But he knew nothing, thought nothing, cared nothing about his country, or his country's battles; he was as sane15 as he had been for a year past, and was wise enough, though merely by instinct, to throw off some of his superfluous16 excitement by these wild gestures, with wild shouts, and restless activity; and when he had partly accomplished17 this he returned to the house, and, late as it was, kindled18 his fire, and began anew the processes of chemistry, now enlightened by the late teachings. A new agent seemed to him to mix itself up with his toil19 and to forward his purpose; something helped him along; everything became facile to his manipulation, clear to his thought. In this way he spent the night, and when at sunrise he let in the eastern light upon his study, the thing was done.
Septimius had achieved it. That is to say, he had succeeded in amalgamating20 his materials so that they acted upon one another, and in accordance; and had produced a result that had a subsistence in itself, and a right to be; a something potent21 and substantial; each ingredient contributing its part to form a new essence, which was as real and individual as anything it was formed from. But in order to perfect it, there was necessity that the powers of nature should act quietly upon it through a month of sunshine; that the moon, too, should have its part in the production; and so he must wait patiently for this. Wait! surely he would! Had he not time for waiting? Were he to wait till old age, it would not be too much; for all future time would have it in charge to repay him.
So he poured the inestimable liquor into a glass vase, well secured from the air, and placed it in the sunshine, shifting it from one sunny window to another, in order that it might ripen22; moving it gently lest he should disturb the living spirit that he knew to be in it. And he watched it from day to day, watched the reflections in it, watched its lustre, which seemed to him to grow greater day by day, as if it imbibed24 the sunlight into it. Never was there anything so bright as this. It changed its hue25, too, gradually, being now a rich purple, now a crimson26, now a violet, now a blue; going through all these prismatic colors without losing any of its brilliance27, and never was there such a hue as the sunlight took in falling through it and resting on his floor. And strange and beautiful it was, too, to look through this medium at the outer world, and see how it was glorified28 and made anew, and did not look like the same world, although there were all its familiar marks. And then, past his window, seen through this, went the farmer and his wife, on saddle and pillion, jogging to meeting-house or market; and the very dog, the cow coming home from pasture, the old familiar faces of his childhood, looked differently. And so at last, at the end of the month, it settled into a most deep and brilliant crimson, as if it were the essence of the blood of the young man whom he had slain29; the flower being now triumphant30, it had given its own hue to the whole mass, and had grown brighter every day; so that it seemed to have inherent light, as if it were a planet by itself, a heart of crimson fire burning within it.
And when this had been done, and there was no more change, showing that the digestion31 was perfect, then he took it and placed it where the changing moon would fall upon it; and then again he watched it, covering it in darkness by day, revealing it to the moon by night; and watching it here, too, through more changes. And by and by he perceived that the deep crimson hue was departing,–not fading; we cannot say that, because of the prodigious32 lustre which still pervaded33 it, and was not less strong than ever; but certainly the hue became fainter, now a rose-color, now fainter, fainter still, till there was only left the purest whiteness of the moon itself; a change that somewhat disappointed and grieved Septimius, though still it seemed fit that the water of life should be of no one richness, because it must combine all. As the absorbed young man gazed through the lonely nights at his beloved liquor, he fancied sometimes that he could see wonderful things in the crystal sphere of the vase; as in Doctor Dee's magic crystal used to be seen, which now lies in the British Museum; representations, it might be, of things in the far past, or in the further future, scenes in which he himself was to act, persons yet unborn, the beautiful and the wise, with whom he was to be associated, palaces and towers, modes of hitherto unseen architecture, that old hall in England to which he had a hereditary34 right, with its gables, and its smooth lawn; the witch-meetings in which his ancestor used to take part; Aunt Keziah on her death-bed; and, flitting through all, the shade of Sibyl Dacy, eying him from secret nooks, or some remoteness, with her peculiar35 mischievous36 smile, beckoning37 him into the sphere. All such visions would he see, and then become aware that he had been in a dream, superinduced by too much watching, too intent thought; so that living among so many dreams, he was almost afraid that he should find himself waking out of yet another, and find that the vase itself and the liquid it contained were also dream-stuff. But no; these were real.
There was one change that surprised him, although he accepted it without doubt, and, indeed, it did imply a wonderful efficacy, at least singularity, in the newly converted liquid. It grew strangely cool in temperature in the latter part of his watching it. It appeared to imbibe23 its coldness from the cold, chaste38 moon, until it seemed to Septimius that it was colder than ice itself; the mist gathered upon the crystal vase as upon a tumbler of iced water in a warm room. Some say it actually gathered thick with frost, crystallized into a thousand fantastic and beautiful shapes, but this I do not know so well. Only it was very cold. Septimius pondered upon it, and thought he saw that life itself was cold, individual in its being, a high, pure essence, chastened from all heats; cold, therefore, and therefore invigorating.
Thus much, inquiring deeply, and with painful research into the liquid which Septimius concocted39, have I been able to learn about it,–its aspect, its properties; and now I suppose it to be quite perfect, and that nothing remains40 but to put it to such use as he had so long been laboring41 for. But this, somehow or other, he found in himself a strong reluctance42 to do; he paused, as it were, at the point where his pathway separated itself from that of other men, and meditated43 whether it were worth while to give up everything that Providence44 had provided, and take instead only this lonely gift of immortal life. Not that he ever really had any doubt about it; no, indeed; but it was his security, his consciousness that he held the bright sphere of all futurity in his hand, that made him dally45 a little, now that he could quaff46 immortality47 as soon as he liked.
Besides, now that he looked forward from the verge48 of mortal destiny, the path before him seemed so very lonely. Might he not seek some one own friend–one single heart–before he took the final step? There was Sibyl Dacy! Oh, what bliss49, if that pale girl might set out with him on his journey! how sweet, how sweet, to wander with her through the places else so desolate50! for he could but half see, half know things, without her to help him. And perhaps it might be so. She must already know, or strongly suspect, that he was engaged in some deep, mysterious research; it might be that, with her sources of mysterious knowledge among her legendary51 lore5, she knew of this. Then, oh, to think of those dreams which lovers have always had, when their new love makes the old earth seem so happy and glorious a place, that not a thousand nor an endless succession of years can exhaust it,–all those realized for him and her! If this could not be, what should he do? Would he venture onward52 into such a wintry futurity, symbolized53, perhaps, by the coldness of the crystal goblet54? He shivered at the thought.
Now, what had passed between Septimius and Sibyl Dacy is not upon record, only that one day they were walking together on the hill-top, or sitting by the little hillock, and talking earnestly together. Sibyl's face was a little flushed with some excitement, and really she looked very beautiful; and Septimius's dark face, too, had a solemn triumph in it that made him also beautiful; so rapt he was after all those watchings, and emaciations, and the pure, unworldly, self-denying life that he had spent. They talked as if there were some foregone conclusion on which they based what they said.
"Will you not be weary in the time that we shall spend together?" asked he.
"Yes," said Septimius, "though now I must remould my anticipations56; for I have only dared, hitherto, to map out a solitary57 existence."
"And how did you do that?" asked Sibyl.
"Oh, there is nothing that would come amiss," answered Septimius; "for, truly, as I have lived apart from men, yet it is really not because I have no taste for whatever humanity includes: but I would fain, if I might, live everybody's life at once, or, since that may not be, each in succession. I would try the life of power, ruling men; but that might come later, after I had had long experience of men, and had lived through much history, and had seen, as a disinterested58 observer, how men might best be influenced for their own good. I would be a great traveller at first; and as a man newly coming into possession of an estate goes over it, and views each separate field and wood-lot, and whatever features it contains, so will I, whose the world is, because I possess it forever; whereas all others are but transitory guests. So will I wander over this world of mine, and be acquainted with all its shores, seas, rivers, mountains, fields, and the various peoples who inhabit them, and to whom it is my purpose to be a benefactor59; for think not, dear Sibyl, that I suppose this great lot of mine to have devolved upon me without great duties,–heavy and difficult to fulfil, though glorious in their adequate fulfilment. But for all this there will be time. In a century I shall partially60 have seen this earth, and known at least its boundaries,–have gotten for myself the outline, to be filled up hereafter."
"And I, too," said Sibyl, "will have my duties and labors61; for while you are wandering about among men, I will go among women, and observe and converse62 with them, from the princess to the peasant-girl; and will find out what is the matter, that woman gets so large a share of human misery63 laid on her weak shoulders. I will see why it is that, whether she be a royal princess, she has to be sacrificed to matters of state, or a cottage-girl, still somehow the thing not fit for her is done; and whether there is or no some deadly curse on woman, so that she has nothing to do, and nothing to enjoy, but only to be wronged by man and still to love him, and despise herself for it,–to be shaky in her revenges. And then if, after all this investigation64, it turns out–as I suspect–that woman is not capable of being helped, that there is something inherent in herself that makes it hopeless to struggle for her redemption, then what shall I do? Nay65, I know not, unless to preach to the sisterhood that they all kill their female children as fast as they are born, and then let the generations of men manage as they can! Woman, so feeble and crazy in body, fair enough sometimes, but full of infirmities; not strong, with nerves prone66 to every pain; ailing67, full of little weaknesses, more contemptible68 than great ones!"
"That would be a dreary69 end, Sibyl," said Septimius. "But I trust that we shall be able to hush70 up this weary and perpetual wail71 of womankind on easier terms than that. Well, dearest Sibyl, after we have spent a hundred years in examining into the real state of mankind, and another century in devising and putting in execution remedies for his ills, until our maturer thought has time to perfect his cure, we shall then have earned a little playtime,–a century of pastime, in which we will search out whatever joy can be had by thoughtful people, and that childlike sportiveness which comes out of growing wisdom, and enjoyment of every kind. We will gather about us everything beautiful and stately, a great palace, for we shall then be so experienced that all riches will be easy for us to get; with rich furniture, pictures, statues, and all royal ornaments72; and side by side with this life we will have a little cottage, and see which is the happiest, for this has always been a dispute. For this century we will neither toil nor spin, nor think of anything beyond the day that is passing over us. There is time enough to do all that we have to do."
"If it is," said Septimius, "the next century shall make up for it; for then we will contrive74 deep philosophies, take up one theory after another, and find out its hollowness and inadequacy75, and fling it aside, the rotten rubbish that they all are, until we have strewn the whole realm of human thought with the broken fragments, all smashed up. And then, on this great mound76 of broken potsherds (like that great Monte Testaccio, which we will go to Rome to see), we will build a system that shall stand, and by which mankind shall look far into the ways of Providence, and find practical uses of the deepest kind in what it has thought merely speculation77. And then, when the hundred years are over, and this great work done, we will still be so free in mind, that we shall see the emptiness of our own theory, though men see only its truth. And so, if we like more of this pastime, then shall another and another century, and as many more as we like, be spent in the same way."
"And after that another play-day?" asked Sibyl Dacy.
"Yes," said Septimius, "only it shall not be called so; for the next century we will get ourselves made rulers of the earth; and knowing men so well, and having so wrought78 our theories of government and what not, we will proceed to execute them,–which will be as easy to us as a child's arrangement of its dolls. We will smile superior, to see what a facile thing it is to make a people happy. In our reign79 of a hundred years, we shall have time to extinguish errors, and make the world see the absurdity80 of them; to substitute other methods of government for the old, bad ones; to fit the people to govern itself, to do with little government, to do with none; and when this is effected, we will vanish from our loving people, and be seen no more, but be reverenced81 as gods,–we, meanwhile, being overlooked, and smiling to ourselves, amid the very crowd that is looking for us."
"I intend," said Sibyl, making this wild talk wilder by that petulance82 which she so often showed,–"I intend to introduce a new fashion of dress when I am queen, and that shall be my part of the great reform which you are going to make. And for my crown, I intend to have it of flowers, in which that strange crimson one shall be the chief; and when I vanish, this flower shall remain behind, and perhaps they shall have a glimpse of me wearing it in the crowd. Well, what next?"
"After this," said Septimius, "having seen so much of affairs, and having lived so many hundred years, I will sit down and write a history, such as histories ought to be, and never have been. And it shall be so wise, and so vivid, and so self-evidently true, that people shall be convinced from it that there is some undying one among them, because only an eye-witness could have written it, or could have gained so much wisdom as was needful for it."
"And for my part in the history," said Sibyl, "I will record the various lengths of women's waists, and the fashion of their sleeves. What next?"
"By this time," said Septimius,–"how many hundred years have we now lived?–by this time, I shall have pretty well prepared myself for what I have been contemplating83 from the first. I will become a religious teacher, and promulgate84 a faith, and prove it by prophecies and miracles; for my long experience will enable me to do the first, and the acquaintance which I shall have formed with the mysteries of science will put the latter at my fingers' ends. So I will be a prophet, a greater than Mahomet, and will put all man's hopes into my doctrine85, and make him good, holy, happy; and he shall put up his prayers to his Creator, and find them answered, because they shall be wise, and accompanied with effort. This will be a great work, and may earn me another rest and pastime."
[He would see, in one age, the column raised in memory of some great dead of his in a former one.]
"And what shall that be?" asked Sibyl Dacy.
"Why," said Septimius, looking askance at her, and speaking with a certain hesitation86, "I have learned, Sibyl, that it is a weary toil for a man to be always good, holy, and upright. In my life as a sainted prophet, I shall have somewhat too much of this; it will be enervating87 and sickening, and I shall need another kind of diet. So, in the next hundred years, Sibyl,–in that one little century,–methinks I would fain be what men call wicked. How can I know my brethren, unless I do that once? I would experience all. Imagination is only a dream. I can imagine myself a murderer, and all other modes of crime; but it leaves no real impression on the heart. I must live these things."
"Good," said Sibyl, quietly; "and I too."
"And thou too!" exclaimed Septimius. "Not so, Sibyl. I would reserve thee, good and pure, so that there may be to me the means of redemption,–some stable hold in the moral confusion that I will create around myself, whereby I shall by and by get back into order, virtue89, and religion. Else all is lost, and I may become a devil, and make my own hell around me; so, Sibyl, do thou be good forever, and not fall nor slip a moment. Promise me!"
"We will consider about that in some other century," replied Sibyl, composedly. "There is time enough yet. What next?"
"Nay, this is enough for the present," said Septimius. "New vistas90 will open themselves before us continually, as we go onward. How idle to think that one little lifetime would exhaust the world! After hundreds of centuries, I feel as if we might still be on the threshold. There is the material world, for instance, to perfect; to draw out the powers of nature, so that man shall, as it were, give life to all modes of matter, and make them his ministering servants. Swift ways of travel, by earth, sea, and air; machines for doing whatever the hand of man now does, so that we shall do all but put souls into our wheel-work and watch-work; the modes of making night into day; of getting control over the weather and the seasons; the virtues91 of plants,–these are some of the easier things thou shalt help me do."
"I have no taste for that," said Sibyl, "unless I could make an embroidery92 worked of steel."
"And so, Sibyl," continued Septimius, pursuing his strain of solemn enthusiasm, intermingled as it was with wild, excursive vagaries94, "we will go on as many centuries as we choose. Perhaps,–yet I think not so,–perhaps, however, in the course of lengthened95 time, we may find that the world is the same always, and mankind the same, and all possibilities of human fortune the same; so that by and by we shall discover that the same old scenery serves the world's stage in all ages, and that the story is always the same; yes, and the actors always the same, though none but we can be aware of it; and that the actors and spectators would grow weary of it, were they not bathed in forgetful sleep, and so think themselves new made in each successive lifetime. We may find that the stuff of the world's drama, and the passions which seem to play in it, have a monotony, when once we have tried them; that in only once trying them, and viewing them, we find out their secret, and that afterwards the show is too superficial to arrest our attention. As dramatists and novelists repeat their plots, so does man's life repeat itself, and at length grows stale. This is what, in my desponding moments, I have sometimes suspected. What to do, if this be so?"
"Nay, that is a serious consideration," replied Sibyl, assuming an air of mock alarm, "if you really think we shall be tired of life, whether or no."
"I do not think it, Sibyl," replied Septimius. "By much musing96 on this matter, I have convinced myself that man is not capable of debarring himself utterly97 from death, since it is evidently a remedy for many evils that nothing else would cure. This means that we have discovered of removing death to an indefinite distance is not supernatural; on the contrary, it is the most natural thing in the world,–the very perfection of the natural, since it consists in applying the powers and processes of Nature to the prolongation of the existence of man, her most perfect handiwork; and this could only be done by entire accordance and co-effort with Nature. Therefore Nature is not changed, and death remains as one of her steps, just as heretofore. Therefore, when we have exhausted98 the world, whether by going through its apparently99 vast variety, or by satisfying ourselves that it is all a repetition of one thing, we will call death as the friend to introduce us to something new."
[He would write a poem, or other great work, inappreciable at first, and live to see it famous,–himself among his own posterity100.]
"Oh, insatiable love of life!" exclaimed Sibyl, looking at him with strange pity. "Canst thou not conceive that mortal brain and heart might at length be content to sleep?"
"Never, Sibyl!" replied Septimius, with horror. "My spirit delights in the thought of an infinite eternity101. Does not thine?"
"One little interval–a few centuries only–of dreamless sleep," said Sibyl, pleadingly. "Cannot you allow me that?"
"I fear," said Septimius, "our identity would change in that repose102; it would be a Lethe between the two parts of our being, and with such disconnection a continued life would be equivalent to a new one, and therefore valueless."
In such talk, snatching in the fog at the fragments of philosophy, they continued fitfully; Septimius calming down his enthusiasm thus, which otherwise might have burst forth103 in madness, affrighting the quiet little village with the marvellous things about which they mused104. Septimius could not quite satisfy himself whether Sibyl Dacy shared in his belief of the success of his experiment, and was confident, as he was, that he held in his control the means of unlimited105 life; neither was he sure that she loved him,–loved him well enough to undertake with him the long march that he propounded106 to her, making a union an affair of so vastly more importance than it is in the brief lifetime of other mortals. But he determined107 to let her drink the invaluable108 draught109 along with him, and to trust to the long future, and the better opportunities that time would give him, and his outliving all rivals, and the loneliness which an undying life would throw around her, without him, as the pledges of his success.
And now the happy day had come for the celebration of Robert Hagburn's marriage with pretty Rose Garfield, the brave with the fair; and, as usual, the ceremony was to take place in the evening, and at the house of the bride; and preparations were made accordingly: the wedding-cake, which the bride's own fair hands had mingled93 with her tender hopes, and seasoned it with maiden110 fears, so that its composition was as much ethereal as sensual; and the neighbors and friends were invited, and came with their best wishes and good-will. For Rose shared not at all the distrust, the suspicion, or whatever it was, that had waited on the true branch of Septimius's family, in one shape or another, ever since the memory of man; and all–except, it might be, some disappointed damsels who had hoped to win Robert Hagburn for themselves–rejoiced at the approaching union of this fit couple, and wished them happiness.
Septimius, too, accorded his gracious consent to the union, and while he thought within himself that such a brief union was not worth the trouble and feeling which his sister and her lover wasted on it, still he wished them happiness. As he compared their brevity with his long duration, he smiled at their little fancies of loves, of which he seemed to see the end; the flower of a brief summer, blooming beautifully enough, and shedding its leaves, the fragrance111 of which would linger a little while in his memory, and then be gone. He wondered how far in the coming centuries he should remember this wedding of his sister Rose; perhaps he would meet, five hundred years hence, some descendant of the marriage,–a fair girl, bearing the traits of his sister's fresh beauty; a young man, recalling the strength and manly112 comeliness113 of Robert Hagburn,–and could claim acquaintance and kindred. He would be the guardian114, from generation to generation, of this race; their ever-reappearing friend at times of need; and meeting them from age to age, would find traditions of himself growing poetical115 in the lapse116 of time; so that he would smile at seeing his features look so much more majestic117 in their fancies than in reality. So all along their course, in the history of the family, he would trace himself, and by his traditions he would make them acquainted with all their ancestors, and so still be warmed by kindred blood.
And Robert Hagburn, full of the life of the moment, warm with generous blood, came in a new uniform, looking fit to be the founder118 of a race who should look back to a hero sire. He greeted Septimius as a brother. The minister, too, came, of course, and mingled with the throng119, with decorous aspect, and greeted Septimius with more formality than he had been wont120; for Septimius had insensibly withdrawn121 himself from the minister's intimacy122, as he got deeper and deeper into the enthusiasm of his own cause. Besides, the minister did not fail to see that his once devoted123 scholar had contracted habits of study into the secrets of which he himself was not admitted, and that he no longer alluded124 to studies for the ministry125; and he was inclined to suspect that Septimius had unfortunately allowed infidel ideas to assail126, at least, if not to overcome, that fortress127 of firm faith, which he had striven to found and strengthen in his mind,–a misfortune frequently befalling speculative128 and imaginative and melancholic129 persons, like Septimius, whom the Devil is all the time planning to assault, because he feels confident of having a traitor130 in the garrison131. The minister had heard that this was the fashion of Septimius's family, and that even the famous divine, who, in his eyes, was the glory of it, had had his season of wild infidelity in his youth, before grace touched him; and had always thereafter, throughout his long and pious132 life, been subject to seasons of black and sulphurous despondency, during which he disbelieved the faith which, at other times, he preached powerfully."
"Septimius, my young friend," said he, "are you yet ready to be a preacher of the truth?"
"Not yet, reverend pastor," said Septimius, smiling at the thought of the day before, that the career of a prophet would be one that he should some time assume. "There will be time enough to preach the truth when I better know it."
"You do not look as if you knew it so well as formerly133, instead of better," said his reverend friend, looking into the deep furrows134 of his brow, and into his wild and troubled eyes.
"Perhaps not," said Septimius. "There is time yet."
These few words passed amid the bustle135 and murmur136 of the evening, while the guests were assembling, and all were awaiting the marriage with that interest which the event continually brings with it, common as it is, so that nothing but death is commoner. Everybody congratulated the modest Rose, who looked quiet and happy; and so she stood up at the proper time, and the minister married them with a certain fervor137 and individual application, that made them feel they were married indeed. Then there ensued a salutation of the bride, the first to kiss her being the minister, and then some respectable old justices and farmers, each with his friendly smile and joke. Then went round the cake and wine, and other good cheer, and the hereditary jokes with which brides used to be assailed138 in those days. I think, too, there was a dance, though how the couples in the reel found space to foot it in the little room, I cannot imagine; at any rate, there was a bright light out of the windows, gleaming across the road, and such a sound of the babble139 of numerous voices and merriment, that travellers passing by, on the lonely Lexington road, wished they were of the party; and one or two of them stopped and went in, and saw the new-made bride, drank to her health, and took a piece of the wedding-cake home to dream upon.
[It is to be observed that Rose had requested of her friend, Sibyl Dacy, to act as one of her bridesmaids, of whom she had only the modest number of two; and the strange girl declined, saying that her intermeddling would bring ill-fortune to the marriage.]
"Why do you talk such nonsense, Sibyl?" asked Rose. "You love me, I am sure, and wish me well; and your smile, such as it is, will be the promise of prosperity, and I wish for it on my wedding-day."
"I am an ill-fate, a sinister140 demon141, Rose; a thing that has sprung out of a grave; and you had better not entreat142 me to twine143 my poison tendrils round your destinies. You would repent144 it."
"Oh, hush, hush!" said Rose, putting her hand over her friend's mouth. "Naughty one! you can bless me, if you will, only you are wayward."
"Bless you, then, dearest Rose, and all happiness on your marriage!"
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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16
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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17
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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18
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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19
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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20
amalgamating
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的现在分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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21
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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22
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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23
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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24
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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25
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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26
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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27
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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28
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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29
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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30
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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31
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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32
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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33
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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35
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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36
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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37
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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38
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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39
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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40
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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41
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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42
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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43
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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44
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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45
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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46
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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47
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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48
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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49
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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50
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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51
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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52
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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53
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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55
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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56
anticipations
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|
| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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57
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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58
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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59
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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60
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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61
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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62
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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63
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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64
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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65
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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66
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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67
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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68
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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69
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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70
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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71
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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72
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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73
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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74
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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75
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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76
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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77
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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78
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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79
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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80
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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81
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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82
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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83
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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84
promulgate
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| v.宣布；传播；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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85
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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86
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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87
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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88
rampant
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|
| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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89
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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90
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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91
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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92
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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93
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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94
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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95
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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97
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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98
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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99
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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100
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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101
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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102
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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103
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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104
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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105
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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106
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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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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109
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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110
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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111
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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112
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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113
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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114
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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115
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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116
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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117
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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118
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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119
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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120
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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121
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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122
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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123
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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124
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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126
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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127
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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128
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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129
melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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130
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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131
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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132
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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133
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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134
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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135
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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136
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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137
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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138
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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139
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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140
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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141
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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142
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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143
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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144
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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