These three young people were neighbors' children, dwelling3 in houses that stood by the side of the great Lexington road, along a ridgy4 hill that rose abruptly5 behind them, its brow covered with a wood, and which stretched, with one or two breaks and interruptions, into the heart of the village of Concord6, the county town. It was in the side of this hill that, according to tradition, the first settlers of the village had burrowed7 in caverns8 which they had dug out for their shelter, like swallows and woodchucks. As its slope was towards the south, and its ridge9 and crowning woods defended them from the northern blasts and snow-drifts, it was an admirable situation for the fierce New England winter; and the temperature was milder, by several degrees, along this hill-side than on the unprotected plains, or by the river, or in any other part of Concord. So that here, during the hundred years that had elapsed since the first settlement of the place, dwellings10 had successively risen close to the hill's foot, and the meadow that lay on the other side of the road–a fertile tract–had been cultivated; and these three young people were the children's children's children of persons of respectability who had dwelt there,–Rose Garfield, in a small house, the site of which is still indicated by the cavity of a cellar, in which I this very past summer planted some sunflowers to thrust their great disks out from the hollow and allure11 the bee and the humming-bird; Robert Hagburn, in a house of somewhat more pretension12, a hundred yards or so nearer to the village, standing13 back from the road in the broader space which the retreating hill, cloven by a gap in that place, afforded; where some elms intervened between it and the road, offering a site which some person of a natural taste for the gently picturesque14 had seized upon. Those same elms, or their successors, still flung a noble shade over the same old house, which the magic hand of Alcott has improved by the touch that throws grace, amiableness15, and natural beauty over scenes that have little pretension in themselves.
Now, the other young man, Septimius Felton, dwelt in a small wooden house, then, I suppose, of some score of years' standing,–a two-story house, gabled before, but with only two rooms on a floor, crowded upon by the hill behind,–a house of thick walls, as if the projector16 had that sturdy feeling of permanence in life which incites17 people to make strong their earthly habitations, as if deluding18 themselves with the idea that they could still inhabit them; in short, an ordinary dwelling of a well-to-do New England farmer, such as his race had been for two or three generations past, although there were traditions of ancestors who had led lives of thought and study, and possessed19 all the erudition that the universities of England could bestow20. Whether any natural turn for study had descended21 to Septimius from these worthies22, or how his tendencies came to be different from those of his family,–who, within the memory of the neighborhood, had been content to sow and reap the rich field in front of their homestead,–so it was, that Septimius had early manifested a taste for study. By the kind aid of the good minister of the town he had been fitted for college; had passed through Cambridge by means of what little money his father had left him and by his own exertions23 in school-keeping; and was now a recently decorated baccalaureate, with, as was understood, a purpose to devote himself to the ministry24, under the auspices25 of that reverend and good friend whose support and instruction had already stood him in such stead.
Now here were these young people, on that beautiful spring morning, sitting on the hill-side, a pleasant spectacle of fresh life,–pleasant, as if they had sprouted26 like green things under the influence of the warm sun. The girl was very pretty, a little freckled27, a little tanned, but with a face that glimmered28 and gleamed with quick and cheerful expressions; a slender form, not very large, with a quick grace in its movements; sunny hair that had a tendency to curl, which she probably favored at such moments as her household occupation left her; a sociable29 and pleasant child, as both of the young men evidently thought. Robert Hagburn, one might suppose, would have been the most to her taste; a ruddy, burly young fellow, handsome, and free of manner, six feet high, famous through the neighborhood for strength and athletic30 skill, the early promise of what was to be a man fit for all offices of active rural life, and to be, in mature age, the selectman, the deacon, the representative, the colonel. As for Septimius, let him alone a moment or two, and then they would see him, with his head bent31 down, brooding, brooding, his eyes fixed32 on some chip, some stone, some common plant, any commonest thing, as if it were the clew and index to some mystery; and when, by chance startled out of these meditations33, he lifted his eyes, there would be a kind of perplexity, a dissatisfied, foiled look in them, as if of his speculations34 he found no end. Such was now the case, while Robert and the girl were running on with a gay talk about a serious subject, so that, gay as it was, it was interspersed35 with little thrills of fear on the girl's part, of excitement on Robert's. Their talk was of public trouble.
"My grandfather says," said Rose Garfield, "that we shall never be able to stand against old England, because the men are a weaker race than he remembers in his day,–weaker than his father, who came from England,–and the women slighter still; so that we are dwindling37 away, grandfather thinks; only a little sprightlier38, he says sometimes, looking at me."
"Lighter36, to be sure," said Robert Hagburn; "there is the lightness of the Englishwomen compressed into little space. I have seen them and know. And as to the men, Rose, if they have lost one spark of courage and strength that their English forefathers39 brought from the old land,–lost any one good quality without having made it up by as good or better,–then, for my part, I don't want the breed to exist any longer. And this war, that they say is coming on, will be a good opportunity to test the matter. Septimius! Don't you think so?"
"Think what?" asked Septimius, gravely, lifting up his head.
"Think! why, that your countrymen are worthy40 to live," said Robert Hagburn, impatiently. "For there is a question on that point."
"It is hardly worth answering or considering," said Septimius, looking at him thoughtfully. "We live so little while, that (always setting aside the effect on a future existence) it is little matter whether we live or no."
"Little matter!" said Rose, at first bewildered, then laughing,–"little matter! when it is such a comfort to live, so pleasant, so sweet!"
"Yes, and so many things to do," said Robert; "to make fields yield produce; to be busy among men, and happy among the women-folk; to play, work, fight, and be active in many ways."
"Yes; but so soon stilled, before your activity has come to any definite end," responded Septimius, gloomily. "I doubt, if it had been left to my choice, whether I should have taken existence on such terms; so much trouble of preparation to live, and then no life at all; a ponderous41 beginning, and nothing more."
"Do you find fault with Providence42, Septimius?" asked Rose, a feeling of solemnity coming over her cheerful and buoyant nature. Then she burst out a-laughing. "How grave he looks, Robert; as if he had lived two or three lives already, and knew all about the value of it. But I think it was worth while to be born, if only for the sake of one such pleasant spring morning as this; and God gives us many and better things when these are past."
"We hope so," said Septimius, who was again looking on the ground. "But who knows?"
"I thought you knew," said Robert Hagburn. "You have been to college, and have learned, no doubt, a great many things. You are a student of theology, too, and have looked into these matters. Who should know, if not you?"
"Rose and you have just as good means of ascertaining43 these points as I," said Septimius; "all the certainty that can be had lies on the surface, as it should, and equally accessible to every man or woman. If we try to grope deeper, we labor44 for naught45, and get less wise while we try to be more so. If life were long enough to enable us thoroughly46 to sift47 these matters, then, indeed!–but it is so short!"
"Always this same complaint," said Robert. "Septimius, how long do you wish to live?"
"Forever!" said Septimius. "It is none too long for all I wish to know."
"Forever?" exclaimed Rose, shivering doubtfully. "Ah, there would come many, many thoughts, and after a while we should want a little rest."
"Forever?" said Robert Hagburn. "And what would the people do who wish to fill our places? You are unfair, Septimius. Live and let live! Turn about! Give me my seventy years, and let me go,–my seventy years of what this life has,–toil, enjoyment48, suffering, struggle, fight, rest,–only let me have my share of what's going, and I shall be content."
"Content with leaving everything at odd ends; content with being nothing, as you were before!"
"No, Septimius, content with heaven at last," said Rose, who had come out of her laughing mood into a sweet seriousness. "Oh dear! think what a worn and ugly thing one of these fresh little blades of grass would seem if it were not to fade and wither49 in its time, after being green in its time."
"Well, well, my pretty Rose," said Septimius apart, "an immortal50 weed is not very lovely to think of, that is true; but I should be content with one thing, and that is yourself, if you were immortal, just as you are at seventeen, so fresh, so dewy, so red-lipped, so golden-haired, so gay, so frolicsome51, so gentle."
"But I am to grow old, and to be brown and wrinkled, gray-haired and ugly," said Rose, rather sadly, as she thus enumerated52 the items of her decay, "and then you would think me all lost and gone. But still there might be youth underneath53, for one that really loved me to see. Ah, Septimius Felton! such love as would see with ever-new eyes is the true love." And she ran away and left him suddenly, and Robert Hagburn departing at the same time, this little knot of three was dissolved, and Septimius went along the wayside wall, thoughtfully, as was his wont54, to his own dwelling. He had stopped for some moments on the threshold, vaguely55 enjoying, it is probable, the light and warmth of the new spring day and the sweet air, which was somewhat unwonted to the young man, because he was accustomed to spend much of his day in thought and study within doors, and, indeed, like most studious young men, was overfond of the fireside, and of making life as artificial as he could, by fireside heat and lamplight, in order to suit it to the artificial, intellectual, and moral atmosphere which he derived56 from books, instead of living healthfully in the open air, and among his fellow-beings. Still he felt the pleasure of being warmed through by this natural heat, and, though blinking a little from its superfluity, could not but confess an enjoyment and cheerfulness in this flood of morning light that came aslant57 the hill-side. While he thus stood, he felt a friendly hand laid upon his shoulder, and, looking up, there was the minister of the village, the old friend of Septimius, to whose advice and aid it was owing that Septimius had followed his instincts by going to college, instead of spending a thwarted58 and dissatisfied life in the field that fronted the house. He was a man of middle age, or little beyond, of a sagacious, kindly59 aspect; the experience, the lifelong, intimate acquaintance with many concerns of his people being more apparent in him than the scholarship for which he had been early distinguished60. A tanned man, like one who labored61 in his own grounds occasionally; a man of homely62, plain address, which, when occasion called for it, he could readily exchange for the polished manner of one who had seen a more refined world than this about him.
"Well, Septimius," said the minister, kindly, "have you yet come to any conclusion about the subject of which we have been talking?"
"Only so far, sir," replied Septimius, "that I find myself every day less inclined to take up the profession which I have had in view so many years. I do not think myself fit for the sacred desk."
"Surely not; no one is," replied the clergyman; "but if I may trust my own judgment63, you have at least many of the intellectual qualifications that should adapt you to it. There is something of the Puritan character in you, Septimius, derived from holy men among your ancestors; as, for instance, a deep, brooding turn, such as befits that heavy brow; a disposition64 to meditate65 on things hidden; a turn for meditative66 inquiry,–all these things, with grace to boot, mark you as the germ of a man who might do God service. Your reputation as a scholar stands high at college. You have not a turn for worldly business."
"Ah, but, sir," said Septimius, casting down his heavy brows, "I lack something within."
"Faith, perhaps," replied the minister; "at least, you think so."
"Cannot I know it?" asked Septimius.
"Scarcely, just now," said his friend. "Study for the ministry; bind67 your thoughts to it; pray; ask a belief, and you will soon find you have it. Doubts may occasionally press in; and it is so with every clergyman. But your prevailing68 mood will be faith."
"It has seemed to me," observed Septimius, "that it is not the prevailing mood, the most common one, that is to be trusted. This is habit, formality, the shallow covering which we close over what is real, and seldom suffer to be blown aside. But it is the snake-like doubt that thrusts out its head, which gives us a glimpse of reality. Surely such moments are a hundred times as real as the dull, quiet moments of faith or what you call such."
"I am sorry for you," said the minister; "yet to a youth of your frame of character, of your ability I will say, and your requisition for something profound in the grounds of your belief, it is not unusual to meet this trouble. Men like you have to fight for their faith. They fight in the first place to win it, and ever afterwards to hold it. The Devil tilts69 with them daily and often seems to win."
"Yes; but," replied Septimius, "he takes deadly weapons now. If he meet me with the cold pure steel of a spiritual argument, I might win or lose, and still not feel that all was lost; but he takes, as it were, a great clod of earth, massive rocks and mud, soil and dirt, and flings it at me overwhelmingly; so that I am buried under it."
"How is that?" said the minister. "Tell me more plainly."
"May it not be possible," asked Septimius, "to have too profound a sense of the marvellous contrivance and adaptation of this material world to require or believe in anything spiritual? How wonderful it is to see it all alive on this spring day, all growing, budding! Do we exhaust it in our little life? Not so; not in a hundred or a thousand lives. The whole race of man, living from the beginning of time, have not, in all their number and multiplicity and in all their duration, come in the least to know the world they live in! And how is this rich world thrown away upon us, because we live in it such a moment! What mortal work has ever been done since the world began! Because we have no time. No lesson is taught. We are snatched away from our study before we have learned the alphabet. As the world now exists, I confess it to you frankly70, my dear pastor71 and instructor72, it seems to me all a failure, because we do not live long enough."
"But the lesson is carried on in another state of being!"
"Not the lesson that we begin here," said Septimius. "We might as well train a child in a primeval forest, to teach him how to live in a European court. No, the fall of man, which Scripture73 tells us of, seems to me to have its operation in this grievous shortening of earthly existence, so that our life here at all is grown ridiculous."
"Well, Septimius," replied the minister, sadly, yet not as one shocked by what he had never heard before, "I must leave you to struggle through this form of unbelief as best you may, knowing that it is by your own efforts that you must come to the other side of this slough74. We will talk further another time. You are getting worn out, my young friend, with much study and anxiety. It were well for you to live more, for the present, in this earthly life that you prize so highly. Cannot you interest yourself in the state of this country, in this coming strife75, the voice of which now sounds so hoarsely76 and so near us? Come out of your thoughts and breathe another air."
"I will try," said Septimius.
"Do," said the minister, extending his hand to him, "and in a little time you will find the change."
He shook the young man's hand kindly, and took his leave, while Septimius entered his house, and turning to the right sat down in his study, where, before the fireplace, stood the table with books and papers. On the shelves around the low-studded walls were more books, few in number but of an erudite appearance, many of them having descended to him from learned ancestors, and having been brought to light by himself after long lying in dusty closets; works of good and learned divines, whose wisdom he had happened, by help of the Devil, to turn to mischief77, reading them by the light of hell-fire. For, indeed, Septimius had but given the clergyman the merest partial glimpse of his state of mind. He was not a new beginner in doubt; but, on the contrary, it seemed to him as if he had never been other than a doubter and questioner, even in his boyhood; believing nothing, although a thin veil of reverence78 had kept him from questioning some things. And now the new, strange thought of the sufficiency of the world for man, if man were only sufficient for that, kept recurring79 to him; and with it came a certain sense, which he had been conscious of before, that he, at least, might never die. The feeling was not peculiar80 to Septimius. It is an instinct, the meaning of which is mistaken. We have strongly within us the sense of an undying principle, and we transfer that true sense to this life and to the body, instead of interpreting it justly as the promise of spiritual immortality81.
So Septimius looked up out of his thoughts, and said proudly: "Why should I die? I cannot die, if worthy to live. What if I should say this moment that I will not die, not till ages hence, not till the world is exhausted82? Let other men die, if they choose, or yield; let him that is strong enough live!"
After this flush of heroic mood, however, the glow subsided83, and poor Septimius spent the rest of the day, as was his wont, poring over his books, in which all the meanings seemed dead and mouldy, and like pressed leaves (some of which dropped out of the books as he opened them), brown, brittle84, sapless; so even the thoughts, which when the writers had gathered them seemed to them so brightly colored and full of life. Then he began to see that there must have been some principle of life left out of the book, so that these gathered thoughts lacked something that had given them their only value. Then he suspected that the way truly to live and answer the purposes of life was not to gather up thoughts into books, where they grew so dry, but to live and still be going about, full of green wisdom, ripening85 ever, not in maxims86 cut and dry, but a wisdom ready for daily occasions, like a living fountain; and that to be this, it was necessary to exist long on earth, drink in all its lessons, and not to die on the attainment87 of some smattering of truth; but to live all the more for that; and apply it to mankind and increase it thereby88.
Everything drifted towards the strong, strange eddy89 into which his mind had been drawn90: all his thoughts set hitherward.
So he sat brooding in his study until the shrill-voiced old woman–an aunt, who was his housekeeper91 and domestic ruler–called him to dinner,–a frugal92 dinner,–and chided him for seeming inattentive to a dish of early dandelions which she had gathered for him; but yet tempered her severity with respect for the future clerical rank of her nephew, and for his already being a bachelor of arts. The old woman's voice spoke93 outside of Septimius, rambling94 away, and he paying little heed95, till at last dinner was over, and Septimius drew back his chair, about to leave the table.
"Nephew Septimius," said the old woman, "you began this meal to-day without asking a blessing96, you get up from it without giving thanks, and you soon to be a minister of the Word."
"God bless the meat," replied Septimius (by way of blessing), "and make it strengthen us for the life he means us to bear. Thank God for our food," he added (by way of grace), "and may it become a portion in us of an immortal body."
"That sounds good, Septimius," said the old lady. "Ah! you'll be a mighty97 man in the pulpit, and worthy to keep up the name of your great-grandfather, who, they say, made the leaves wither on a tree with the fierceness of his blast against a sin. Some say, to be sure, it was an early frost that helped him."
"I never heard that before, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius.
"I warrant you no," replied his aunt. "A man dies, and his greatness perishes as if it had never been, and people remember nothing of him only when they see his gravestone over his old dry bones, and say he was a good man in his day."
"What truth there is in Aunt Keziah's words!" exclaimed Septimius. "And how I hate the thought and anticipation98 of that contemptuous appreciation99 of a man after his death! Every living man triumphs over every dead one, as he lies, poor and helpless, under the mould, a pinch of dust, a heap of bones, an evil odor! I hate the thought! It shall not be so!"
It was strange how every little incident thus brought him back to that one subject which was taking so strong hold of his mind; every avenue led thitherward; and he took it for an indication that nature had intended, by innumerable ways, to point out to us the great truth that death was an alien misfortune, a prodigy100, a monstrosity, into which man had only fallen by defect; and that even now, if a man had a reasonable portion of his original strength in him, he might live forever and spurn101 death.
Our story is an internal one, dealing102 as little as possible with outward events, and taking hold of these only where it cannot be helped, in order by means of them to delineate the history of a mind bewildered in certain errors. We would not willingly, if we could, give a lively and picturesque surrounding to this delineation103, but it is necessary that we should advert104 to the circumstances of the time in which this inward history was passing. We will say, therefore, that that night there was a cry of alarm passing all through the succession of country towns and rural communities that lay around Boston, and dying away towards the coast and the wilder forest borders. Horsemen galloped105 past the line of farm-houses shouting alarm! alarm! There were stories of marching troops coming like dreams through the midnight. Around the little rude meeting-houses there was here and there the beat of a drum, and the assemblage of farmers with their weapons. So all that night there was marching, there was mustering107, there was trouble; and, on the road from Boston, a steady march of soldiers' feet onward108, onward into the land whose last warlike disturbance109 had been when the red Indians trod it.
Septimius heard it, and knew, like the rest, that it was the sound of coming war. "Fools that men are!" said he, as he rose from bed and looked out at the misty110 stars; "they do not live long enough to know the value and purport111 of life, else they would combine together to live long, instead of throwing away the lives of thousands as they do. And what matters a little tyranny in so short a life? What matters a form of government for such ephemeral creatures?"
As morning brightened, these sounds, this clamor,–or something that was in the air and caused the clamor,–grew so loud that Septimius seemed to feel it even in his solitude112. It was in the atmosphere,–storm, wild excitement, a coming deed. Men hurried along the usually lonely road in groups, with weapons in their hands,–the old fowling-piece of seven-foot barrel, with which the Puritans had shot ducks on the river and Walden Pond; the heavy harquebus, which perhaps had levelled one of King Philip's Indians; the old King gun, that blazed away at the French of Louisburg or Quebec,–hunter, husbandman, all were hurrying each other. It was a good time, everybody felt, to be alive, a nearer kindred, a closer sympathy between man and man; a sense of the goodness of the world, of the sacredness of country, of the excellence113 of life; and yet its slight account compared with any truth, any principle; the weighing of the material and ethereal, and the finding the former not worth considering, when, nevertheless, it had so much to do with the settlement of the crisis. The ennobling of brute114 force; the feeling that it had its godlike side; the drawing of heroic breath amid the scenes of ordinary life, so that it seemed as if they had all been transfigured since yesterday. Oh, high, heroic, tremulous juncture115, when man felt himself almost an angel; on the verge116 of doing deeds that outwardly look so fiendish! Oh, strange rapture117 of the coming battle! We know something of that time now; we that have seen the muster106 of the village soldiery on the meeting-house green, and at railway stations; and heard the drum and fife, and seen the farewells; seen the familiar faces that we hardly knew, now that we felt them to be heroes; breathed higher breath for their sakes; felt our eyes moistened; thanked them in our souls for teaching us that nature is yet capable of heroic moments; felt how a great impulse lifts up a people, and every cold, passionless, indifferent spectator,–lifts him up into religion, and makes him join in what becomes an act of devotion, a prayer, when perhaps he but half approves.
Septimius could not study on a morning like this. He tried to say to himself that he had nothing to do with this excitement; that his studious life kept him away from it; that his intended profession was that of peace; but say what he might to himself, there was a tremor118, a bubbling impulse, a tingling119 in his ears,–the page that he opened glimmered and dazzled before him.
"Septimius! Septimius!" cried Aunt Keziah, looking into the room, "in Heaven's name, are you going to sit here to-day, and the redcoats coming to burn the house over our heads? Must I sweep you out with the broomstick? For shame, boy! for shame!"
"Are they coming, then, Aunt Keziah?" asked her nephew. "Well, I am not a fighting-man."
"Certain they are. They have sacked Lexington, and slain120 the people, and burnt the meeting-house. That concerns even the parsons; and you reckon yourself among them. Go out, go out, I say, and learn the news!"
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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ridgy
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| adj.有脊的；有棱纹的；隆起的；有埂的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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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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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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amiableness
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projector
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| n.投影机，放映机，幻灯机 | |
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incites
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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ministry
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auspices
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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30
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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31
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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32
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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33
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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34
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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35
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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36
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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37
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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38
sprightlier
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活泼的( sprightly的比较级 ) | |
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39
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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40
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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41
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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42
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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43
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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44
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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45
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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46
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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47
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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48
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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49
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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50
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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51
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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52
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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54
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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55
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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56
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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57
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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58
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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59
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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60
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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61
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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62
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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63
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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64
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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65
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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67
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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69
tilts
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| （意欲赢得某物或战胜某人的）企图，尝试( tilt的名词复数 ) | |
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70
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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71
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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72
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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73
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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74
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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75
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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76
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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77
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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78
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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79
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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82
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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83
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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84
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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85
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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86
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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87
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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88
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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89
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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90
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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91
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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92
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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93
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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94
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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95
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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96
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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97
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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98
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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99
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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100
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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101
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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102
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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103
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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104
advert
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| vi.注意，留意，言及；n.广告 | |
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105
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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106
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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107
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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108
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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109
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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110
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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111
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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112
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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113
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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114
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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115
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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116
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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117
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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118
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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119
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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120
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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