"Now, this lord was a just man by nature, and if he had gone astray, it was greatly by reason of his earnest wish to do something for the poor, wicked, struggling, bloody6, uncomfortable race of man, to which he belonged. He bethought himself whether he would have a right to take the life of one of those creatures, without their own consent, in order to prolong his own; and after much arguing to and fro, he came to the conclusion that he should not have the right, unless it were a life over which he had control, and which was the next to his own. He looked round him; he was a lonely and abstracted man, secluded8 by his studies from human affections, and there was but one human being whom he cared for;–that was a beautiful kinswoman, an orphan9, whom his father had brought up, and, dying, left her to his care. There was great kindness and affection–as great as the abstracted nature of his pursuits would allow–on the part of this lord towards the beautiful young girl; but not what is called love,–at least, he never acknowledged it to himself. But, looking into his heart, he saw that she, if any one, was to be the person whom the sacrifice demanded, and that he might kill twenty others without effect, but if he took the life of this one, it would make the charm strong and good.
"My friends, I have meditated10 many a time on this ugly feature of my legend, and am unwilling11 to take it in the literal sense; so I conceive its spiritual meaning (for everything, you know, has its spiritual meaning, which to the literal meaning is what the soul is to the body),–its spiritual meaning was, that to the deep pursuit of science we must sacrifice great part of the joy of life; that nobody can be great, and do great things, without giving up to death, so far as he regards his enjoyment12 of it, much that he would gladly enjoy; and in that sense I choose to take it. But the earthly old legend will have it that this mad, high-minded, heroic, murderous lord did insist upon it with himself that he must murder this poor, loving, and beloved child.
"I do not wish to delay upon this horrible matter, and to tell you how he argued it with himself; and how, the more and more he argued it, the more reasonable it seemed, the more absolutely necessary, the more a duty that the terrible sacrifice should be made. Here was this great good to be done to mankind, and all that stood in the way of it was one little delicate life, so frail13 that it was likely enough to be blown out, any day, by the mere14 rude blast that the rush of life creates, as it streams along, or by any slightest accident; so good and pure, too, that she was quite unfit for this world, and not capable of any happiness in it; and all that was asked of her was to allow herself to be transported to a place where she would be happy, and would find companions fit for her,–which he, her only present companion, certainly was not. In fine, he resolved to shed the sweet, fragrant15 blood of this little violet that loved him so.
"Well; let us hurry over this part of the story as fast as we can. He did slay16 this pure young girl; he took her into the wood near the house, an old wood that is standing17 yet, with some of its magnificent oaks; and then he plunged18 a dagger19 into her heart, after they had had a very tender and loving talk together, in which he had tried to open the matter tenderly to her, and make her understand that, though he was to slay her, it was really for the very reason that he loved her better than anything else in the world, and that he would far rather die himself, if that would answer the purpose at all. Indeed, he is said to have offered her the alternative of slaying20 him, and taking upon herself the burden of indefinite life, and the studies and pursuits by which he meant to benefit mankind. But she, it is said,–this noble, pure, loving child,–she looked up into his face and smiled sadly, and then snatching the dagger from him, she plunged it into her own heart. I cannot tell whether this be true, or whether she waited to be killed by him; but this I know, that in the same circumstances I think I should have saved my lover or my friend the pain of killing21 me. There she lay dead, at any rate, and he buried her in the wood, and returned to the house; and, as it happened, he had set his right foot in her blood, and his shoe was wet in it, and by some miraculous22 fate it left a track all along the wood-path, and into the house, and on the stone steps of the threshold, and up into his chamber23, all along; and the servants saw it the next day, and wondered, and whispered, and missed the fair young girl, and looked askance at their lord's right foot, and turned pale, all of them, as death.
"And next, the legend says, that Sir Forrester was struck with horror at what he had done, and could not bear the laboratory where he had toiled25 so long, and was sick to death of the object that he had pursued, and was most miserable26, and fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a day. But all the while he was gone there was the mark of a bloody footstep impressed upon the stone doorstep of the Hall. The track had lain all along through the wood-path, and across the lawn, to the old Gothic door of the Hall; but the rain, the English rain, that is always falling, had come the next day, and washed it all away. The track had lain, too, across the broad hall, and up the stairs, and into the lord's study; but there it had lain on the rushes that were strewn there, and these the servants had gathered carefully up, and thrown them away, and spread fresh ones. So that it was only on the threshold that the mark remained.
"But the legend says, that wherever Sir Forrester went, in his wanderings about the world, he left a bloody track behind him. It was wonderful, and very inconvenient27, this phenomenon. When he went into a church, you would see the track up the broad aisle28, and a little red puddle29 in the place where he sat or knelt. Once he went to the king's court, and there being a track up to the very throne, the king frowned upon him, so that he never came there any more. Nobody could tell how it happened; his foot was not seen to bleed, only there was the bloody track behind him, wherever he went; and he was a horror-stricken man, always looking behind him to see the track, and then hurrying onward30, as if to escape his own tracks; but always they followed him as fast.
"In the hall of feasting, there was the bloody track to his chair. The learned men whom he consulted about this strange difficulty conferred with one another, and with him, who was equal to any of them, and pished and pshawed, and said, 'Oh, there is nothing miraculous in this; it is only a natural infirmity, which can easily be put an end to, though, perhaps, the stoppage of such an evacuation will cause damage to other parts of the frame.' Sir Forrester always said, 'Stop it, my learned brethren, if you can; no matter what the consequences.' And they did their best, but without result; so that he was still compelled to leave his bloody track on their college-rooms and combination-rooms, the same as elsewhere; and in street and in wilderness31; yes, and in the battle-field, they said, his track looked freshest and reddest of all. So, at last, finding the notice he attracted inconvenient, this unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his own Hall, where, living among faithful old servants born in the family, he could hush32 the matter up better than elsewhere, and not be stared at continually, or, glancing round, see people holding up their hands in terror at seeing a bloody track behind him. And so home he came, and there he saw the bloody track on the doorstep, and dolefully went into the hall, and up the stairs, an old servant ushering33 him into his chamber, and half a dozen others following behind, gazing, shuddering34, pointing with quivering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one another's pale faces, and the moment he had passed, running to get fresh rushes, and to scour35 the stairs. The next day, Sir Forrester went into the wood, and by the aged36 oak he found a grave, and on the grave he beheld37 a beautiful crimson38 flower; the most gorgeous and beautiful, surely, that ever grew; so rich it looked, so full of potent39 juice. That flower he gathered; and the spirit of his scientific pursuits coming upon him, he knew that this was the flower, produced out of a human life, that was essential to the perfection of his recipe for immortality41; and he made the drink, and drank it, and became immortal40 in woe42 and agony, still studying, still growing wiser and more wretched in every age. By and by he vanished from the old Hall, but not by death; for, from generation to generation, they say that a bloody track is seen around that house, and sometimes it is tracked up into the chambers43, so freshly that you see he must have passed a short time before; and he grows wiser and wiser, and lonelier and lonelier, from age to age. And this is the legend of the bloody footstep, which I myself have seen at the Hall door. As to the flower, the plant of it continued for several years to grow out of the grave; and after a while, perhaps a century ago, it was transplanted into the garden of —— Hall, and preserved with great care, and is so still. And as the family attribute a kind of sacredness, or cursedness, to the flower, they can hardly be prevailed upon to give any of the seeds, or allow it to be propagated elsewhere, though the king should send to ask it. It is said, too, that there is still in the family the old lord's recipe for immortality, and that several of his collateral44 descendants have tried to concoct45 it, and instil46 the flower into it, and so give indefinite life; but unsuccessfully, because the seeds of the flower must be planted in a fresh grave of bloody death, in order to make it effectual."
So ended Sibyl's legend; in which Septimius was struck by a certain analogy to Aunt Keziah's Indian legend,–both referring to a flower growing out of a grave; and also he did not fail to be impressed with the wild coincidence of this disappearance47 of an ancestor of the family long ago, and the appearance, at about the same epoch48, of the first known ancestor of his own family, the man with wizard's attributes, with the bloody footstep, and whose sudden disappearance became a myth, under the idea that the Devil carried him away. Yet, on the whole, this wild tradition, doubtless becoming wilder in Sibyl's wayward and morbid49 fancy, had the effect to give him a sense of the fantasticalness of his present pursuit, and that in adopting it, he had strayed into a region long abandoned to superstition50, and where the shadows of forgotten dreams go when men are done with them; where past worships are; where great Pan went when he died to the outer world; a limbo51 into which living men sometimes stray when they think themselves sensiblest and wisest, and whence they do not often find their way back into the real world. Visions of wealth, visions of fame, visions of philanthropy,–all visions find room here, and glide52 about without jostling. When Septimius came to look at the matter in his present mood, the thought occurred to him that he had perhaps got into such a limbo, and that Sibyl's legend, which looked so wild, might be all of a piece with his own present life; for Sibyl herself seemed an illusion, and so, most strangely, did Aunt Keziah, whom he had known all his life, with her homely53 and quaint54 characteristics; the grim doctor, with his brandy and his German pipe, impressed him in the same way; and these, altogether, made his homely cottage by the wayside seem an unsubstantial edifice55, such as castles in the air are built of, and the ground he trod on unreal; and that grave, which he knew to contain the decay of a beautiful young man, but a fictitious56 swell57, formed by the fantasy of his eyes. All unreal; all illusion! Was Rose Garfield a deception58 too, with her daily beauty, and daily cheerfulness, and daily worth? In short, it was such a moment as I suppose all men feel (at least, I can answer for one), when the real scene and picture of life swims, jars, shakes, seems about to be broken up and dispersed59, like the picture in a smooth pond, when we disturb its tranquil60 mirror by throwing in a stone; and though the scene soon settles itself, and looks as real as before, a haunting doubt keeps close at hand, as long as we live, asking, "Is it stable? Am I sure of it? Am I certainly not dreaming? See; it trembles again, ready to dissolve."
Applying himself with earnest diligence to his attempt to decipher and interpret the mysterious manuscript, working with his whole mind and strength, Septimius did not fail of some flattering degree of success.
A good deal of the manuscript, as has been said, was in an ancient English script, although so uncouth62 and shapeless were the characters, that it was not easy to resolve them into letters, or to believe that they were anything but arbitrary and dismal63 blots64 and scrawls65 upon the yellow paper; without meaning, vague, like the misty66 and undefined germs of thought as they exist in our minds before clothing themselves in words. These, however, as he concentrated his mind upon them, took distincter shape, like cloudy stars at the power of the telescope, and became sometimes English, sometimes Latin, strangely patched together, as if, so accustomed was the writer to use that language in which all the science of that age was usually embodied67, that he really mixed it unconsciously with the vernacular68, or used both indiscriminately. There was some Greek, too, but not much. Then frequently came in the cipher61, to the study of which Septimius had applied69 himself for some time back, with the aid of the books borrowed from the college library, and not without success. Indeed, it appeared to him, on close observation, that it had not been the intention of the writer really to conceal70 what he had written from any earnest student, but rather to lock it up for safety in a sort of coffer, of which diligence and insight should be the key, and the keen intelligence with which the meaning was sought should be the test of the seeker's being entitled to possess the secret treasure.
Amid a great deal of misty stuff, he found the document to consist chiefly, contrary to his supposition beforehand, of certain rules of life; he would have taken it, on a casual inspection71, for an essay of counsel, addressed by some great and sagacious man to a youth in whom he felt an interest,–so secure and good a doctrine72 of life was propounded73, such excellent maxims74 there were, such wisdom in all matters that came within the writer's purview75. It was as much like a digested synopsis76 of some old philosopher's wise rules of conduct, as anything else. But on closer inspection, Septimius, in his unsophisticated consideration of this matter, was not so well satisfied. True, everything that was said seemed not discordant77 with the rules of social morality; not unwise: it was shrewd, sagacious; it did not appear to infringe78 upon the rights of mankind; but there was something left out, something unsatisfactory,–what was it? There was certainly a cold spell in the document; a magic, not of fire, but of ice; and Septimius the more exemplified its power, in that he soon began to be insensible of it. It affected79 him as if it had been written by some greatly wise and worldly-experienced man, like the writer of Ecclesiastes; for it was full of truth. It was a truth that does not make men better, though perhaps calmer; and beneath which the buds of happiness curl up like tender leaves in a frost. What was the matter with this document, that the young man's youth perished out of him as he read? What icy hand had written, it, so that the heart was chilled out of the reader? Not that Septimius was sensible of this character; at least, not long,–for as he read, there grew upon him a mood of calm satisfaction, such as he had never felt before. His mind seemed to grow clearer; his perceptions most acute; his sense of the reality of things grew to be such, that he felt as if he could touch and handle all his thoughts, feel round about all their outline and circumference80, and know them with a certainty, as if they were material things. Not that all this was in the document itself; but by studying it so earnestly, and, as it were, creating its meaning anew for himself, out of such illegible81 materials, he caught the temper of the old writer's mind, after so many ages as that tract7 had lain in the mouldy and musty manuscript. He was magnetized with him; a powerful intellect acted powerfully upon him; perhaps, even, there was a sort of spell and mystic influence imbued82 into the paper, and mingled83 with the yellow ink, that steamed forth84 by the effort of this young man's earnest rubbing, as it were, and by the action of his mind, applied to it as intently as he possibly could; and even his handling the paper, his bending over it, and breathing upon it, had its effect.
It is not in our power, nor in our wish, to produce the original form, nor yet the spirit, of a production which is better lost to the world: because it was the expression of a human intellect originally greatly gifted and capable of high things, but gone utterly85 astray, partly by its own subtlety86, partly by yielding to the temptations of the lower part of its nature, by yielding the spiritual to a keen sagacity of lower things, until it was quite fallen; and yet fallen in such a way, that it seemed not only to itself, but to mankind, not fallen at all, but wise and good, and fulfilling all the ends of intellect in such a life as ours, and proving, moreover, that earthly life was good, and all that the development of our nature demanded. All this is better forgotten; better burnt; better never thought over again; and all the more, because its aspect was so wise, and even praiseworthy. But what we must preserve of it were certain rules of life and moral diet, not exactly expressed in the document, but which, as it were, on its being duly received into Septimius's mind, were precipitated87 from the rich solution, and crystallized into diamonds, and which he found to be the moral dietetics88, so to speak, by observing which he was to achieve the end of earthly immortality, whose physical nostrum89 was given in the recipe which, with the help of Doctor Portsoaken and his Aunt Keziah, he had already pretty satisfactorily made out.
"Keep thy heart at seventy throbs90 in a minute; all more than that wears away life too quickly. If thy respiration92 be too quick, think with thyself that thou hast sinned against natural order and moderation.
"Drink not wine nor strong drink; and observe that this rule is worthiest93 in its symbolic4 meaning.
"Run not; leap not; walk at a steady pace, and count thy paces per day.
"If thou feelest, at any time, a throb91 of the heart, pause on the instant, and analyze95 it; fix thy mental eye steadfastly96 upon it, and inquire why such commotion97 is.
"Hate not any man nor woman; be not angry, unless at any time thy blood seem a little cold and torpid98; cut out all rankling99 feelings, they are poisonous to thee. If, in thy waking moments, or in thy dreams, thou hast thoughts of strife100 or unpleasantness with any man, strive quietly with thyself to forget him.
"Have no friendships with an imperfect man, with a man in bad health, of violent passions, of any characteristic that evidently disturbs his own life, and so may have disturbing influence on thine. Shake not any man by the hand, because thereby101, if there be any evil in the man, it is likely to be communicated to thee.
"Kiss no woman if her lips be red; look not upon her if she be very fair. Touch not her hand if thy finger-tips be found to thrill with hers ever so little. On the whole, shun102 woman, for she is apt to be a disturbing influence. If thou love her, all is over, and thy whole past and remaining labor24 and pains will be in vain.
"Do some decent degree of good and kindness in thy daily life, for the result is a slight pleasurable sense that will seem to warm and delectate thee with felicitous103 self-laudings; and all that brings thy thoughts to thyself tends to invigorate that central principle by the growth of which thou art to give thyself indefinite life.
"Do not any act manifestly evil; it may grow upon thee, and corrode104 thee in after-years. Do not any foolish good act; it may change thy wise habits.
"Eat no spiced meats. Young chickens, new-fallen lambs, fruits, bread four days old, milk, freshest butter will make thy fleshy tabernacle youthful.
"From sick people, maimed wretches105, afflicted106 people–all of whom show themselves at variance107 with things as they should be,–from people beyond their wits, from people in a melancholic108 mood, from people in extravagant109 joy, from teething children, from dead corpses110, turn away thine eyes and depart elsewhere.
"If beggars haunt thee, let thy servants drive them away, thou withdrawing out of ear-shot.
"Crying and sickly children, and teething children, as aforesaid, carefully avoid. Drink the breath of wholesome111 infants as often as thou conveniently canst,–it is good for thy purpose; also the breath of buxom112 maids, if thou mayest without undue113 disturbance114 of the flesh, drink it as a morning-draught, as medicine; also the breath of cows as they return from rich pasture at eventide.
"If thou seest human poverty, or suffering, and it trouble thee, strive moderately to relieve it, seeing that thus thy mood will be changed to a pleasant self-laudation.
"Practise thyself in a certain continual smile, for its tendency will be to compose thy frame of being, and keep thee from too much wear.
"Search not to see if thou hast a gray hair; scrutinize115 not thy forehead to find a wrinkle; nor the corners of thy eyes to discover if they be corrugated116. Such things, being gazed at, daily take heart and grow.
"Desire nothing too fervently117, not even life; yet keep thy hold upon it mightily119, quietly, unshakably, for as long as thou really art resolved to live, Death with all his force, shall have no power against thee.
"Walk not beneath tottering120 ruins, nor houses being put up, nor climb to the top of a mast, nor approach the edge of a precipice121, nor stand in the way of the lightning, nor cross a swollen122 river, nor voyage at sea, nor ride a skittish123 horse, nor be shot at by an arrow, nor confront a sword, nor put thyself in the way of violent death; for this is hateful, and breaketh through all wise rules.
"Say thy prayers at bedtime, if thou deemest it will give thee quieter sleep; yet let it not trouble thee if thou forgettest them.
"Change thy shirt daily; thereby thou castest off yesterday's decay, and imbibest the freshness of the morning's life, which enjoy with smelling to roses, and other healthy and fragrant flowers, and live the longer for it. Roses are made to that end.
"Read not great poets; they stir up thy heart; and the human heart is a soil which, if deeply stirred, is apt to give out noxious124 vapors126."
Such were some of the precepts127 which Septimius gathered and reduced to definite form out of this wonderful document; and he appreciated their wisdom, and saw clearly that they must be absolutely essential to the success of the medicine with which they were connected. In themselves, almost, they seemed capable of prolonging life to an indefinite period, so wisely were they conceived, so well did they apply to the causes which almost invariably wear away this poor short life of men, years and years before even the shattered constitutions that they received from their forefathers128 need compel them to die. He deemed himself well rewarded for all his labor and pains, should nothing else follow but his reception and proper appreciation129 of these wise rules; but continually, as he read the manuscript, more truths, and, for aught I know, profounder and more practical ones, developed themselves; and, indeed, small as the manuscript looked, Septimius thought that he should find a volume as big as the most ponderous130 folio in the college library too small to contain its wisdom. It seemed to drip and distil131 with precious fragrant drops, whenever he took it out of his desk; it diffused132 wisdom like those vials of perfume which, small as they look, keep diffusing133 an airy wealth of fragrance134 for years and years together, scattering135 their virtue136 in incalculable volumes of invisible vapor125, and yet are none the less in bulk for all they give; whenever he turned over the yellow leaves, bits of gold, diamonds of good size, precious pearls, seemed to drop out from between them.
And now ensued a surprise which, though of a happy kind, was almost too much for him to bear; for it made his heart beat considerably137 faster than the wise rules of his manuscript prescribed. Going up on his hill-top, as summer wore away (he had not been there for some time), and walking by the little flowery hillock, as so many a hundred times before, what should he see there but a new flower, that during the time he had been poring over the manuscript so sedulously138 had developed itself, blossomed, put forth its petals139, bloomed into full perfection, and now, with the dew of the morning upon it, was waiting to offer itself to Septimius? He trembled as he looked at it, it was too much almost to bear,–it was so very beautiful, so very stately, so very rich, so very mysterious and wonderful. It was like a person, like a life! Whence did it come? He stood apart from it, gazing in wonder; tremulously taking in its aspect, and thinking of the legends he had heard from Aunt Keziah and from Sibyl Dacy; and how that this flower, like the one that their wild traditions told of, had grown out of a grave,–out of a grave in which he had laid one slain140 by himself.
The flower was of the richest crimson, illuminated141 with a golden centre of a perfect and stately beauty. From the best descriptions that I have been able to gain of it, it was more like a dahlia than any other flower with which I have acquaintance; yet it does not satisfy me to believe it really of that species, for the dahlia is not a flower of any deep characteristics, either lively or malignant142, and this flower, which Septimius found so strangely, seems to have had one or the other. If I have rightly understood, it had a fragrance which the dahlia lacks; and there was something hidden in its centre, a mystery, even in its fullest bloom, not developing itself so openly as the heartless, yet not dishonest, dahlia. I remember in England to have seen a flower at Eaton Hall, in Cheshire, in those magnificent gardens, which may have been like this, but my remembrance of it is not sufficiently143 distinct to enable me to describe it better than by saying that it was crimson, with a gleam of gold in its centre, which yet was partly hidden. It had many petals of great richness.
Septimius, bending eagerly over the plant, saw that this was not to be the only flower that it would produce that season; on the contrary, there was to be a great abundance of them, a luxuriant harvest; as if the crimson offspring of this one plant would cover the whole hillock,–as if the dead youth beneath had burst into a resurrection of many crimson flowers! And in its veiled heart, moreover, there was a mystery like death, although it seemed to cover something bright and golden.
Day after day the strange crimson flower bloomed more and more abundantly, until it seemed almost to cover the little hillock, which became a mere bed of it, apparently144 turning all its capacity of production to this flower; for the other plants, Septimius thought, seemed to shrink away, and give place to it, as if they were unworthy to compare with the richness, glory, and worth of this their queen. The fervent118 summer burned into it, the dew and the rain ministered to it; the soil was rich, for it was a human heart contributing its juices,–a heart in its fiery145 youth sodden146 in its own blood, so that passion, unsatisfied loves and longings147, ambition that never won its object, tender dreams and throbs, angers, lusts148, hates, all concentrated by life, came sprouting149 in it, and its mysterious being, and streaks150 and shadows, had some meaning in each of them.
The two girls, when they next ascended151 the hill, saw the strange flower, and Rose admired it, and wondered at it, but stood at a distance, without showing an attraction towards it, rather an undefined aversion, as if she thought it might be a poison flower; at any rate she would not be inclined to wear it in her bosom152. Sibyl Dacy examined it closely, touched its leaves, smelt153 it, looked at it with a botanist's eye, and at last remarked to Rose, "Yes, it grows well in this new soil; methinks it looks like a new human life."
"What is the strange flower?" asked Rose.
"The Sanguinea sanguinissima" said Sibyl.
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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engross
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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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tract
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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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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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unwilling
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enjoyment
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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mere
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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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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plunged
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dagger
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slaying
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killing
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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23
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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24
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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25
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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26
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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27
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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28
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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29
puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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30
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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31
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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32
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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33
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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34
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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35
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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36
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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37
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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38
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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39
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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40
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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41
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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42
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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43
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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44
collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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45
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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46
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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47
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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48
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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49
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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50
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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51
limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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52
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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53
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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54
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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55
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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56
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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57
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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58
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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59
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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60
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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61
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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62
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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63
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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64
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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65
scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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66
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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67
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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68
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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69
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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70
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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71
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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72
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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73
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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75
purview
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| n.范围；眼界 | |
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76
synopsis
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| n.提要，梗概 | |
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77
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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78
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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79
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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80
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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81
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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82
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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83
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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84
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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85
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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86
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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87
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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88
dietetics
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| n.营养学 | |
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89
nostrum
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| n.秘方；妙策 | |
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90
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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91
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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92
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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93
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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94
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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95
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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96
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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97
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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98
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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99
rankling
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的现在分词 ) | |
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100
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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101
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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102
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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103
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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104
corrode
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| v.使腐蚀，侵蚀，破害；v.腐蚀，被侵蚀 | |
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105
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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106
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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108
melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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109
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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110
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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111
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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112
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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113
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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114
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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115
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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116
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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117
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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118
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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119
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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120
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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121
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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122
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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123
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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124
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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125
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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126
vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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128
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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129
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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130
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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131
distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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132
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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133
diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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134
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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135
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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136
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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137
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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138
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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139
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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140
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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141
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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142
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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143
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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144
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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145
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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146
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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147
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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148
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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149
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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150
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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151
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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153
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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