great magician sat so often and so long, and looking out upon that little shabby bit of sky, and that back green where faithful Camp lies.1
1 This favorite dog "died about January, 1809, and was buried, in a fine moonlight night, in the little garden behind the house in Castle Street. My wife tells me she remembers the whole family in tears about the grave, as her father himself smoothed the turf above Camp with the saddest face she had ever seen. He had been engaged to dine abroad that day, but apologized on account of the death of 'a dear old friend.'"—Lockhart's Life of Scott.
He sat down in his large, green morocco elbow-chair, drew himself close to his table, and glowered23 and gloomed at his writing apparatus24, "a very handsome old box, richly carved, lined with crimson25 velvet26, and containing ink-bottles, taper-stand, etc., in silver, the whole in such order that it might have come from the silversmith's window half an hour before." He took out his paper, then, starting up angrily, said, "'Go spin, you jade27, go spin.' No, d—— it, it won't do:—
'My spinnin'-wheel is auld28 and stiff;
The rock o't wunna stand, sir;
To keep the temper-pin in tiff29
Employs ower aft my hand, sir.'
I am off the fang30.2 I can make nothing of 'Waverley' to-day; I'll awa' to Marjorie. Come wi' me, Maida, you thief." The great creature rose slowly, and the pair were off, Scott taking a maud (a plaid) with him. "White as a frosted plum-cake, by jingo!" said he, when he got to the street. Maida gambolled31 and whisked among the snow; and her master strode across to Young Street, and through it to 1 North Charlotte Street, to the house of his dear friend, Mrs. William Keith of Corstorphine Hill, niece of Mrs. Keith of Ravelston, of whom he said at her death, eight years after, "Much tradition, and that of the best, has died with this excellent old lady, one of the few persons whose spirits and cleanliness and freshness of mind and body made old age lovely and desirable."
2 Applied32 to a pump when it is dry and its valve has lost its "fang."
Sir Walter was in that house almost every day, and had a key, so in he and the hound went, shaking themselves in the lobby. "Marjorie! Marjorie!" shouted her friend, "where are ye, my bonnie wee croodlin doo?" In a moment a bright, eager child of seven was in his arms, and he was kissing her all over. Out came Mrs. Keith. "Come yer ways in, Wattie." "No, not now. I am going to take Marjorie wi' me, and you may come to your tea in Duncan Roy's sedan, and bring the bairn home in your lap." "Tak' Marjorie, and it on-ding o' snaw!" said Mrs. Keith. He said to himself, "On-ding—that's odd—that is the very word." "Hoot33, awa'! look here," and he displayed the corner of his plaid, made to hold lambs,—the true shepherd's plaid, consisting of two breadths sewed together, and uncut at one end, making a poke34 or cul de sac. "Tak' yer lamb," said she, laughing at the contrivance; and so the Pet was first well happit up, and then put, laughing silently, into the plaid neuk, and the shepherd strode off with his lamb,—Maida gambolling35 through the snow, and running races in her mirth.
Didn't he face "the angry airt," and make her bield his bosom36, and into his own room with her, and lock the door, and out with the warm, rosy37 little wifie, who took it all with great composure! There the two remained for three or more hours, making the house ring with their laughter; you can fancy the big man's and Maidie's laugh. Having made the fire cheery, he set her down in his ample chair, and, standing38 sheepishly before her, began to say his lesson, which happened to be, "Ziccotty, diccotty, dock, the mouse ran up the clock, the clock struck wan39, down the mouse ran, ziccotty, diccotty, dock." This done repeatedly till she was pleased, she gave him his new lesson, gravely and slowly, timing40 it upon her small fingers,—he saying it after her,—
"Wonery, twoery, tickery, seven;
Alibi42, crackaby, ten, and eleven;
Pin, pan, musky, dan;
Tweedle-um, twoddle-um,
Twenty-wan; eerie43, orie, ourie,
You, are, out."
He pretended to great difficulty, and she rebuked44 him with most comical gravity, treating him as a child. He used to say that when he came to Alibi Crackaby he broke down, and pin-Pan, Musky-dan, Tweedle-um, Twoddle-um made him roar with laughter. He said Musky-Dan especially was beyond endurance, bringing up an Irishman and his hat fresh from the Spice Islands and odoriferous Ind; she getting quite bitter in her displeasure at his ill behavior and stupidness.
Then he would read ballads45 to her in his own glorious way, the two getting wild with excitement over "Gil Morrice" or the "Baron47 of Smailholm"; and he would take her on his knee, and make her repeat Constance's speeches in "King John," till he swayed to and fro, sobbing48 his fill. Fancy the gifted little creature, like one possessed49, repeating,—
"For I am sick, and capable of fears,—
Oppressed with wrong, and, therefore, full of fears;
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears;
A woman, naturally born to fears."
"If thou, that bidst me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, and slanderous50 to thy mother's womb,—
Lame, foolish, crooked51, swart, prodigious—"
Or, drawing herself up "to the height of her great argument,"—
"I will instruct my sorrows to be proud,
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.
Here I and sorrow sit."
Scott used to say that he was amazed at her power over him, saying to Mrs. Keith, "She's the most extraordinary creature I ever met with, and her repeating of Shakespeare overpowers me as nothing else does."
Thanks to the little book whose title heads this paper, and thanks still more to the unforgetting sister of this dear child, who has much of the sensibility and fun of her who has been in her small grave these fifty and more years, we have now before us the letters and journals of Pet Marjorie: before us lies and gleams her rich brown hair, bright and sunny as if yesterday's, with the words on the paper, "Cut out in her last illness," and two pictures of her by her beloved Isabella, whom she worshipped; there are the faded old scraps52 of paper, hoarded53 still, over which her warm breath and her warm little heart had poured themselves; there is the old watermark, "Lingard, 1808." The two portraits are very like each other, but plainly done at different times; it is a chubby54, healthy face, deep-set, brooding eyes, as eager to tell what is going on within as to gather in all the glories from without; quick with the wonder and the pride of life: they are eyes that would not be soon satisfied with seeing; eyes that would devour55 their object, and yet childlike and fearless; and that is a mouth that will not be soon satisfied with love; it has a curious likeness56 to Scott's own, which has always appeared to us his sweetest, most mobile, and speaking feature.
There she is, looking straight at us as she did at him,—fearless, and full of love, passionate57, wild, wilful58, fancy's child. One cannot look at it without thinking of Wordsworth's lines on poor Hartley Coleridge:—
"O blessed vision, happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely59 wild,
I thought of thee with many fears,—
Of what might be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover! ne'er at rest
But when she sat within the touch of thee.
O too industrious60 folly61!
O vain and causeless melancholy62!
Nature will either end thee quite,
Or, lengthening63 out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flock."
And we can imagine Scott, when holding his warm, plump little playfellow in his arms, repeating that stately friend's lines:—
"Loving she is, and tractable64, though wild;
And Innocence65 hath privilege in her,
To dignify66 arch looks and laughing eyes
And feats67 of cunning, and the pretty round
Of trespasses68, affected69 to provoke
Mock chastisement70 and partnership71 in play.
And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth72
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity,
Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude73 to her
Is blithe74 society: she fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs."
But we will let her disclose herself. We need hardly say that all this is true, and that these letters are as really Marjorie's as was this light brown hair; indeed, you could as easily fabricate the one as the other.
There was an old servant—Jeanie Robertson—who was forty years in her grandfather's family. Marjorie Fleming, or, as she is called in the letters and by Sir Walter, Maidie, was the last child she kept. Jeanie's wages never exceeded ￡3 a year, and when she left service she had saved ￡40. She was devotedly75 attached to Maidie, rather despising and ill-using her sister Isabella,—a beautiful and gentle child. This partiality made Maidie apt at times to domineer over Isabella. "I mention this," writes her surviving sister, "for the purpose of telling you an instance of Maidie's generous justice. When only five years old, when walking in Raith grounds, the two children had run on before, and old Jeanie remembered they might come too near a dangerous mill-lade. She called to them to turn back. Maidie heeded76 her not, rushed all the faster on, and fell, and would have been lost, had her sister not pulled her back, saving her life, but tearing her clothes. Jeanie flew on Isabella to 'give it her' for spoiling her favorite's dress; Maidie rushed in between, crying out, 'Pay (whip) Maidjie as much as you like, and I'll not say one word; but touch Isy, and I'll roar like a bull!' Years after Maidie was resting in her grave, my mother used to take me to the place, and told the story always in the exact same words." This Jeanie must have been a character. She took great pride in exhibiting Maidie's brother William's Calvinistic acquirements when nineteen months old, to the officers of a militia77 regiment78 then quartered in Kirkcaldy. This performance was so amusing that it was often repeated, and the little theologian was presented by them with a cap and feathers. Jeanie's glory was "putting him through the carritch" (catechism) in broad Scotch79, beginning at the beginning with "Wha made ye, ma bonnie man?" For the correctness of this and the three next replies, Jeanie had no anxiety, but the tone changed to menace, and the closed nieve (fist) was shaken in the child's face as she demanded, "Of what are you made?" "DIRT," was the answer uniformly given. "Wull ye never learn to say dust, ye thrawn deevil?" with a cuff80 from the opened hand, was the as inevitable81 rejoinder.
Here is Maidie's first letter, before she was six. The spelling is unaltered, and there are no "commoes."
"MY DEAR ISA,—I now sit down to answer all your kind and beloved letters which you was so good as to write to me. This is the first time I ever wrote a letter in my Life. There are a great many Girls in the Square, and they cry just like a pig when we are under the painfull necessity of putting it to Death. Miss Potune, a Lady of my acquaintance, praises me dreadfully. I repeated something out of Dean Swift, and she said I was fit for the stage, and you may think I was primmed83 up with majestick Pride, but upon my word I felt myselfe turn a little birsay,—birsay is a word which is a word that William composed which is as you may suppose a little enraged85. This horrid86 fat simpliton says that my Aunt is beautifull, which is intirely impossible, for that is not her nature."
What a peppery little pen we wield87! What could that have been out of the Sardonic88 Dean? What other child of that age would have used "beloved" as she does? This power of affection, this faculty89 of beloving, and wild hunger to be beloved, comes out more and more. She perilled90 her all upon it, and it may have been as well—we know, indeed, that it was far better—for her that this wealth of love was so soon withdrawn to its one only infinite Giver and Receiver. This must have been the law of her earthly life. Love was indeed "her Lord and King"; and it was perhaps well for her that she found so soon that her and our only Lord and King Himself is Love.
Here are bits from her Diary at Braehead: "The day of my existence here has been delightful91 and enchanting92. On Saturday I expected no less than three well-made Bucks94, the names of whom is here advertised. Mr. Geo. Crakey (Craigie), and Wm. Keith, and Jn. Keith,—the first is the funniest of every one of them. Mr. Crakey and I walked to Craky-hall (Craigiehall), hand in hand in Innocence and matitation (meditation95) sweet thinking on the kind love which flows in our tender-hearted mind which is overflowing96 with majestic84 pleasure no one was ever so polite to me in the hole state of my existence. Mr. Craky you must know is a great Buck93, and pretty good-looking.
"I am at Ravelston enjoying nature's fresh air. The birds are singing sweetly, the calf97 doth frisk, and nature shows her glorious face."
Here is a confession98: "I confess I have been very more like a little young divil than a creature for when Isabella went up stairs to teach me religion and my multiplication99 and to be good and all my other lessons I stamped with my foot and threw my new hat which she had made on the ground and was sulky and was dreadfully passionate, but she never whiped me but said Marjory go into another room and think what a great crime you are committing letting your temper git the better of you. But I went so sulkily that the Devil got the better of me but she never never never whips me so that I think I would be the better of it and the next time that I behave ill I think she should do it for she never never does it.... Isabella has given me praise for checking my temper for I was sulky even when she was kneeling an hole hour teaching me to write."
Our poor little wifie,—she has no doubts of the personality of the Devil! "Yesterday I behave extremely ill in God's most holy church for I would never attend myself nor let Isabella attend which was a great crime for she often, often tells me that when to or three are geathered together God is in the midst of them, and it was the very same Divil that tempted101 Job that tempted me I am sure; but he resisted Satan though he had boils and many many other misfortunes which I have escaped.... I am now going to tell you the horible and wretched plaege (plague) that my multiplication gives me you can't conceive it the most Devilish thing is 8 times 8 and 7 times 7 it is what nature itself cant103 endure."
This is delicious; and what harm is there in her "Devilish"? It is strong language merely; even old Rowland Hill used to say "he grudged104 the Devil those rough and ready words." "I walked to that delightful place Craky-hall with a delightful young man beloved by all his friends espacially by me his loveress, but I must not talk any more about him for Isa said it is not proper for to speak of gentalmen but I will never forget him!... I am very very glad that satan has not given me boils and many other misfortunes—In the holy bible these words are written that the Devil goes like a roaring lyon in search of his pray but the lord lets us escape from him but we" (pauvre petite!) "do not strive with this awfull Spirit.... To-day I pronunced a word which should never come out of a lady's lips it was that I called John a Impudent105 Bitch. I will tell you what I think made me in so bad a humor is I got one or two of that bad bad sina (senna) tea to-day,"—a better excuse for bad humor and bad language than most.
She has been reading the Book of Esther: "It was a dreadful thing that Haman was hanged on the very gallows106 which he had prepared for Mordeca to hang him and his ten sons thereon and it was very wrong and cruel to hang his sons for they did not commit the crime; but then Jesus was not then come to teach us to be merciful." This is wise and beautiful,—has upon it the very dew of youth and of holiness. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings He perfects His praise.
"This is Saturday and I am very glad of it because I have play half the Day and I get money too but alas107 I owe Isabella 4 pence for I am finned108 2 pence whenever I bite my nails. Isabella is teaching me to make simme colings nots of interrigations peorids commoes, etc.... As this is Sunday I will meditate109 upon Senciable and Religious subjects. First I should be very thankful I am not a begger."
This amount of meditation and thankfulness seems to have been all she was able for.
"I am going to-morrow to a delightfull place, Braehead by name, belonging to Mrs. Crraford, where there is ducks cocks hens bubblyjocks 2 dogs 2 cats and swine which is delightful. I think it is shocking to think that the dog and cat should bear them" (this is a meditation physiological), "and they are drowned after all. I would rather have a man-dog than a woman-dog, because they do not bear like women-dogs; it is a hard case—it is shocking. I cam here to enjoy natures delightful breath it is sweeter than a fial (phial) of rose oil."
Braehead is the farm the historical Jock Howison asked and got from our gay James the Fifth, "the gudeman o' Ballengiech," as a reward for the services of his flail110, when the King had the worst of it at Cramond Brig with the gypsies. The farm is unchanged in size from that time, and still in the unbroken line of the ready and victorious111 thrasher. Braehead is held on the condition of the possessor being ready to present the King with a ewer112 and basin to wash his hands, Jock having done this for his unknown king after the splore, and when George the Fourth came to Edinburgh this ceremony was performed in silver at Holyrood. It is a lovely neuk this Braehead, preserved almost as it was 200 years ago. "Lot and his wife," mentioned by Maidie,—two quaintly113 cropped yew-trees,—still thrive, the burn runs as it did in her time, and sings the same quiet tune82,—as much the same and as different as Now and Then. The house full of old family relics114 and pictures, the sun shining on them through the small deep windows with their plate glass; and there, blinking at the sun, and chattering115 contentedly117, is a parrot, that might, for its looks of eld, have been in the ark, and domineered over and deaved the dove. Everything about the place is old and fresh.
This is beautiful: "I am very sorry to say that I forgot God—that is to say I forgot to pray to-day and Isabella told me that I should be thankful that God did not forget me—if he did, O what would become of me if I was in danger and God not friends with me—I must go to unquenchable fire and if I was tempted to sin—how could I resist it O no I will never do it again—no no—if I can help it!" (Canny wee wifie!) "My religion is greatly falling off because I dont pray with so much attention when I am saying my prayers, and my charecter is lost among the Braehead people. I hope I will be religious again—but as for regaining118 my charecter I despare for it." (Poor little "habit and repute"!)
Her temper, her passion, and her "badness" are almost daily confessed and deplored119: "I will never again trust to my own power, for I see that I cannot be good without God's assistance,—I will not trust in my own selfe, and Isa's health will be quite ruined by me,—it will indeed." "Isa has giving me advice, which is, that when I feal Satan beginning to tempt102 me, that I flea120 him and he would flea me." "Remorse121 is the worst thing to bear, and I am afraid that I will fall a marter to it."
Poor dear little sinner! Here comes the world again: "In my travels I met with a handsome lad named Charles Balfour Esq., and from him I got ofers of marage—offers of marage, did I say? Nay122 plenty heard me." A fine scent123 for "breach124 of promise"!
This is abrupt125 and strong: "The Divil is curced and all his works. 'Tis a fine work Newton on the profecies. I wonder if there is another book of poems comes near the Bible. The Divil always girns at the sight of the Bible." "Miss Potune" (her "simpliton" friend) "is very fat; she pretends to be very learned. She says she saw a stone that dropt from the skies; but she is a good Christian126." Here comes her views on church government: "An Annibabtist is a thing I am not a member of—I am a Pisplekan (Episcopalian) just now, and" (O you little Laodicean and Latitudinarian!) "a Prisbeteran at Kirkcaldy!"—(Blandula! Vagula! coelum et animum mutas qu? trans mare127 (i.e. trans Bodotriam)—curris!)—"my native town." "Sentiment is not what I am acquainted with as yet, though I wish it, and should like to practise it." (!) "I wish I had a great, great deal of gratitude128 in my heart, in all my body." "There is a new novel published, named Self-Control" (Mrs. Brunton's)—"a very good maxim129 forsooth!" This is shocking: "Yesterday a marrade man, named Mr. John Balfour, Esq., offered to kiss me, and offered to marry me, though the man" (a fine directness this!) "was espused, and his wife was present and said he must ask her permission; but he did not. I think he was ashamed and confounded before 3 gentelman—Mr. Jobson and 2 Mr. Kings." "Mr. Banester's" (Bannister's) "Budjet is to-night; I hope it will be a good one. A great many authors have expressed themselves too sentimentally131." You are right, Marjorie. "A Mr. Burns writes a beautiful song on Mr. Cunhaming, whose wife desarted him—truly it is a most beautiful one." "I like to read the Fabulous132 historys, about the histerys of Robin133, Dickey, flapsay, and Peccay, and it is very amusing, for some were good birds and others bad, but Peccay was the most dutiful and obedient to her parients." "Thomson is a beautiful author, and Pope, but nothing to Shakespear, of which I have a little knolege. 'Macbeth' is a pretty composition, but awful one." "The Newgate Calender is very instructive." (!) "A sailor called here to say farewell; it must be dreadful to leave his native country when he might get a wife; or perhaps me, for I love him very much. But O I forgot, Isabella forbid me to speak about love." This antiphlogistic regimen and lesson is ill to learn by our Maidie, for here she sins again: "Love is a very papithatick thing" (it is almost a pity to correct this into pathetic), "as well as troublesome and tiresome—but O Isabella forbid me to speak of it." Here are her reflections on a pineapple: "I think the price of a pine-apple is very dear: it is a whole bright goulden guinea, that might have sustained a poor family." Here is a new vernal simile134: "The hedges are sprouting135 like chicks from the eggs when they are newly hatched or, as the vulgar say, clacked." "Doctor Swift's works are very funny; I got some of them by heart." "Moreheads sermons are I hear much praised, but I never read sermons of any kind; but I read novelettes and my Bible, and I never forget it, or my prayers." Bravo, Marjorie!
She seems now, when still about six, to have broken out into song:—
"EPHIBOL (EPIGRAM OR EPITAPH,—WHO KNOWS WHICH?)
ON MY DEAR LOVE, ISABELLA.
"Here lies sweet Isabel in bed,
With a night-cap on her head;
Her skin is soft, her face is fair,
And she has very pretty hair:
She and I in bed lies nice,
And undisturbed by rats or mice.
She is disgusted with Mr. Worgan,
Though he plays upon the organ.
Her nails are neat, her teeth are white;
Her eyes are very, very bright.
In a conspicuous136 town she lives,
And to the poor her money gives.
Here ends sweet Isabella's story,
And may it be much to her glory!"
Here are some bits at random:—
"Of summer I am very fond,
And love to bathe into a pond:
The look of sunshine dies away,
And will not let me out to play.
I love the morning's sun to spy
Glittering through the casement's eye;
The rays of light are very sweet,
And puts away the taste of meat.
The balmy breeze comes down from heaven,
And makes us like for to be living."
"The casawary is an curious bird, and so is the gigantic crane, and the pelican137 of the wilderness138, whose mouth holds a bucket of fish and water. Fighting is what ladies is not qualyfied for, they would not make a good figure in battle or in a duel139. Alas! we females are of little use to our country. The history of all the malcontents as ever was hanged is amusing." Still harping140 on the Newgate Calendar!
"Braehead is extremely pleasant to me by the companie of swine, geese, cocks, etc., and they are the delight of my soul."
"I am going to tell you of a melancholy story. A young turkie of 2 or 3 months old, would you believe it, the father broke its leg, and he killed another! I think he ought to be transported or hanged."
"Queen Street is a very gay one, and so is Princes Street, for all the lads and lasses, besides bucks and beggars parade there."
"I should like to see a play very much, for I never saw one in all my life, and don't believe I ever shall; but I hope I can be content without going to one. I can be quite happy without my desire being granted."
"Some days ago Isabella had a terrible fit of the toothake, and she walked with a long night-shift at dead of night like a ghost, and I thought she was one. She prayed for nature's sweet restorer—balmy sleep—but did not get it—a ghostly figure indeed she was, enough to make a saint tremble. It made me quiver and shake from top to toe. Superstition141 is a very mean thing and should be despised and shunned142."
Here is her weakness and her strength again: "In the love-novels all the heroines are very desperate. Isabella will not allow me to speak about lovers and heroins, and 'tis too refined for my taste." "Miss Egward's (Edgeworth's) tails are very good, particularly some that are very much adapted for youth (!) as Laz Laurance and Tarelton, False Keys, etc. etc."
"Tom Jones and Grey's Elegey in a country churchyard are both excellent, and much spoke143 of by both sex, particularly by the men." Are our Marjories nowadays better or worse because they cannot read Tom Jones unharmed? More better than worse; but who among them can repeat Gray's Lines on a distant prospect144 of Eton College as could our Maidie?
Here is some more of her prattle145: "I went into Isabella's bed to make her smile like the Genius Demedicus" (the Venus de Medicis) "or the statute146 in an ancient Greece, but she fell asleep in my very face, at which my anger broke forth147, so that I awoke her from a comfortable nap. All was now hushed up again, but again my anger burst forth at her biding148 me get up."
She begins thus loftily,—
"Death the righteous love to see,
But from it doth the wicked flee."
Then suddenly breaks off as if with laughter,—
"I am sure they fly as fast as their legs can carry them!"
"There is a thing I love to see,—
That is, our monkey catch a flee!"
"I love in Isa's bed to lie,—
Oh, such a joy and luxury!
The bottom of the bed I sleep,
And with great care within I creep;
Oft I embrace her feet of lillys,
But she has goton all the pillys.
Her neck I never can embrace,
But I do hug her feet in place."
How childish and yet how strong and free is her use of words!—"I lay at the foot of the bed because Isabella said I disturbed her by continial fighting and kicking, but I was very dull, and continially at work reading the Arabian Nights, which I could not have done if I had slept at the top. I am reading the Mysteries of Udolpho. I am much interested in the fate of poor, poor Emily."
Here is one of her swains:—
"Very soft and white his cheeks;
His hair is red, and grey his breeks;
His tooth is like the daisy fair:
His only fault is in his hair."
This is a higher flight:—
"DEDICATED149 TO MRS. H. CRAWFORD BY THE AUTHOR, M. F.
"Three turkeys fair their last have breathed,
And now this world forever leaved;
Their father, and their mother too,
They sigh and weep as well as you:
Indeed, the rats their bones have crunched150;
Into eternity151 theire laanched.
A direful death indeed they had,
As wad put any parent mad;
But she was more than usual calm:
She did not give a single dam."
This last word is saved from all sin by its tender age, not to speak of the want of the n. We fear "she" is the abandoned mother, in spite of her previous sighs and tears.
"Isabella says when we pray we should pray fervently152, and not rattel over a prayer,—for that we are kneeling at the footstool of our Lord and Creator, who saves us from eternal damnation, and from unquestionable fire and brimston."
She has a long poem on Mary Queen of Scots:—
"Queen Mary was much loved by all,
Both by the great and by the small;
But hark! her soul to heaven doth rise,
And I suppose she has gained a prize;
For I do think she would not go
Into the awful place below.
There is a thing that I must tell,—
Elizabeth went to fire and hell!
He who would teach her to be civil,
It must be her great friend, the divil!"
She hits off Darnley well:—
"A noble's son,—a handsome lad,—
By some queer way or other, had
Got quite the better of her heart;
With him she always talked apart:
Silly he was, but very fair;
A greater buck was not found there."
"By some queer way or other"; is not this the general case and the mystery, young ladies and gentlemen? Goethe's doctrine153 of "elective affinities154" discovered by our Pet Maidie.
SONNET155 TO A MONKEY.
"O lively, O most charming pug!
Thy graceful156 air and heavenly mug!
The beauties of his mind do shine,
And every bit is shaped and fine.
Your teeth are whiter than the snow;
Your a great buck, your a great beau;
Your eyes are of so nice a shape,
More like a Christian's than an ape;
Your cheek is like the rose's blume;
Your hair is like the raven's plume157;
His nose's cast is of the Roman:
He is a very pretty woman.
I could not get a rhyme for Roman,
So was obliged to call him woman."
This last joke is good. She repeats it when writing of James the Second being killed at Roxburgh:—
"He was killed by a cannon158 splinter,
Quite in the middle of the winter;
Perhaps it was not at that time,
But I can get no other rhyme!"
Here is one of her last letters, dated Kirkcaldy, 12th October, 1811. You can see how her nature is deepening and enriching:—
"MY DEAR MOTHER,—You will think that I entirely159 forget you but I assure you that you are greatly mistaken. I think of you always and often sigh to think of the distance between us two loving creatures of nature. We have regular hours for all our occupations first at 7 o'clock we go to the dancing and come home at 8 we then read our Bible and get our repeating, and then play till ten, then we get our music till 11 when we get our writing and accounts we sew from 12 till 1 after which I get my gramer, and then work till five. At 7 we come and knit till 8 when we dont go to the dancing. This is an exact description. I must take a hasty farewell to her whom I love, reverence160 and doat on and who I hope thinks the same of
"MARJORY FLEMING.
"P.S.—An old pack of cards (!) would be very exeptible."
This other is a month earlier:—
"MY DEAR LITTLE MAMA,—I was truly happy to hear that you were all well. We are surrounded with measles161 at present on every side, for the Herons got it, and Isabella Heron was near Death's Door, and one night her father lifted her out of bed, and she fell down as they thought lifeless. Mr. Heron said, 'That lassie's deed noo,'—'I'm no deed yet.' She then threw up a big worm nine inches and a half long. I have begun dancing, but am not very fond of it, for the boys strikes and mocks me.—I have been another night at the dancing; I like it better. I will write to you as often as I can; but I am afraid not every week. I long for you with the longings162 of a child to embrace you,—to fold you in my arms. I respect you with all the respect due to a mother. You dont know how I love you. So I shall remain, your loving child,—M. FLEMING."
What rich involution of love in the words marked! Here are some lines to her beloved Isabella, in July, 1811:—
"There is a thing that I do want,—
With you these beauteous walks to haunt;
We would be happy if you would
Try to come over if you could.
Then I would all quite happy be
Now and for all eternity.
My mother is so very sweet,
And checks my appetite to eat;
My father shows us what to do;
But O I'm sure that I want you.
I have no more of poetry;
O Isa do remember me,
And try to love your Marjory."
In a letter from "Isa" to
"Miss Muff Maidie Marjory Fleming,
favored by Rare Rear-Admiral Fleming,"
she says: "I long much to see you, and talk over all our old stories together, and to hear you read and repeat. I am pining for my old friend Cesario, and poor Lear, and wicked Richard. How is the dear Multiplication table going on? Are you still as much attached to 9 times 9 as you used to be?"
But this dainty, bright thing is about to flee,—to come "quick to confusion." The measles she writes of seized her, and she died on the 19th of December, 1811. The day before her death, Sunday, she sat up in bed, worn and thin, her eye gleaming as with the light of a coming world, and with a tremulous, old voice repeated the following lines by Burns,—heavy with the shadow of death, and lit with the fantasy of the judgment-seat,—the publican's prayer in paraphrase163:—
"Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?—
Some drops of joy, with draughts164 of ill between,
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid100 renewing storms?
Is it departing pangs165 my soul alarms?
Or Death's unlovely, dreary166, dark abode167?
For guilt168, for GUILT, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
"Fain would I say, Forgive my foul offence,
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But should my Author health again dispense169,
Again I might forsake170 fair virtue's way,
Again in folly's path might go astray,
Again exalt171 the brute172 and sink the man.
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan,
Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to temptation ran?
"O thou great Governor of all below,
If I might dare a lifted eye to thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult173 of the raging sea;
With that controlling power assist even me
Those headstrong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be
To rule their torrent174 in the allowed line;
O, aid me with thy help, OMNIPOTENCE175 DIVINE."
It is more affecting than we care to say to read her mother's and Isabella Keith's letters written immediately after her death. Old and withered176, tattered177 and pale, they are now: but when you read them, how quick, how throbbing178 with life and love! how rich in that language of affection which only women and Shakespeare and Luther can use,—that power of detaining the soul over the beloved object and its loss!
"K. PHILIP (to CONSTANCE).
You are as fond of grief as of your child.
CONSTANCE.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
Then I have reason to be fond of grief."
What variations cannot love play on this one string!
In her first letter to Miss Keith, Mrs. Fleming says of her dead Maidie: "Never did I behold179 so beautiful an object. It resembled the finest waxwork180. There was in the countenance181 an expression of sweetness and serenity182 which seemed to indicate that the pure spirit had anticipated the joys of heaven ere it quitted the mortal frame. To tell you what your Maidie said of you would fill volumes; for you was the constant theme of her discourse183, the subject of her thoughts, and ruler of her actions. The last time she mentioned you was a few hours before all sense save that of suffering was suspended, when she said to Dr. Johnstone, 'If you let me out at the New Year, I will be quite contented116.' I asked her what made her so anxious to get out then. 'I want to purchase a New Year's gift for Isa Keith with the sixpence you gave me for being patient in the measles; and I would like to choose it myself.' I do not remember her speaking afterwards, except to complain of her head, till just before she expired, when she articulated, 'O mother! mother!'"
Do we make too much of this little child, who has been in her grave in Abbotshall Kirkyard these fifty and more years? We may of her cleverness,—not of her affectionateness, her nature. What a picture the animosa infans gives us of herself,—her vivacity184, her passionateness185, her precocious186 love-making, her passion for nature, for swine, for all living things, her reading, her turn for expression, her satire187, her frankness, her little sins and rages, her great repentances! We don't wonder Walter Scott carried her off in the neuk of his plaid, and played himself with her for hours.
The year before she died, when in Edinburgh, she was at a Twelfth Night Supper at Scott's, in Castle Street. The company had all come,—all but Marjorie. Scott's familiars, whom we all know, were there,—all were come but Marjorie; and all were dull because Scott was dull. "Where's that bairn? what can have come over her? I'll go myself and see." And he was getting up, and would have gone; when the bell rang, and in came Duncan Roy and his henchman Tougald, with the sedan chair, which was brought right into the lobby, and its top raised. And there, in its darkness and dingy188 old cloth, sat Maidie in white, her eyes gleaming, and Scott bending over her in ecstasy189,—"hung over her enamored." "Sit ye there, my dautie, till they all see you"; and forthwith he brought them all. You can fancy the scene. And he lifted her up and marched to his seat with her on his stout shoulder, and set her down beside him; and then began the night, and such a night! Those who knew Scott best said, that night was never equalled; Maidie and he were the stars; and she gave them Constance's speeches and "Helvellyn," the ballad46 then much in vogue190, and all her répertoire,—Scott showing her off, and being ofttimes rebuked by her for his intentional191 blunders.
We are indebted for the following to her sister: "Her birth was 15th January, 1803; her death, 19th December, 1811. I take this from her Bibles.3 I believe she was a child of robust192 health, of much vigor193 of body, and beautifully formed arms, and, until her last illness, never was an hour in bed.
3 "Her Bible is before me; a pair, as then called; the faded marks are just as she placed them. There is one at David's lament194 over Jonathan."
"I have to ask you to forgive my anxiety in gathering195 up the fragments of Marjorie's last days, but I have an almost sacred feeling to all that pertains196 to her. You are quite correct in stating that measles were the cause of her death. My mother was struck by the patient quietness manifested by Marjorie during this illness, unlike her ardent197, impulsive198 nature; but love and poetic199 feeling were unquenched. When Dr. Johnstone rewarded her submissiveness with a sixpence, the request speedily followed that she might get out ere New Year's day came. When asked why she was so desirous of getting out, she immediately rejoined, 'O, I am so anxious to buy something with my sixpence for my dear Isa Keith.' Again, when lying very still, her mother asked her if there was anything she wished: 'O yes! if you would just leave the room-door open a wee bit, and play "The Land o' the Leal," and I will lie and think, and enjoy myself' (this is just as stated to me by her mother and mine). Well, the happy day came, alike to parents and child, when Marjorie was allowed to come forth from the nursery to the parlor200. It was Sabbath evening, and after tea. My father, who idolized this child, and never afterwards in my hearing mentioned her name, took her in his arms; and, while walking her up and down the room, she said, 'Father, I will repeat something to you; what would you like?' He said, 'Just choose yourself, Maidie.' She hesitated for a moment between the paraphrase, 'Few are thy days, and full of woe41,' and the lines of Burns already quoted, but decided201 on the latter, a remarkable202 choice for a child. The repeating these lines seemed to stir up the depths of feeling in her soul. She asked to be allowed to write a poem; there was a doubt whether it would be right to allow her, in case of hurting her eyes. She pleaded earnestly, 'Just this once'; the point was yielded, her slate203 was given her, and with great rapidity she wrote an address of fourteen lines, 'to her loved cousin on the author's recovery,' her last work on earth;—
'Oh! Isa, pain did visit me,
I was at the last extremity204;
How often did I think of you,
I wished your graceful form to view,
To clasp you in my weak embrace,
Indeed I thought I'd run my race:
Good care, I'm sure, was of me taken,
But still indeed I was much shaken,
At last I daily strength did gain,
And oh! at last, away went pain;
At length the doctor thought I might
Stay in the parlor all the night;
I now continue so to do,
Farewell to Nancy and to you.'
"She went to bed apparently205 well, awoke in the middle of the night with the old cry of woe to a mother's heart, 'My head, my head!' Three days of the dire130 malady206, 'water in the head,' followed, and the end came."
"Soft, silken primrose207, fading timelessly."
It is needless, it is impossible, to add anything to this: the fervor208, the sweetness, the flush of poetic ecstasy, the lovely and glowing eye, the perfect nature of that bright and warm intelligence, that darling child,—Lady Nairne's words, and the old tune, stealing up from the depths of the human heart, deep calling unto deep, gentle and strong like the waves of the great sea hushing themselves to sleep in the dark; the words of Burns touching209 the kindred chord, her last numbers "wildly sweet" traced with thin and eager fingers, already touched by the last enemy and friend,—moriens canit,—and that love which is so soon to be her everlasting210 light, is her song's burden to the end.
"She set as sets the morning star, which goes
Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides
Obscured among the tempests of the sky,
But melts away into the light of heaven."
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收听单词发音
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1
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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3
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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6
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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7
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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8
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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9
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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10
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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11
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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12
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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13
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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14
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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15
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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16
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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17
wholesomely
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| 卫生地，有益健康地 | |
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18
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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19
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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20
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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21
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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22
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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23
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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25
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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26
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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27
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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28
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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29
tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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30
fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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31
gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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33
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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34
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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35
gambolling
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的现在分词 ) | |
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36
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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37
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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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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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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40
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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41
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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42
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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43
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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44
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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47
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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48
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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49
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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50
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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51
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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52
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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53
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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55
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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56
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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57
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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58
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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61
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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62
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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63
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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65
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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66
dignify
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| vt.使有尊严；使崇高；给增光 | |
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67
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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68
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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69
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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70
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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71
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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72
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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73
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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74
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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75
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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76
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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78
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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79
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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80
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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81
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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82
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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83
primmed
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| v.循规蹈矩的( prim的过去式和过去分词 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经；循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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84
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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85
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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86
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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87
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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88
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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89
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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90
perilled
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| 置…于危险中（peril的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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91
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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92
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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93
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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94
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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95
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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96
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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97
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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98
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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99
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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100
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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101
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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102
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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103
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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104
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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105
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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106
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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107
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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108
finned
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| adj.有鳍的，有鳍状物的 | |
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109
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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110
flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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111
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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112
ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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113
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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114
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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115
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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116
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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117
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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118
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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119
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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121
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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122
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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123
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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124
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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125
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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126
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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127
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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128
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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129
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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130
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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131
sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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132
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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133
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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134
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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135
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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136
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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137
pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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138
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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139
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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140
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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141
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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142
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
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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144
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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145
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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146
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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147
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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148
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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149
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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150
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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151
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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152
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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153
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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154
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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155
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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156
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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157
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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158
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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159
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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160
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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161
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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162
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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163
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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164
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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165
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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166
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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167
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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168
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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169
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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170
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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171
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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172
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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173
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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174
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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175
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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176
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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177
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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178
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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179
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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180
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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181
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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182
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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183
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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184
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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185
passionateness
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186
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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187
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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188
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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189
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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190
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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191
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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192
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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195
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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pertains
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| 关于( pertain的第三人称单数 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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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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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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202
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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203
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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204
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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208
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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