"Take care, my good fellow," said the doctor, with his great coarse laugh. "I rather suspect that you have already got beyond the age when the great medicine could do you good; that speech indicates a great toughness and hardness and bitterness about the heart that does not accumulate in our tender years."
Septimius took little or no notice of the raillery of the grim old doctor, but employed the rest of the time in getting as much information as he could out of his guest; and though he could not bring himself to show him the precious and sacred manuscript, yet he questioned him as closely as possible without betraying his secret, as to the modes of finding out cryptic2 writings. The doctor was not without the perception that his dark-browed, keen-eyed acquaintance had some purpose not openly avowed3 in all these pertinacious4, distinct questions; he discovered a central reference in them all, and perhaps knew that Septimius must have in his possession some writing in hieroglyphics5, cipher6, or other secret mode, that conveyed instructions how to operate with the strange recipe that he had shown him.
"You had better trust me fully7, my good sir," said he. "Not but what I will give you all the aid I can without it; for you have done me a greater benefit than you are aware of, beforehand. No–you will not? Well, if you can change your mind, seek me out in Boston, where I have seen fit to settle in the practice of my profession, and I will serve you according to your folly8; for folly it is, I warn you."
Nothing else worthy9 of record is known to have passed during the doctor's visit; and in due time he disappeared, as it were, in a whiff of tobacco-smoke, leaving an odor of brandy and tobacco behind him, and a traditionary memory of a wizard that had been there. Septimius went to work with what items of knowledge he had gathered from him; but the interview had at least made him aware of one thing, which was, that he must provide himself with all possible quantity of scientific knowledge of botany, and perhaps more extensive knowledge, in order to be able to concoct10 the recipe. It was the fruit of all the scientific attainment11 of the age that produced it (so said the legend, which seemed reasonable enough), a great philosopher had wrought12 his learning into it; and this had been attempered, regulated, improved, by the quick, bright intellect of his scholar. Perhaps, thought Septimius, another deep and earnest intelligence added to these two may bring the precious recipe to still greater perfection. At least it shall be tried. So thinking, he gathered together all the books that he could find relating to such studies; he spent one day, moreover, in a walk to Cambridge, where he searched the alcoves13 of the college library for such works as it contained; and borrowing them from the war-disturbed institution of learning, he betook himself homewards, and applied14 himself to the study with an earnestness of zealous15 application that perhaps has been seldom equalled in a study of so quiet a character. A month or two of study, with practice upon such plants as he found upon his hill-top, and along the brook16 and in other neighboring localities, sufficed to do a great deal for him. In this pursuit he was assisted by Sibyl, who proved to have great knowledge in some botanical departments, especially among flowers; and in her cold and quiet way, she met him on this subject and glided17 by his side, as she had done so long, a companion, a daily observer and observed of him, mixing herself up with his pursuits, as if she were an attendant sprite upon him.
But this pale girl was not the only associate of his studies, the only instructress, whom Septimius found. The observation which Doctor Portsoaken made about the fantastic possibility that Aunt Keziah might have inherited the same recipe from her Indian ancestry18 which had been struck out by the science of Friar Bacon and his pupil had not failed to impress Septimius, and to remain on his memory. So, not long after the doctor's departure, the young man took occasion one evening to say to his aunt that he thought his stomach was a little out of order with too much application, and that perhaps she could give him some herb-drink or other that would be good for him.
"That I can, Seppy, my darling," said the old woman, "and I'm glad you have the sense to ask for it at last. Here it is in this bottle; and though that foolish, blaspheming doctor turned up his old brandy nose at it, I'll drink with him any day and come off better than he."
So saying, she took out of the closet her brown jug19, stopped with a cork20 that had a rag twisted round it to make it tighter, filled a mug half full of the concoction21 and set it on the table before Septimius.
"There, child, smell of that; the smell merely will do you good; but drink it down, and you'll live the longer for it."
"Indeed, Aunt Keziah, is that so?" asked Septimius, a little startled by a recommendation which in some measure tallied22 with what he wanted in a medicine. "That's a good quality."
He looked into the mug, and saw a turbid23, yellow concoction, not at all attractive to the eye; he smelt24 of it, and was partly of opinion that Aunt Keziah had mixed a certain unfragrant vegetable, called skunk-cabbage, with the other ingredients of her witch-drink. He tasted it; not a mere sip26, but a good, genuine gulp27, being determined28 to have real proof of what the stuff was in all respects. The draught29 seemed at first to burn in his mouth, unaccustomed to any drink but water, and to go scorching30 all the way down into his stomach, making him sensible of the depth of his inwards by a track of fire, far, far down; and then, worse than the fire, came a taste of hideous31 bitterness and nauseousness, which he had not previously32 conceived to exist, and which threatened to stir up his bowels33 into utter revolt; but knowing Aunt Keziah's touchiness34 with regard to this concoction, and how sacred she held it, he made an effort of real heroism35, squelched36 down his agony, and kept his face quiet, with the exception of one strong convulsion, which he allowed to twist across it for the sake of saving his life.
"It tastes as if it might have great potency37 in it, Aunt Keziah," said this unfortunate young man. "I wish you would tell me what it is made of, and how you brew38 it; for I have observed you are very strict and secret about it."
"Aha! you have seen that, have you?" said Aunt Keziah, taking a sip of her beloved liquid, and grinning at him with a face and eyes as yellow as that she was drinking. In fact the idea struck him, that in temper, and all appreciable39 qualities, Aunt Keziah was a good deal like this drink of hers, having probably become saturated40 by them while she drank of it. And then, having drunk, she gloated over it, and tasted, and smelt of the cup of this hellish wine, as a winebibber does of that which is most fragrant25 and delicate. "And you want to know how I make it? But first, child, tell me honestly, do you love this drink of mine? Otherwise, here, and at once, we stop talking about it."
"I love it for its virtues41," said Septimius, temporizing43 with his conscience, "and would prefer it on that account to the rarest wines."
"So far good," said Aunt Keziah, who could not well conceive that her liquor should be otherwise than delicious to the palate. "It is the most virtuous44 liquor that ever was; and therefore one need not fear drinking too much of it. And you want to know what it is made of? Well; I have often thought of telling you, Seppy, my boy, when you should come to be old enough; for I have no other inheritance to leave you, and you are all of my blood, unless I should happen to have some far-off uncle among the Cape45 Indians. But first, you must know how this good drink, and the faculty46 of making it, came down to me from the chiefs, and sachems, and Peow-wows, that were your ancestors and mine, Septimius, and from the old wizard who was my great-grandfather and yours, and who, they say, added the fire-water to the other ingredients, and so gave it the only one thing that it wanted to make it perfect."
And so Aunt Keziah, who had now put herself into a most comfortable and jolly state by sipping47 again, and after pressing Septimius to mind his draught (who declined, on the plea that one dram at a time was enough for a new beginner, its virtues being so strong, as well as admirable), the old woman told him a legend strangely wild and uncouth48, and mixed up of savage49 and civilized50 life, and of the superstitions51 of both, but which yet had a certain analogy, that impressed Septimius much, to the story that the doctor had told him.
She said that, many ages ago, there had been a wild sachem in the forest, a king among the Indians, and from whom, the old lady said, with a look of pride, she and Septimius were lineally descended52, and were probably the very last who inherited one drop of that royal, wise, and warlike blood. The sachem had lived very long, longer than anybody knew, for the Indians kept no record, and could only talk of a great number of moons; and they said he was as old, or older, than the oldest trees; as old as the hills almost, and could remember back to the days of godlike men, who had arts then forgotten. He was a wise and good man, and could foretell53 as far into the future as he could remember into the past; and he continued to live on, till his people were afraid that he would live forever, and so disturb the whole order of nature; and they thought it time that so good a man, and so great a warrior54 and wizard, should be gone to the happy hunting-grounds, and that so wise a counsellor should go and tell his experience of life to the Great Father, and give him an account of matters here, and perhaps lead him to make some changes in the conduct of the lower world. And so, all these things duly considered, they very reverently55 assassinated56 the great, never-dying sachem; for though safe against disease, and undecayable by age, he was capable of being killed by violence, though the hardness of his skull57 broke to fragments the stone tomahawk with which they at first tried to kill him.
So a deputation of the best and bravest of the tribe went to the great sachem, and told him their thought, and reverently desired his consent to be put out of the world; and the undying one agreed with them that it was better for his own comfort that he should die, and that he had long been weary of the world, having learned all that it could teach him, and having, chiefly, learned to despair of ever making the red race much better than they now were. So he cheerfully consented, and told them to kill him if they could; and first they tried the stone hatchet58, which was broken against his skull; and then they shot arrows at him, which could not pierce the toughness of his skin; and finally they plastered up his nose and mouth (which kept uttering wisdom to the last) with clay, and set him to bake in the sun; so at last his life burnt out of his breast, tearing his body to pieces, and he died.
[Make this legend grotesque60, and express the weariness of the tribe at the intolerable control the undying one had of them; his always bringing up precepts61 from his own experience, never consenting to anything new, and so impeding62 progress; his habits hardening into him, his ascribing to himself all wisdom, and depriving everybody of his right to successive command; his endless talk, and dwelling63 on the past, so that the world could not bear him. Describe his ascetic64 and severe habits, his rigid65 calmness, etc.]
But before the great sagamore died he imparted to a chosen one of his tribe, the next wisest to himself, the secret of a potent66 and delicious drink, the constant imbibing67 of which, together with his abstinence from luxury and passion, had kept him alive so long, and would doubtless have compelled him to live forever. This drink was compounded of many ingredients, all of which were remembered and handed down in tradition, save one, which, either because it was nowhere to be found, or for some other reason, was forgotten; so that the drink ceased to give immortal68 life as before. They say it was a beautiful purple flower. [Perhaps the Devil taught him the drink, or else the Great Spirit,–doubtful which.] But it still was a most excellent drink, and conducive69 to health, and the cure of all diseases; and the Indians had it at the time of the settlement by the English; and at one of those wizard meetings in the forest, where the Black Man used to meet his red children and his white ones, and be jolly with them, a great Indian wizard taught the secret to Septimius's great-grandfather, who was a wizard, and died for it; and he, in return, taught the Indians to mix it with rum, thinking that this might be the very ingredient that was missing, and that by adding it he might give endless life to himself and all his Indian friends, among whom he had taken a wife.
"But your great-grandfather, you know, had not a fair chance to test its virtues, having been hanged for a wizard; and as for the Indians, they probably mixed too much fire-water with their liquid, so that it burnt them up, and they all died; and my mother, and her mother,–who taught the drink to me,–and her mother afore her, thought it a sin to try to live longer than the Lord pleased, so they let themselves die. And though the drink is good, Septimius, and toothsome, as you see, yet I sometimes feel as if I were getting old, like other people, and may die in the course of the next half-century; so perhaps the rum was not just the thing that was wanting to make up the recipe. But it is very good! Take a drop more of it, dear."
"Not at present, I thank you, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, gravely; "but will you tell me what the ingredients are, and how you make it?"
"Yes, I will, my boy, and you shall write them down," said the old woman; "for it's a good drink, and none the worse, it may be, for not making you live forever. I sometimes think I had as lief go to heaven as keep on living here."
Accordingly, making Septimius take pen and ink, she proceeded to tell him a list of plants and herbs, and forest productions, and he was surprised to find that it agreed most wonderfully with the recipe contained in the old manuscript, as he had puzzled it out, and as it had been explained by the doctor. There were a few variations, it is true; but even here there was a close analogy, plants indigenous70 to America being substituted for cognate71 productions, the growth of Europe. Then there was another difference in the mode of preparation, Aunt Keziah's nostrum72 being a concoction, whereas the old manuscript gave a process of distillation73. This similarity had a strong effect on Septimius's imagination. Here was, in one case, a drink suggested, as might be supposed, to a primitive74 people by something similar to that instinct by which the brute75 creation recognizes the medicaments suited to its needs, so that they mixed up fragrant herbs for reasons wiser than they knew, and made them into a salutary potion; and here, again, was a drink contrived76 by the utmost skill of a great civilized philosopher, searching the whole field of science for his purpose; and these two drinks proved, in all essential particulars, to be identically the same.
"O Aunt Keziah," said he, with a longing77 earnestness, "are you sure that you cannot remember that one ingredient?"
"No, Septimius, I cannot possibly do it," said she. "I have tried many things, skunk-cabbage, wormwood, and a thousand things; for it is truly a pity that the chief benefit of the thing should be lost for so little. But the only effect was, to spoil the good taste of the stuff, and, two or three times, to poison myself, so that I broke out all over blotches78, and once lost the use of my left arm, and got a dizziness in the head, and a rheumatic twist in my knee, a hardness of hearing, and a dimness of sight, and the trembles; all of which I certainly believe to have been caused by my putting something else into this blessed drink besides the good New England rum. Stick to that, Seppy, my dear."
So saying, Aunt Keziah took yet another sip of the beloved liquid, after vainly pressing Septimius to do the like; and then lighting79 her old clay pipe, she sat down in the chimney-corner, meditating80, dreaming, muttering pious81 prayers and ejaculations, and sometimes looking up the wide flue of the chimney, with thoughts, perhaps, how delightful82 it must have been to fly up there, in old times, on excursions by midnight into the forest, where was the Black Man, and the Puritan deacons and ladies, and those wild Indian ancestors of hers; and where the wildness of the forest was so grim and delightful, and so unlike the common-placeness in which she spent her life. For thus did the savage strain of the woman, mixed up as it was with the other weird83 and religious parts of her composition, sometimes snatch her back into barbarian84 life and its instincts; and in Septimius, though further diluted85, and modified likewise by higher cultivation86, there was the same tendency.
Septimius escaped from the old woman, and was glad to breathe the free air again; so much had he been wrought upon by her wild legends and wild character, the more powerful by its analogy with his own; and perhaps, too, his brain had been a little bewildered by the draught of her diabolical87 concoction which she had compelled him to take. At any rate, he was glad to escape to his hill-top, the free air of which had doubtless contributed to keep him in health through so long a course of morbid88 thought and estranged89 study as he had addicted90 himself to.
Here, as it happened, he found both Rose Garfield and Sibyl Dacy, whom the pleasant summer evening had brought out. They had formed a friendship, or at least society; and there could not well be a pair more unlike,–the one so natural, so healthy, so fit to live in the world; the other such a morbid, pale thing. So there they were, walking arm in arm, with one arm round each other's waist, as girls love to do. They greeted the young man in their several ways, and began to walk to and fro together, looking at the sunset as it came on, and talking of things on earth and in the clouds.
"When has Robert Hagburn been heard from?" asked Septimius, who, involved in his own pursuits, was altogether behindhand in the matters of the war,–shame to him for it!
"There came news, two days past," said Rose, blushing. "He is on his way home with the remnant of General Arnold's command, and will be here soon."
"He is a brave fellow, Robert," said Septimius, carelessly. "And I know not, since life is so short, that anything better can be done with it than to risk it as he does."
"I truly think not," said Rose Garfield, composedly.
"What a blessing91 it is to mortals," said Sibyl Dacy, "what a kindness of Providence92, that life is made so uncertain; that death is thrown in among the possibilities of our being; that these awful mysteries are thrown around us, into which we may vanish! For, without it, how would it be possible to be heroic, how should we plod93 along in commonplaces forever, never dreaming high things, never risking anything? For my part, I think man is more favored than the angels, and made capable of higher heroism, greater virtue42, and of a more excellent spirit than they, because we have such a mystery of grief and terror around us; whereas they, being in a certainty of God's light, seeing his goodness and his purposes more perfectly94 than we, cannot be so brave as often poor weak man, and weaker woman, has the opportunity to be, and sometimes makes use of it. God gave the whole world to man, and if he is left alone with it, it will make a clod of him at last; but, to remedy that, God gave man a grave, and it redeems95 all, while it seems to destroy all, and makes an immortal spirit of him in the end."
"Dear Sibyl, you are inspired," said Rose, gazing in her face.
"I think you ascribe a great deal too much potency to the grave," said Septimius, pausing involuntarily alone by the little hillock, whose contents he knew so well. "The grave seems to me a vile96 pitfall97, put right in our pathway, and catching98 most of us,–all of us,–causing us to tumble in at the most inconvenient99 opportunities, so that all human life is a jest and a farce100, just for the sake of this inopportune death; for I observe it never waits for us to accomplish anything: we may have the salvation101 of a country in hand, but we are none the less likely to die for that. So that, being a believer, on the whole, in the wisdom and graciousness of Providence, I am convinced that dying is a mistake, and that by and by we shall overcome it. I say there is no use in the grave."
"I still adhere to what I said," answered Sibyl Dacy; "and besides, there is another use of a grave which I have often observed in old English graveyards102, where the moss103 grows green, and embosses the letters of the gravestones; and also graves are very good for flower-beds."
Nobody ever could tell when the strange girl was going to say what was laughable,–when what was melancholy104; and neither of Sibyl's auditors105 knew quite what to make of this speech. Neither could Septimius fail to be a little startled by seeing her, as she spoke106 of the grave as a flower-bed, stoop down to the little hillock to examine the flowers, which, indeed, seemed to prove her words by growing there in strange abundance, and of many sorts; so that, if they could all have bloomed at once, the spot would have looked like a bouquet107 by itself, or as if the earth were richest in beauty there, or as if seeds had been lavished108 by some florist109. Septimius could not account for it, for though the hill-side did produce certain flowers,–the aster59, the golden-rod, the violet, and other such simple and common things,–yet this seemed as if a carpet of bright colors had been thrown down there and covered the spot.
"This is very strange," said he.
"Yes," said Sibyl Dacy, "there is some strange richness in this little spot of soil."
"Where could the seeds have come from?–that is the greatest wonder," said Rose. "You might almost teach me botany, methinks, on this one spot."
"Do you know this plant?" asked Sibyl of Septimius, pointing to one not yet in flower, but of singular leaf, that was thrusting itself up out of the ground, on the very centre of the grave, over where the breast of the sleeper110 below might seem to be. "I think there is no other here like it."
Septimius stooped down to examine it, and was convinced that it was unlike anything he had seen of the flower kind; a leaf of a dark green, with purple veins111 traversing it, it had a sort of questionable112 aspect, as some plants have, so that you would think it very likely to be poison, and would not like to touch or smell very intimately, without first inquiring who would be its guarantee that it should do no mischief113. That it had some richness or other, either baneful114 or beneficial, you could not doubt.
"I think it poisonous," said Rose Garfield, shuddering115, for she was a person so natural she hated poisonous things, or anything speckled especially, and did not, indeed, love strangeness. "Yet I should not wonder if it bore a beautiful flower by and by. Nevertheless, if I were to do just as I feel inclined, I should root it up and fling it away."
"Shall she do so?" said Sibyl to Septimius.
"Not for the world," said he, hastily. "Above all things, I desire to see what will come of this plant."
"Be it as you please," said Sibyl. "Meanwhile, if you like to sit down here and listen to me, I will tell you a story that happens to come into my mind just now,–I cannot tell why. It is a legend of an old hall that I know well, and have known from my childhood, in one of the northern counties of England, where I was born. Would you like to hear it, Rose?"
"Yes, of all things," said she. "I like all stories of hall and cottage in the old country, though now we must not call it our country any more."
Sibyl looked at Septimius, as if to inquire whether he, too, chose to listen to her story, and he made answer:–
"Yes, I shall like to hear the legend, if it is a genuine one that has been adopted into the popular belief, and came down in chimney-corners with the smoke and soot116 that gathers there; and incrusted over with humanity, by passing from one homely117 mind to another. Then, such stories get to be true, in a certain sense, and indeed in that sense may be called true throughout, for the very nucleus118, the fiction in them, seems to have come out of the heart of man in a way that cannot be imitated of malice119 aforethought. Nobody can make a tradition; it takes a century to make it."
"I know not whether this legend has the character you mean," said Sibyl, "but it has lived much more than a century; and here it is.
"On the threshold of one of the doors of —— Hall there is a bloody120 footstep impressed into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody foot had just trodden there; and it is averred121 that, on a certain night of the year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and look at that doorstep you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have pretended to say that this appearance of blood was but dew; but can dew redden a cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson122 the fingertips when you touch it? And that is what the bloody footstep will surely do when the appointed night and hour come round, this very year, just as it would three hundred years ago.
"Well; but how did it come there? I know not precisely123 in what age it was, but long ago, when light was beginning to shine into what were called the dark ages, there was a lord of —— Hall who applied himself deeply to knowledge and science, under the guidance of the wisest man of that age,–a man so wise that he was thought to be a wizard; and, indeed, he may have been one, if to be a wizard consists in having command over secret powers of nature, that other men do not even suspect the existence of, and the control of which enables one to do feats124 that seem as wonderful as raising the dead. It is needless to tell you all the strange stories that have survived to this day about the old Hall; and how it is believed that the master of it, owing to his ancient science, has still a sort of residence there, and control of the place; and how, in one of the chambers125, there is still his antique table, and his chair, and some rude old instruments and machinery126, and a book, and everything in readiness, just as if he might still come back to finish some experiment. What it is important to say is, that one of the chief things to which the old lord applied himself was to discover the means of prolonging his own life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if not infinite; and such was his science, that he was believed to have attained127 this magnificent and awful purpose.
"So, as you may suppose, the man of science had great joy in having done this thing, both for the pride of it, and because it was so delightful a thing to have before him the prospect128 of endless time, which he might spend in adding more and more to his science, and so doing good to the world; for the chief obstruction129 to the improvement of the world and the growth of knowledge is, that mankind cannot go straightforward130 in it, but continually there have to be new beginnings, and it takes every new man half his life, if not the whole of it, to come up to the point where his predecessor131 left off. And so this noble man–this man of a noble purpose–spent many years in finding out this mighty132 secret; and at last, it is said, he succeeded. But on what terms?
"Well, it is said that the terms were dreadful and horrible; insomuch that the wise man hesitated whether it were lawful133 and desirable to take advantage of them, great as was the object in view.
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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avowed
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pertinacious
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hieroglyphics
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cipher
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fully
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folly
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worthy
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concoct
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attainment
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alcoves
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applied
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zealous
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brook
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glided
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ancestry
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jug
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cork
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concoction
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tallied
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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25
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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26
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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27
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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28
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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29
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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30
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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31
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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32
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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33
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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34
touchiness
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| n.易动气，过分敏感 | |
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35
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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36
squelched
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| v.发吧唧声，发扑哧声( squelch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止；压制；遏制 | |
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37
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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38
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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39
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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40
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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41
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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42
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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43
temporizing
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| v.敷衍( temporize的现在分词 )；拖延；顺应时势；暂时同意 | |
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44
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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45
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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46
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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47
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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48
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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49
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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50
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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51
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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52
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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53
foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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54
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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55
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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56
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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57
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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58
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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59
aster
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| n.紫菀属植物 | |
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60
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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61
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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62
impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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63
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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64
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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65
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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66
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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67
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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68
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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69
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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70
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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71
cognate
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| adj.同类的，同源的，同族的；n.同家族的人，同源词 | |
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72
nostrum
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| n.秘方；妙策 | |
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73
distillation
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| n.蒸馏，蒸馏法 | |
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74
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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75
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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76
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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77
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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78
blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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79
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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80
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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81
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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82
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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83
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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84
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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85
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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86
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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87
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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88
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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89
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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90
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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91
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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92
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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93
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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94
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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95
redeems
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| 补偿( redeem的第三人称单数 )； 实践； 解救； 使…免受责难 | |
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96
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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97
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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98
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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99
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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100
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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101
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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102
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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103
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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104
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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105
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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106
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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107
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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108
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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110
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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111
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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112
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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113
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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114
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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115
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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116
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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117
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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118
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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119
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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120
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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121
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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122
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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123
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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124
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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125
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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126
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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127
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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128
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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129
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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130
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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131
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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132
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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133
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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