IN the lower old-fashioned part of the city, in a narrow street—almost a lane—once filled with demure-looking dwellings1, but now chiefly with immense lofty warehouses2 of foreign importers; and not far from the corner where the lane intersected with a very considerable but contracted thoroughfare for merchants and their clerks, and their carmen and porters; stood at this period a rather singular and ancient edifice3, a relic4 of the more primitive5 time. The material was a grayish stone, rudely cut and masoned into walls of surprising thickness and strength; along two of which walls—the side ones—were distributed as many rows of arched and stately windows. A capacious, square, and wholly unornamented tower rose in front to twice the height of the body of the church; three sides of this tower were pierced with small and narrow apertures6. Thus far, in its external aspect, the building—now more than a century old,—sufficiently attested7 for what purpose it had originally been founded. In its rear, was a large and lofty plain brick structure, with its front to the rearward street, but its back presented to the back of the church, leaving a small, flagged, and quadrangular vacancy8 between. At the sides of this quadrangle, three stories of homely9 brick colonnades10 afforded covered communication between the ancient church, and its less elderly adjunct. A dismantled11, rusted12, and forlorn old railing of iron fencing in a small courtyard in front of the rearward building, seemed to hint, that the latter had usurped13 an unoccupied space formerly14 sacred as the old church's burial inclosure. Such a fancy would have been entirely15 true. Built when that part of the city was devoted16 to private residences, and not to warehouses and offices as now, the old Church of the Apostles had had its days of sanctification and grace; but the tide of change and progress had rolled clean through its broad-aisle and side-aisles, and swept by far the greater part of its congregation two or three miles up town. Some stubborn and elderly old merchants and accountants, lingered awhile among its dusty pews, listening to the exhortations17 of a faithful old pastor18, who, sticking to his post in this flight of his congregation, still propped19 his half-palsied form in the worm-eaten pulpit, and occasionally pounded—though now with less vigorous hand—the moth-eaten covering of its desk. But it came to pass, that this good old clergyman died; and when the gray-headed and bald-headed remaining merchants and accountants followed his coffin20 out of the broad-aisle to see it reverently21 interred22; then that was the last time that ever the old edifice witnessed the departure of a regular worshiping assembly from its walls. The venerable merchants and accountants held a meeting, at which it was finally decided23, that, hard and unwelcome as the necessity might be, yet it was now no use to disguise the fact, that the building could no longer be efficiently24 devoted to its primitive purpose. It must be divided into stores; cut into offices; and given for a roost to the gregarious25 lawyers. This intention was executed, even to the making offices high up in the tower; and so well did the thing succeed, that ultimately the church-yard was invaded for a supplemental edifice, likewise to be promiscuously26 rented to the legal crowd. But this new building very much exceeded the body of the church in height. It was some seven stories; a fearful pile of Titanic27 bricks, lifting its tiled roof almost to a level with the top of the sacred tower.
In this ambitious erection the proprietors28 went a few steps, or rather a few stories, too far. For as people would seldom willingly fall into legal altercations29 unless the lawyers were always very handy to help them; so it is ever an object with lawyers to have their offices as convenient as feasible to the street; on the ground-floor, if possible, without a single acclivity of a step; but at any rate not in the seventh story of any house, where their clients might be deterred30 from employing them at all, if they were compelled to mount seven long flights of stairs, one over the other, with very brief landings, in order even to pay their preliminary retaining fees. So, from some time after its throwing open, the upper stories of the less ancient attached edifice remained almost wholly without occupants; and by the forlorn echoes of their vacuities, right over the head of the business-thriving legal gentlemen below, must—to some few of them at least—have suggested unwelcome similitudes, having reference to the crowded state of their basement-pockets, as compared with the melancholy31 condition of their attics32;—alas! full purses and empty heads! This dreary33 posture34 of affairs, however, was at last much altered for the better, by the gradual filling up of the vacant chambers35 on high, by scores of those miscellaneous, bread-and-cheese adventurers, and ambiguously professional nondescripts in very genteel but shabby black, and unaccountable foreign-looking fellows in blue spectacles; who, previously37 issuing from unknown parts of the world, like storks38 in Holland, light on the eaves, and in the attics of lofty old buildings in most large sea-port towns. Here they sit and talk like magpies39; or descending40 in quest of improbable dinners, are to be seen drawn41 up along the curb42 in front of the eating-houses, like lean rows of broken-hearted pelicans43 on a beach; their pockets loose, hanging down and flabby, like the pelican's pouches44 when fish are hard to be caught. But these poor, penniless devils still strive to make ample amends45 for their physical forlornness, by resolutely46 reveling in the region of blissful ideals.
They are mostly artists of various sorts; painters, or sculptors47, or indigent48 students, or teachers of languages, or poets, or fugitive49 French politicians, or German philosophers. Their mental tendencies, however heterodox at times, are still very fine and spiritual upon the whole; since the vacuity50 of their exchequers51 leads them to reject the coarse materialism52 of Hobbs, and incline to the airy exaltations of the Berkelyan philosophy. Often groping in vain in their pockets, they can not but give in to the Descartian vortices; while the abundance of leisure in their attics (physical and figurative), unite with the leisure in their stomachs, to fit them in an eminent53 degree for that undivided attention indispensable to the proper digesting of the sublimated54 Categories of Kant; especially as Kant (can't) is the one great palpable fact in their pervadingly impalpable lives. These are the glorious paupers55, from whom I learn the profoundest mysteries of things; since their very existence in the midst of such a terrible precariousness56 of the commonest means of support, affords a problem on which many speculative57 nutcrackers have been vainly employed. Yet let me here offer up three locks of my hair, to the memory of all such glorious paupers who have lived and died in this world. Surely, and truly I honor them—noble men often at bottom—and for that very reason I make bold to be gamesome about them; for where fundamental nobleness is, and fundamental honor is due, merriment is never accounted irreverent. The fools and pretenders of humanity, and the impostors and baboons58 among the gods, these only are offended with raillery; since both those gods and men whose titles to eminence59 are secure, seldom worry themselves about the seditious gossip of old apple-women, and the skylarkings of funny little boys in the street.
When the substance is gone, men cling to the shadow. Places once set apart to lofty purposes, still retain the name of that loftiness, even when converted to the meanest uses. It would seem, as if forced by imperative60 Fate to renounce61 the reality of the romantic and lofty, the people of the present would fain make a compromise by retaining some purely62 imaginative remainder. The curious effects of this tendency is oftenest evinced in those venerable countries of the old transatlantic world; where still over the Thames one bridge yet retains the monastic tide of Blackfriars; though not a single Black Friar, but many a pickpocket63, has stood on that bank since a good ways beyond the days of Queen Bess; where still innumerable other historic anomalies sweetly and sadly remind the present man of the wonderful procession that preceded him in his new generation. Nor—though the comparative recentness of our own foundation upon these Columbian shores, excludes any considerable participation64 in these attractive anomalies,—yet are we not altogether, in our more elderly towns, wholly without some touch of them, here and there. It was thus with the ancient Church of the Apostles—better known, even in its primitive day, under the abbreviative of The Apostles—which, though now converted from its original purpose to one so widely contrasting, yet still retained its majestical name. The lawyer or artist tenanting its chambers, whether in the new building or the old, when asked where he was to be found, invariably replied,—At the Apostles'. But because now, at last, in the course of the inevitable65 transplantations of the more notable localities of the various professions in a thriving and amplifying66 town, the venerable spot offered not such inducements as before to the legal gentlemen; and as the strange nondescript adventurers and artists, and indigent philosophers of all sorts, crowded in as fast as the others left; therefore, in reference to the metaphysical strangeness of these curious inhabitants, and owing in some sort to the circumstance, that several of them were well-known Teleological67 Theorists, and Social Reformers, and political propagandists of all manner of heterodoxical tenets; therefore, I say, and partly, peradventure, from some slight waggishness68 in the public; the immemorial popular name of the ancient church itself was participatingly transferred to the dwellers69 therein. So it came to pass, that in the general fashion of the day, he who had chambers in the old church was familiarly styled an Apostle.
But as every effect is but the cause of another and a subsequent one, so it now happened that finding themselves thus clannishly70, and not altogether infelicitously71 entitled, the occupants of the venerable church began to come together out of their various dens72, in more social communion; attracted toward each other by a title common to all. By-and-by, from this, they went further; and insensibly, at last became organized in a peculiar73 society, which, though exceedingly inconspicuous, and hardly perceptible in its public demonstrations74, was still secretly suspected to have some mysterious ulterior object, vaguely75 connected with the absolute overturning of Church and State, and the hasty and premature76 advance of some unknown great political and religious Millennium77. Still, though some zealous78 conservatives and devotees of morals, several times left warning at the police-office, to keep a wary79 eye on the old church; and though, indeed, sometimes an officer would look up inquiringly at the suspicious narrow window-slits in the lofty tower; yet, to say the truth, was the place, to all appearance, a very quiet and decorous one, and its occupants a company of harmless people, whose greatest reproach was efflorescent coats and crack-crowned hats all podding in the sun.
Though in the middle of the day many bales and boxes would be trundled along the stores in front of the Apostles'; and along its critically narrow sidewalk, the merchants would now and then hurry to meet their checks ere the banks should close: yet the street, being mostly devoted to mere80 warehousing purposes, and not used as a general thoroughfare, it was at all times a rather secluded81 and silent place. But from an hour or two before sundown to ten or eleven o'clock the next morning, it was remarkably82 silent and depopulated, except by the Apostles themselves; while every Sunday it presented an aspect of surprising and startling quiescence83; showing nothing but one long vista84 of six or seven stories of inexorable iron shutters85 on both sides of the way. It was pretty much the same with the other street, which, as before said, intersected with the warehousing lane, not very far from the Apostles'. For though that street was indeed a different one from the latter, being full of cheap refectories for clerks, foreign restaurants, and other places of commercial resort; yet the only hum in it was restricted to business hours; by night it was deserted86 of every occupant but the lamp-posts; and on Sunday, to walk through it, was like walking through an avenue of sphinxes.
Such, then, was the present condition of the ancient Church of the Apostles; buzzing with a few lingering, equivocal lawyers in the basement, and populous87 with all sorts of poets, painters, paupers and philosophers above. A mysterious professor of the flute88 was perched in one of the upper stories of the tower; and often, of silent, moonlight nights, his lofty, melodious89 notes would be warbled forth90 over the roofs of the ten thousand warehouses around him—as of yore, the bell had pealed91 over the domestic gables of a long-departed generation.
II.
ON the third night following the arrival of the party in the city, Pierre sat at twilight92 by a lofty window in the rear building of the Apostles'. The chamber36 was meager93 even to meanness. No carpet on the floor, no picture on the wall; nothing but a low, long, and very curious-looking single bedstead, that might possibly serve for an indigent bachelor's pallet, a large, blue, chintz-covered chest, a rickety, rheumatic, and most ancient mahogany chair, and a wide board of the toughest live-oak, about six feet long, laid upon two upright empty flour-barrels, and loaded with a large bottle of ink, an unfastened bundle of quills94, a pen-knife, a folder95, and a still unbound ream of foolscap paper, significantly stamped, "Ruled; Blue."
There, on the third night, at twilight, sat Pierre by that lofty window of a beggarly room in the rear-building of the Apostles'. He was entirely idle, apparently96; there was nothing in his hands; but there might have been something on his heart. Now and then he fixedly97 gazes at the curious-looking, rusty98 old bedstead. It seemed powerfully symbolical99 to him; and most symbolical it was. For it was the ancient dismemberable and portable camp-bedstead of his grandfather, the defiant100 defender101 of the Fort, the valiant102 captain in many an unsuccumbing campaign. On that very camp-bedstead, there, beneath his tent on the field, the glorious old mild-eyed and warrior103-hearted general had slept, and but waked to buckle104 his knight-making sword by his side; for it was noble knighthood to be slain106 by grand Pierre; in the other world his foes108' ghosts bragged109 of the hand that had given them their passports.
But has that hard bed of War, descended110 for an inheritance to the soft body of Peace? In the peaceful time of full barns, and when the noise of the peaceful flail111 is abroad, and the hum of peaceful commerce resounds112, is the grandson of two Generals a warrior too? Oh, not for naught113, in the time of this seeming peace, are warrior grandsires given to Pierre! For Pierre is a warrior too; Life his campaign, and three fierce allies, Woe114 and Scorn and Want, his foes. The wide world is banded against him; for lo you! he holds up the standard of Right, and swears by the Eternal and True! But ah, Pierre, Pierre, when thou goest to that bed, how humbling115 the thought, that thy most extended length measures not the proud six feet four of thy grand John of Gaunt sire! The stature116 of the warrior is cut down to the dwindled117 glory of the fight. For more glorious in real tented field to strike down your valiant foe107, than in the conflicts of a noble soul with a dastardly world to chase a vile118 enemy who ne'er will show front.
There, then, on the third night, at twilight, by the lofty window of that beggarly room, sat Pierre in the rear building of the Apostles'. He is gazing out from the window now. But except the donjon form of the old gray tower, seemingly there is nothing to see but a wilderness119 of tiles, slate120, shingles121, and tin;—the desolate122 hanging wildernesses123 of tiles, slate, shingles and tin, wherewith we modern Babylonians replace the fair hanging-gardens of the fine old Asiatic times when the excellent Nebuchadnezzar was king.
There he sits, a strange exotic, transplanted from the delectable124 alcoves125 of the old manorial126 mansion127, to take root in this niggard soil. No more do the sweet purple airs of the hills round about the green fields of Saddle Meadows come revivingly wafted128 to his cheek. Like a flower he feels the change; his bloom is gone from his cheek; his cheek is wilted130 and pale.
From the lofty window of that beggarly room, what is it that Pierre is so intently eying? There is no street at his feet; like a profound black gulf131 the open area of the quadrangle gapes132 beneath him. But across it, and at the further end of the steep roof of the ancient church, there looms133 the gray and grand old tower; emblem134 to Pierre of an unshakable fortitude135, which, deep-rooted in the heart of the earth, defied all the howls of the air.
There is a door in Pierre's room opposite the window of Pierre: and now a soft knock is heard in that direction, accompanied by gentle words, asking whether the speaker might enter.
"Yes, always, sweet Isabel"—answered Pierre, rising and approaching the door;—"here: let us drag out the old camp-bed for a sofa; come, sit down now, my sister, and let us fancy ourselves anywhere thou wilt129."
"Then, my brother, let us fancy ourselves in realms of everlasting136 twilight and peace, where no bright sun shall rise, because the black night is always its follower137. Twilight and peace, my brother, twilight and peace!"
"It is twilight now, my sister; and surely, this part of the city at least seems still."
"Twilight now, but night soon; then a brief sun, and then another long night. Peace now, but sleep and nothingness soon, and then hard work for thee, my brother, till the sweet twilight come again."
"Let us light a candle, my sister; the evening is deepening."
"For what light a candle, dear Pierre?—Sit close to me, my brother."
He moved nearer to her, and stole one arm around her; her sweet head leaned against his breast; each felt the other's throbbing138.
"Oh, my dear Pierre, why should we always be longing139 for peace, and then be impatient of peace when it comes? Tell me, my brother! Not two hours ago, thou wert wishing for twilight, and now thou wantest a candle to hurry the twilight's last lingering away."
But Pierre did not seem to hear her; his arm embraced her tighter; his whole frame was invisibly trembling. Then suddenly in a low tone of wonderful intensity140 he breathed:
"Isabel! Isabel!"
She caught one arm around him, as his was around herself; the tremor141 ran from him to her; both sat dumb.
He rose, and paced the room.
"Well, Pierre; thou camest in here to arrange thy matters, thou saidst. Now what hast thou done? Come, we will light a candle now."
The candle was lighted, and their talk went on.
"How about the papers, my brother? Dost thou find every thing right? Hast thou decided upon what to publish first, while thou art writing the new thing thou didst hint of?"
"Then thou hast not been into it at all as yet?"
"Not at all, Isabel. In ten days I have lived ten thousand years. Forewarned now of the rubbish in that chest, I can not summon the heart to open it. Trash! Dross143! Dirt!"
"Pierre! Pierre! what change is this? Didst thou not tell me, ere we came hither, that thy chest not only contained some silver and gold, but likewise far more precious things, readily convertible144 into silver and gold? Ah, Pierre, thou didst swear we had naught to fear!"
"If I have ever willfully deceived thee, Isabel, may the high gods prove Benedict Arnolds to me, and go over to the devils to reinforce them against me! But to have ignorantly deceived myself and thee together, Isabel; that is a very different thing. Oh, what a vile juggler145 and cheat is man! Isabel, in that chest are things which in the hour of composition, I thought the very heavens looked in from the windows in astonishment146 at their beauty and power. Then, afterward147, when days cooled me down, and again I took them up and scanned them, some underlying148 suspicions intruded149; but when in the open air, I recalled the fresh, unwritten images of the bunglingly written things; then I felt buoyant and triumphant151 again; as if by that act of ideal recalling, I had, forsooth, transferred the perfect ideal to the miserable152 written attempt at embodying153 it. This mood remained. So that afterward how I talked to thee about the wonderful things I had done; the gold and the silver mine I had long before sprung for thee and for me, who never were to come to want in body or mind. Yet all this time, there was the latent suspicion of folly154; but I would not admit it; I shut my soul's door in its face. Yet now, the ten thousand universal revealings brand me on the forehead with fool! and like protested notes at the Bankers, all those written things of mine, are jaggingly cut through and through with the protesting hammer of Truth!—Oh, I am sick, sick, sick!"
"Let the arms that never were filled but by thee, lure155 thee back again, Pierre, to the peace of the twilight, even though it be of the dimmest!"
She blew out the light, and made Pierre sit down by her; and their hands were placed in each other's.
"But replaced by—by—by—Oh God, Isabel, unhand me!" cried Pierre, starting up. "Ye heavens, that have hidden yourselves in the black hood105 of the night, I call to ye! If to follow Virtue158 to her uttermost vista, where common souls never go; if by that I take hold on hell, and the uttermost virtue, after all, prove but a betraying pander159 to the monstrousest vice160,—then close in and crush me, ye stony161 walls, and into one gulf let all things tumble together!"
"My brother! this is some incomprehensible raving," pealed Isabel, throwing both arms around him;—"my brother, my brother!"
"Hark thee to thy furthest inland soul"—thrilled Pierre in a steeled and quivering voice. "Call me brother no more! How knowest thou I am thy brother? Did thy mother tell thee? Did my father say so to me?—I am Pierre, and thou Isabel, wide brother and sister in the common humanity,—no more. For the rest, let the gods look after their own combustibles. If they have put powder-casks in me—let them look to it! let them look to it! Ah! now I catch glimpses, and seem to half-see, somehow, that the uttermost ideal of moral perfection in man is wide of the mark. The demigods trample162 on trash, and Virtue and Vice are trash! Isabel, I will write such things—I will gospelize the world anew, and show them deeper secrets than the Apocalypse!—I will write it, I will write it!"
"Pierre, I am a poor girl, born in the midst of a mystery, bred in mystery, and still surviving to mystery. So mysterious myself, the air and the earth are unutterable to me; no word have I to express them. But these are the circumambient mysteries; thy words, thy thoughts, open other wonder-worlds to me, whither by myself I might fear to go. But trust to me, Pierre. With thee, with thee, I would boldly swim a starless sea, and be buoy150 to thee, there, when thou the strong swimmer shouldst faint. Thou, Pierre, speakest of Virtue and Vice; life-secluded Isabel knows neither the one nor the other, but by hearsay163. What are they, in their real selves, Pierre? Tell me first what is Virtue:—begin!"
"If on that point the gods are dumb, shall a pigmy speak? Ask the air!"
"Then Virtue is nothing."
"Not that!"
"Then Vice?"
"Look: a nothing is the substance, it casts one shadow one way, and another the other way; and these two shadows cast from one nothing; these, seems to me, are Virtue and Vice."
"It is the law."
"What?"
"That a nothing should torment a nothing; for I am a nothing. It is all a dream—we dream that we dreamed we dream."
"Pierre, when thou just hovered164 on the verge165, thou wert a riddle166 to me; but now, that thou art deep down in the gulf of the soul,—now, when thou wouldst be lunatic to wise men, perhaps—now doth poor ignorant Isabel begin to comprehend thee. Thy feeling hath long been mine, Pierre. Long loneliness and anguish167 have opened miracles to me. Yes, it is all a dream!"
Swiftly he caught her in his arms:—"From nothing proceeds nothing, Isabel! How can one sin in a dream?"
"First what is sin, Pierre?"
"Another name for the other name, Isabel."
"For Virtue, Pierre?"
"No, for Vice."
"Let us sit down again, my brother."
"I am Pierre."
"Let us sit down again, Pierre; sit close; thy arm!"
And so, on the third night, when the twilight was gone, and no lamp was lit, within the lofty window of that beggarly room, sat Pierre and Isabel hushed.
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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vacancy
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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formerly
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entirely
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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exhortations
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pastor
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propped
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coffin
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reverently
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interred
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decided
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efficiently
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gregarious
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promiscuously
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titanic
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proprietors
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altercations
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deterred
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melancholy
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attics
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dreary
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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35
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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36
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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37
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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38
storks
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| n.鹳( stork的名词复数 ) | |
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39
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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40
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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43
pelicans
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| n.鹈鹕( pelican的名词复数 ) | |
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44
pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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45
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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46
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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47
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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48
indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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49
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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50
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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51
exchequers
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| n.（英国）财政部( exchequer的名词复数 )；国库，金库 | |
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52
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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53
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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54
sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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55
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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56
precariousness
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57
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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58
baboons
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| n.狒狒( baboon的名词复数 ) | |
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59
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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60
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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61
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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62
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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63
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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64
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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65
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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66
amplifying
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的现在分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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67
teleological
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| adj.目的论的 | |
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68
waggishness
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69
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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70
clannishly
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| adv.派系地，团结地 | |
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71
infelicitously
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72
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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73
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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74
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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75
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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76
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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77
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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78
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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79
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
secluded
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|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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82
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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83
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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84
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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85
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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86
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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87
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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88
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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89
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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90
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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91
pealed
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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93
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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94
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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95
folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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96
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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97
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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98
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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99
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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100
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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101
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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102
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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103
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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104
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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105
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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106
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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107
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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108
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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109
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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111
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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112
resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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113
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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114
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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115
humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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116
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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117
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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119
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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120
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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121
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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122
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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123
wildernesses
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| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
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124
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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125
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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126
manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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127
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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128
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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130
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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132
gapes
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 )；张开，张大 | |
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133
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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134
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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135
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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136
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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137
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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138
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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139
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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140
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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141
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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142
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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143
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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144
convertible
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| adj.可改变的，可交换，同意义的；n.有活动摺篷的汽车 | |
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145
juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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146
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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147
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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148
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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149
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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150
buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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151
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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152
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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153
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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154
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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155
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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156
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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157
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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158
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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159
pander
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| v.迎合；n.拉皮条者，勾引者；帮人做坏事的人 | |
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160
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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161
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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162
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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163
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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164
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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165
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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166
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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167
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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