"My young friend," said he, "I advise you to look in cellar and garret, or wherever you consider the most likely place, for that iron-bound coffer. There may be nothing in it; it may be full of musty love-letters, or old sermons, or receipted bills of a hundred years ago; but it may contain what will be worth to you an estate of five thousand pounds a year. It is a pity the old woman with the damnable decoction is gone off. Look it up, I say."
"Well, well," said Septimius, abstractedly, "when I can find time."
So saying, he took his leave, and retraced3 his way back to his home. He had not seemed like himself during the time that elapsed since he left it, and it appeared an infinite space that he had lived through and travelled over, and he fancied it hardly possible that he could ever get back again. But now, with every step that he took, he found himself getting miserably4 back into the old enchanted5 land. The mist rose up about him, the pale mist-bow of ghostly promise curved before him; and he trod back again, poor boy, out of the clime of real effort, into the land of his dreams and shadowy enterprise.
"How was it," said he, "that I can have been so untrue to my convictions? Whence came that dark and dull despair that weighed upon me? Why did I let the mocking mood which I was conscious of in that brutal6, brandy-burnt sceptic have such an influence on me? Let him guzzle7! He shall not tempt8 me from my pursuit, with his lure9 of an estate and name among those heavy English beef-eaters of whom he is a brother. My destiny is one which kings might envy, and strive in vain to buy with principalities and kingdoms."
So he trod on air almost, in the latter parts of his journey, and instead of being wearied, grew more airy with the latter miles that brought him to his wayside home.
So now Septimius sat down and began in earnest his endeavors and experiments to prepare the medicine, according to the mysterious terms of the recipe. It seemed not possible to do it, so many rebuffs and disappointments did he meet with. No effort would produce a combination answering to the description of the recipe, which propounded10 a brilliant, gold-colored liquid, clear as the air itself, with a certain fragrance11 which was peculiar12 to it, and also, what was the more individual test of the correctness of the mixture, a certain coldness of the feeling, a chillness which was described as peculiarly refreshing13 and invigorating. With all his trials, he produced nothing but turbid14 results, clouded generally, or lacking something in color, and never that fragrance, and never that coldness which was to be the test of truth. He studied all the books of chemistry which at that period were attainable,–a period when, in the world, it was a science far unlike what it has since become; and when Septimius had no instruction in this country, nor could obtain any beyond the dark, mysterious charlatanic communications of Doctor Portsoaken. So that, in fact, he seemed to be discovering for himself the science through which he was to work. He seemed to do everything that was stated in the recipe, and yet no results came from it; the liquid that he produced was nauseous to the smell,–to taste it he had a horrible repugnance15, turbid, nasty, reminding him in most respects of poor Aunt Keziah's elixir16; and it was a body without a soul, and that body dead. And so it went on; and the poor, half-maddened Septimius began to think that his immortal17 life was preserved by the mere18 effort of seeking for it, but was to be spent in the quest, and was therefore to be made an eternity19 of abortive20 misery21. He pored over the document that had so possessed22 him, turning its crabbed23 meanings every way, trying to get out of it some new light, often tempted24 to fling it into the fire which he kept under his retort, and let the whole thing go; but then again, soon rising out of that black depth of despair, into a determination to do what he had so long striven for. With such intense action of mind as he brought to bear on this paper, it is wonderful that it was not spiritually distilled25; that its essence did not arise, purified from all alloy26 of falsehood, from all turbidness27 of obscurity and ambiguity28, and form a pure essence of truth and invigorating motive29, if of any it were capable. In this interval30, Septimius is said by tradition to have found out many wonderful secrets that were almost beyond the scope of science. It was said that old Aunt Keziah used to come with a coal of fire from unknown furnaces, to light his distilling31 apparatus32; it was said, too, that the ghost of the old lord, whose ingenuity33 had propounded this puzzle for his descendants, used to come at midnight and strive to explain to him this manuscript; that the Black Man, too, met him on the hill-top, and promised him an immediate34 release from his difficulties, provided he would kneel down and worship him, and sign his name in his book, an old, iron-clasped, much-worn volume, which he produced from his ample pockets, and showed him in it the names of many a man whose name has become historic, and above whose ashes kept watch an inscription35 testifying to his virtues36 and devotion,–old autographs,–for the Black Man was the original autograph collector.
But these, no doubt, were foolish stories, conceived andpropagated in chimney-corners, while yet there were chimney-corners and firesides, and smoky flues. There wasno truth in such things, I am sure; the Black Man had changedhis tactics, and knew better than to lure the human soul thus to come to him with his musty autograph-book. So Septimiusfought with his difficulty by himself, as many a beginner inscience has done before him; and to his efforts in this way arepopularly attributed many herb-drinks, and some kinds ofspruce-beer, and nostrums37 used for rheumatism38, sore throat,and typhus fever; but I rather think they all came from Aunt Keziah; or perhaps, like jokes to Joe Miller39, all sorts ofquack medicines, flocking at large through the community, areassigned to him or her. The people have a little mistaken thecharacter and purpose of poor Septimius, and remember him as aquack doctor, instead of a seeker for a secret, not the lesssublime and elevating because it happened to be unattainable.
I know not through what medium or by what means, but it got noised abroad that Septimius was engaged in some mysterious work; and, indeed, his seclusion41, his absorption, his indifference42 to all that was going on in that weary time of war, looked strange enough to indicate that it must be some most important business that engrossed43 him. On the few occasions when he came out from his immediate haunts into the village, he had a strange, owl-like appearance, uncombed, unbrushed, his hair long and tangled44; his face, they said, darkened with smoke; his cheeks pale; the indentation of his brow deeper than ever before; an earnest, haggard, sulking look; and so he went hastily along the village street, feeling as if all eyes might find out what he had in his mind from his appearance; taking by-ways where they were to be found, going long distances through woods and fields, rather than short ones where the way lay through the frequented haunts of men. For he shunned45 the glances of his fellow-men, probably because he had learnt to consider them not as fellows, because he was seeking to withdraw himself from the common bond and destiny,–because he felt, too, that on that account his fellow-men would consider him as a traitor46, an enemy, one who had deserted47 their cause, and tried to withdraw his feeble shoulder from under that great burden of death which is imposed on all men to bear, and which, if one could escape, each other would feel his load propertionably heavier. With these beings of a moment he had no longer any common cause; they must go their separate ways, yet apparently48 the same,–they on the broad, dusty, beaten path, that seemed always full, but from which continually they so strangely vanished into invisibility, no one knowing, nor long inquiring, what had become of them; he on his lonely path, where he should tread secure, with no trouble but the loneliness, which would be none to him. For a little while he would seem to keep them company, but soon they would all drop away, the minister, his accustomed towns-people, Robert Hagburn, Rose, Sibyl Dacy,–all leaving him in blessed unknownness to adopt new temporary relations, and take a new course.
Sometimes, however, the prospect49 a little chilled him. Could he give them all up,–the sweet sister; the friend of his childhood; the grave instructor50 of his youth; the homely51, life-known faces? Yes; there were such rich possibilities in the future: for he would seek out the noblest minds, the deepest hearts in every age, and be the friend of human time. Only it might be sweet to have one unchangeable companion; for, unless he strung the pearls and diamonds of life upon one unbroken affection, he sometimes thought that his life would have nothing to give it unity40 and identity; and so the longest life would be but an aggregate52 of insulated fragments, which would have no relation to one another. And so it would not be one life, but many unconnected ones. Unless he could look into the same eyes, through the mornings of future time, opening and blessing53 him with the fresh gleam of love and joy; unless the same sweet voice could melt his thoughts together; unless some sympathy of a life side by side with his could knit them into one; looking back upon the same things, looking forward to the same; the long, thin thread of an individual life, stretching onward54 and onward, would cease to be visible, cease to be felt, cease, by and by, to have any real bigness in proportion to its length, and so be virtually non-existent, except in the mere inconsiderable Now. If a group of chosen friends, chosen out of all the world for their adaptedness, could go on in endless life together, keeping themselves mutually warm on the high, desolate56 way, then none of them need ever sigh to be comforted in the pitiable snugness57 of the grave. If one especial soul might be his companion, then how complete the fence of mutual55 arms, the warmth of close-pressing breast to breast! Might there be one! O Sibyl Dacy!
Perhaps it could not be. Who but himself could undergo that great trial, and hardship, and self-denial, and firm purpose, never wavering, never sinking for a moment, keeping his grasp on life like one who holds up by main force a sinking and drowning friend?–how could a woman do it! He must then give up the thought. There was a choice,–friendship, and the love of woman,–the long life of immortality58. There was something heroic and ennobling in choosing the latter. And so he walked with the mysterious girl on the hill-top, and sat down beside her on the grave, which still ceased not to redden, portentously59 beautiful, with that unnatural60 flower,–and they talked together; and Septimius looked on her weird61 beauty, and often said to himself, "This, too, will pass away; she is not capable of what I am; she is a woman. It must be a manly62 and courageous63 and forcible spirit, vastly rich in all three particulars, that has strength enough to live! Ah, is it surely so? There is such a dark sympathy between us, she knows me so well, she touches my inmost so at unawares, that I could almost think I had a companion here. Perhaps not so soon. At the end of centuries I might wed2 one; not now."
But once he said to Sibyl Dacy, "Ah, how sweet it would be–sweet for me, at least–if this intercourse64 might last forever!"
"That is an awful idea that you present," said Sibyl, with a hardly perceptible, involuntary shudder65; "always on this hill-top, always passing and repassing this little hillock; always smelling these flowers! I always looking at this deep chasm66 in your brow; you always seeing my bloodless cheek!–doing this till these trees crumble67 away, till perhaps a new forest grew up wherever this white race had planted, and a race of savages68 again possess the soil. I should not like it. My mission here is but for a short time, and will soon be accomplished69, and then I go."
"You do not rightly estimate the way in which the long time might be spent," said Septimius. "We would find out a thousand uses of this world, uses and enjoyments70 which now men never dream of, because the world is just held to their mouths, and then snatched away again, before they have time hardly to taste it, instead of becoming acquainted with the deliciousness of this great world-fruit. But you speak of a mission, and as if you were now in performance of it. Will you not tell me what it is?"
"No," said Sibyl Dacy, smiling on him. "But one day you shall know what it is,–none sooner nor better than you,–so much I promise you."
"Are we friends?" asked Septimius, somewhat puzzled by her look.
"We have an intimate relation to one another," replied Sibyl.
"And what is it?" demanded Septimius.
"That will appear hereafter," answered Sibyl, again smiling on him.
He knew not what to make of this, nor whether to be exalted71 or depressed72; but, at all events, there seemed to be an accordance, a striking together, a mutual touch of their two natures, as if, somehow or other, they were performing the same part of solemn music; so that he felt his soul thrill, and at the same time shudder. Some sort of sympathy there surely was, but of what nature he could not tell; though often he was impelled73 to ask himself the same question he asked Sibyl, "Are we friends?" because of a sudden shock and repulsion that came between them, and passed away in a moment; and there would be Sibyl, smiling askance on him.
And then he toiled74 away again at his chemical pursuits; tried to mingle76 things harmoniously77 that apparently were not born to be mingled78; discovering a science for himself, and mixing it up with absurdities79 that other chemists had long ago flung aside; but still there would be that turbid aspect, still that lack of fragrance, still that want of the peculiar temperature, that was announced as the test of the matter. Over and over again he set the crystal vase in the sun, and let it stay there the appointed time, hoping that it would digest in such a manner as to bring about the desired result.
One day, as it happened, his eyes fell upon the silver key which he had taken from the breast of the dead young man, and he thought within himself that this might have something to do with the seemingly unattainable success of his pursuit. He remembered, for the first time, the grim doctor's emphatic80 injunction to search for the little iron-bound box of which he had spoken, and which had come down with such legends attached to it; as, for instance, that it held the Devil's bond with his great-great-grandfather, now cancelled by the surrender of the latter's soul; that it held the golden key of Paradise; that it was full of old gold, or of the dry leaves of a hundred years ago; that it had a familiar fiend in it, who would be exorcised by the turning of the lock, but would otherwise remain a prisoner till the solid oak of the box mouldered81, or the iron rusted82 away; so that between fear and the loss of the key, this curious old box had remained unopened, till itself was lost.
But now Septimius, putting together what Aunt Keziah had said in her dying moments, and what Doctor Portsoaken had insisted upon, suddenly came to the conclusion that the possession of the old iron box might be of the greatest importance to him. So he set himself at once to think where he had last seen it. Aunt Keziah, of course, had put it away in some safe place or other, either in cellar or garret, no doubt; so Septimius, in the intervals84 of his other occupations, devoted85 several days to the search; and not to weary the reader with the particulars of the quest for an old box, suffice it to say that he at last found it, amongst various other antique rubbish, in a corner of the garret.
It was a very rusty86 old thing, not more than a foot in length, and half as much in height and breadth; but most ponderously87 iron-bound, with bars, and corners, and all sorts of fortification; looking very much like an ancient alms-box, such as are to be seen in the older rural churches of England, and which seem to intimate great distrust of those to whom the funds are committed. Indeed, there might be a shrewd suspicion that some ancient church beadle among Septimius's forefathers89, when emigrating from England, had taken the opportunity of bringing the poor-box along with him. On looking close, too, there were rude embellishments on the lid and sides of the box in long-rusted steel, designs such as the Middle Ages were rich in; a representation of Adam and Eve, or of Satan and a soul, nobody could tell which; but, at any rate, an illustration of great value and interest. Septimius looked at this ugly, rusty, ponderous88 old box, so worn and battered90 with time, and recollected91 with a scornful smile the legends of which it was the object; all of which he despised and discredited92, just as much as he did that story in the "Arabian Nights," where a demon93 comes out of a copper94 vase, in a cloud of smoke that covers the sea-shore; for he was singularly invulnerable to all modes of superstition95, all nonsense, except his own. But that one mode was ever in full force and operation with him. He felt strongly convinced that inside the old box was something that appertained to his destiny; the key that he had taken from the dead man's breast, had that come down through time, and across the sea, and had a man died to bring and deliver it to him, merely for nothing? It could not be.
He looked at the old, rusty, elaborated lock of the little receptacle. It was much flourished about with what was once polished steel; and certainly, when thus polished, and the steel bright with which it was hooped97, defended, and inlaid, it must have been a thing fit to appear in any cabinet; though now the oak was worm-eaten as an old coffin98, and the rust83 of the iron came off red on Septimius's fingers, after he had been fumbling99 at it. He looked at the curious old silver key, too, and fancied that he discovered in its elaborate handle some likeness100 to the ornaments101 about the box; at any rate, this he determined102 was the key of fate, and he was just applying it to the lock when somebody tapped familiarly at the door, having opened the outer one, and stepped in with a manly stride. Septimius, inwardly blaspheming, as secluded103 men are apt to do when any interruption comes, and especially when it comes at some critical moment of projection104, left the box as yet unbroached, and said, "Come in."
The door opened, and Robert Hagburn entered; looking so tall and stately, that Septimius hardly knew him for the youth with whom he had grown up familiarly. He had on the Revolutionary dress of buff and blue, with decorations that to the initiated105 eye denoted him an officer, and certainly there was a kind of authority in his look and manner, indicating that heavy responsibilities, critical moments, had educated him, and turned the ploughboy into a man.
"Is it you?" exclaimed Septimius. "I scarcely knew you. How war has altered you!"
"And I may say, Is it you? for you are much altered likewise, my old friend. Study wears upon you terribly. You will be an old man, at this rate, before you know you are a young one. You will kill yourself, as sure as a gun!"
"Do you think so?" said Septimius, rather startled, for the queer absurdity106 of the position struck him, if he should so exhaust and wear himself as to die, just at the moment when he should have found out the secret of everlasting107 life. "But though I look pale, I am very vigorous. Judging from that scar, slanting108 down from your temple, you have been nearer death than you now think me, though in another way."
"Yes," said Robert Hagburn; "but in hot blood, and for a good cause, who cares for death? And yet I love life; none better, while it lasts, and I love it in all its looks and turns and surprises,–there is so much to be got out of it, in spite of all that people say. Youth is sweet, with its fiery109 enterprise, and I suppose mature manhood will be just as much so, though in a calmer way, and age, quieter still, will have its own merits,–the thing is only to do with life what we ought, and what is suited to each of its stages; do all, enjoy all,–and I suppose these two rules amount to the same thing. Only catch real earnest hold of life, not play with it, and not defer110 one part of it for the sake of another, then each part of life will do for us what was intended. People talk of the hardships of military service, of the miseries111 that we undergo fighting for our country. I have undergone my share, I believe,–hard toil75 in the wilderness112, hunger, extreme weariness, pinching cold, the torture of a wound, peril113 of death; and really I have been as happy through it as ever I was at my mother's cosey fireside of a winter's evening. If I had died, I doubt not my last moments would have been happy. There is no use of life, but just to find out what is fit for us to do; and, doing it, it seems to be little matter whether we live or die in it. God does not want our work, but only our willingness to work; at least, the last seems to answer all his purposes."
"This is a comfortable philosophy of yours," said Septimius, rather contemptuously, and yet enviously114. "Where did you get it, Robert?"
"Where? Nowhere; it came to me on the march; and though I can't say that I thought it when the bullets pattered into the snow about me, in those narrow streets of Quebec, yet, I suppose, it was in my mind then; for, as I tell you, I was very cheerful and contented115. And you, Septimius? I never saw such a discontented, unhappy-looking fellow as you are. You have had a harder time in peace than I in war. You have not found what you seek, whatever that may be. Take my advice. Give yourself to the next work that comes to hand. The war offers place to all of us; we ought to be thankful,–the most joyous116 of all the generations before or after us,–since Providence117 gives us such good work to live for, or such a good opportunity to die. It is worth living for, just to have the chance to die so well as a man may in these days. Come, be a soldier. Be a chaplain, since your education lies that way; and you will find that nobody in peace prays so well as we do, we soldiers; and you shall not be debarred from fighting, too; if war is holy work, a priest may lawfully118 do it, as well as pray for it. Come with us, my old friend Septimius, be my comrade, and, whether you live or die, you will thank me for getting you out of the yellow forlornness in which you go on, neither living nor dying."
Septimius looked at Robert Hagburn in surprise; so much was he altered and improved by this brief experience of war, adventure, responsibility, which he had passed through. Not less than the effect produced on his loutish120, rustic121 air and deportment, developing his figure, seeming to make him taller, setting free the manly graces that lurked122 within his awkward frame,–not less was the effect on his mind and moral nature, giving freedom of ideas, simple perception of great thoughts, a free natural chivalry123; so that the knight124, the Homeric warrior125, the hero, seemed to be here, or possible to be here, in the young New England rustic; and all that history has given, and hearts throbbed126 and sighed and gloried over, of patriotism127 and heroic feeling and action, might be repeated, perhaps, in the life and death of this familiar friend and playmate of his, whom he had valued not over highly,–Robert Hagburn. He had merely followed out his natural heart, boldly and singly,–doing the first good thing that came to hand,–and here was a hero.
"You almost make me envy you, Robert," said he, sighing.
"Then why not come with me?" asked Robert.
"Because I have another destiny," said Septimius.
"Well, you are mistaken; be sure of that," said Robert. "This is not a generation for study, and the making of books; that may come by and by. This great fight has need of all men to carry it on, in one way or another; and no man will do well, even for himself, who tries to avoid his share in it. But I have said my say. And now, Septimius, the war takes much of a man, but it does not take him all, and what it leaves is all the more full of life and health thereby128. I have something to say to you about this."
"Say it then, Robert," said Septimius, who, having got over the first excitement of the interview, and the sort of exhilaration produced by the healthful glow of Robert's spirit, began secretly to wish that it might close, and to be permitted to return to his solitary129 thoughts again. "What can I do for you?"
"Why, nothing," said Robert, looking rather confused, "since all is settled. The fact is, my old friend, as perhaps you have seen, I have very long had an eye upon your sister Rose; yes, from the time we went together to the old school-house, where she now teaches children like what we were then. The war took me away, and in good time, for I doubt if Rose would ever have cared enough for me to be my wife, if I had stayed at home, a country lout119, as I was getting to be, in shirt-sleeves and bare feet. But now, you see, I have come back, and this whole great war, to her woman's heart, is represented in me, and makes me heroic, so to speak, and strange, and yet her old familiar lover. So I found her heart tenderer for me than it was; and, in short, Rose has consented to be my wife, and we mean to be married in a week; my furlough permits little delay."
"You surprise me," said Septimius, who, immersed in his own pursuits, had taken no notice of the growing affection between Robert and his sister. "Do you think it well to snatch this little lull130 that is allowed you in the wild striving of war to try to make a peaceful home? Shall you like to be summoned from it soon? Shall you be as cheerful among dangers afterwards, when one sword may cut down two happinesses?"
"There is something in what you say, and I have thought of it," said Robert, sighing. "But I can't tell how it is; but there is something in this uncertainty131, this peril, this cloud before us, that makes it sweeter to love and to be loved than amid all seeming quiet and serenity132. Really, I think, if there were to be no death, the beauty of life would be all tame. So we take our chance, or our dispensation of Providence, and are going to love, and to be married, just as confidently as if we were sure of living forever."
"Well, old fellow," said Septimius, with more cordiality and outgush of heart than he had felt for a long while, "there is no man whom I should be happier to call brother. Take Rose, and all happiness along with her. She is a good girl, and not in the least like me. May you live out your threescore years and ten, and every one of them be happy."
Little more passed, and Robert Hagburn took his leave with a hearty133 shake of Septimius's hand, too conscious of his own happiness to be quite sensible how much the latter was self-involved, strange, anxious, separated from healthy life and interests; and Septimius, as soon as Robert had disappeared, locked the door behind him, and proceeded at once to apply the silver key to the lock of the old strong box.
The lock resisted somewhat, being rusty, as might well be supposed after so many years since it was opened; but it finally allowed the key to turn, and Septimius, with a good deal of flutter at his heart, opened the lid. The interior had a very different aspect from that of the exterior134; for, whereas the latter looked so old, this, having been kept from the air, looked about as new as when shut up from light and air two centuries ago, less or more. It was lined with ivory, beautifully carved in figures, according to the art which the medi?val people possessed in great perfection; and probably the box had been a lady's jewel-casket formerly135, and had glowed with rich lustre136 and bright colors at former openings. But now there was nothing in it of that kind,–nothing in keeping with those figures carved in the ivory representing some mythical137 subjects,–nothing but some papers in the bottom of the box written over in an ancient hand, which Septimius at once fancied that he recognized as that of the manuscript and recipe which he had found on the breast of the young soldier. He eagerly seized them, but was infinitely138 disappointed to find that they did not seem to refer at all to the subjects treated by the former, but related to pedigrees and genealogies139, and were in reference to an English family and some member of it who, two centuries before, had crossed the sea to America, and who, in this way, had sought to preserve his connection with his native stock, so as to be able, perhaps, to prove it for himself or his descendants; and there was reference to documents and records in England in confirmation140 of the genealogy141. Septimius saw that this paper had been drawn142 up by an ancestor of his own, the unfortunate man who had been hanged for witchcraft143; but so earnest had been his expectation of something different, that he flung the old papers down with bitter indifference.
Then again he snatched them up, and contemptuously read them,–those proofs of descent through generations of esquires and knights144, who had been renowned145 in war; and there seemed, too, to be running through the family a certain tendency to letters, for three were designated as of the colleges of Oxford146 or Cambridge; and against one there was the note, "he that sold himself to Sathan;" and another seemed to have been a follower147 of Wickliffe; and they had murdered kings, and been beheaded, and banished148, and what not; so that the age-long life of this ancient family had not been after all a happy or very prosperous one, though they had kept their estate, in one or another descendant, since the Conquest. It was not wholly without interest that Septimius saw that this ancient descent, this connection with noble families, and intermarriages with names, some of which he recognized as known in English history, all referred to his own family, and seemed to centre in himself, the last of a poverty-stricken line, which had dwindled149 down into obscurity, and into rustic labor96 and humble150 toil, reviving in him a little; yet how little, unless he fulfilled his strange purpose. Was it not better worth his while to take this English position here so strangely offered him? He had apparently slain151 unwittingly the only person who could have contested his rights,–the young man who had so strangely brought him the hope of unlimited152 life at the same time that he was making room for him among his forefathers. What a change in his lot would have been here, for there seemed to be some pretensions153 to a title, too, from a barony which was floating about and occasionally moving out of abeyancy!
"Perhaps," said Septimius to himself, "I may hereafter think it worth while to assert my claim to these possessions, to this position amid an ancient aristocracy, and try that mode of life for one generation. Yet there is something in my destiny incompatible154, of course, with the continued possession of an estate. I must be, of necessity, a wanderer on the face of the earth, changing place at short intervals, disappearing suddenly and entirely155; else the foolish, short-lived multitude and mob of mortals will be enraged156 with one who seems their brother, yet whose countenance157 will never be furrowed158 with his age, nor his knees totter159, nor his force be abated160; their little brevity will be rebuked161 by his age-long endurance, above whom the oaken roof-tree of a thousand years would crumble, while still he would be hale and strong. So that this house, or any other, would be but a resting-place of a day, and then I must away into another obscurity."
With almost a regret, he continued to look over the documents until he reached one of the persons recorded in the line of pedigree,–a worthy162, apparently, of the reign163 of Elizabeth, to whom was attributed a title of Doctor in Utriusque Juris; and against his name was a verse of Latin written, for what purpose Septimius knew not, for, on reading it, it appeared to have no discoverable appropriateness; but suddenly he remembered the blotted164 and imperfect hieroglyphical165 passage in the recipe. He thought an instant, and was convinced this was the full expression and outwriting of that crabbed little mystery; and that here was part of that secret writing for which the Age of Elizabeth was so famous and so dexterous166. His mind had a flash of light upon it, and from that moment he was enabled to read not only the recipe but the rules, and all the rest of that mysterious document, in a way which he had never thought of before; to discern that it was not to be taken literally167 and simply, but had a hidden process involved in it that made the whole thing infinitely deeper than he had hitherto deemed it to be. His brain reeled, he seemed to have taken a draught168 of some liquor that opened infinite depths before him, he could scarcely refrain from giving a shout of triumphant169 exultation170, the house could not contain him, he rushed up to his hill-top, and there, after walking swiftly to and fro, at length flung himself on the little hillock, and burst forth171, as if addressing him who slept beneath.
"O brother, O friend!" said he, "I thank thee for thy matchless beneficence to me; for all which I rewarded thee with this little spot on my hill-top. Thou wast very good, very kind. It would not have been well for thee, a youth of fiery joys and passions, loving to laugh, loving the lightness and sparkling brilliancy of life, to take this boon172 to thyself; for, O brother! I see, I see, it requires a strong spirit, capable of much lonely endurance, able to be sufficient to itself, loving not too much, dependent on no sweet ties of affection, to be capable of the mighty173 trial which now devolves on me. I thank thee, O kinsman174! Yet thou, I feel, hast the better part, who didst so soon lie down to rest, who hast done forever with this troublesome world, which it is mine to contemplate175 from age to age, and to sum up the meaning of it. Thou art disporting176 thyself in other spheres. I enjoy the high, severe, fearful office of living here, and of being the minister of Providence from one age to many successive ones."
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1
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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2
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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3
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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4
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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6
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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guzzle
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| v.狂饮，暴食 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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10
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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11
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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12
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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13
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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14
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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15
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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16
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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17
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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20
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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21
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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22
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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23
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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25
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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turbidness
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| 混浊，浓密； 浊度 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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29
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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32
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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37
nostrums
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| n.骗人的疗法，有专利权的药品( nostrum的名词复数 )；妙策 | |
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38
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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39
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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40
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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41
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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42
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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43
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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44
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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47
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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51
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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52
aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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53
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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54
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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55
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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56
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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57
snugness
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58
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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59
portentously
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60
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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61
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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62
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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63
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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64
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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65
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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66
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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67
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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68
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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69
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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70
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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71
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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72
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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73
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
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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75
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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76
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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77
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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78
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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79
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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80
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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81
mouldered
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| v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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82
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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84
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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85
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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86
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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87
ponderously
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88
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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89
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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90
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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91
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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93
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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94
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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95
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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96
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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97
hooped
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| adj.以环作装饰的；带横纹的；带有环的 | |
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98
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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99
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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100
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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101
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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103
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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104
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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105
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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106
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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107
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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108
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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109
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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110
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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111
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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112
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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113
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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114
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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115
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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118
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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119
lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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122
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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125
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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126
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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127
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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129
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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131
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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137
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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139
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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142
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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144
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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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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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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hieroglyphical
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| n.象形文字，象形文字的文章 | |
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166
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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168
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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169
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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171
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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172
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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173
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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174
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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175
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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disporting
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
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