My grandfather, General William Arrington, who won his title in the Revolutionary War, having been left a widower4 with twelve children, wearying of his solitude5, mounted his horse and rode over to visit the comely6 widow Battle, whose children also numbered twelve. The two plantations8 lay near together in the old “Tar Heel” State. My gallant9 ancestor was a successful wooer, and Mrs. Battle, née Williams, soon became Mrs. Arrington. Thus it happened that the little Anne—my mother—the one daughter of this union, entered the world and simultaneously10 into the affections of one dozen half-brothers and sisters Arrington, and as many of the Battle blood. This was a fortunate prevision for me, for, though orphaned11 at the outset of my earthly pilgrimage—I was but three years old when my girl-mother passed away—I found myself by no means alone, though my dear father, Dr. Peyton Randolph Tunstall, grief-stricken and sorrowful, left my native State at the death 4of his wife, and I was a half-grown girl ere we met again and learned to know each other.
My recollections of those early days are necessarily few; yet, were I a painter, I might limn12 one awful figure that lingers in my memory. She was a mulatto, to whose care for some time I was nightly confided13. This crafty14 maid, Pleasant by name, though ’twas a misnomer15, anxious to join in the diversions of the other domestics among the outlying cabins on the plantation7, would no sooner tuck me into bed than she would begin to unfold to me blood-curdling stories of “sperrits an’ ghoses,” and of “old blue eyes an’ bloody16 bones” who would be sure to come out of the plum orchard17 and carry me to the graveyard18 if I did not go quickly to sleep. Fortunately, old Major Drake, of whose family I was then a member, chanced one evening to overhear this soothing19 lullaby, and put an end to her stories ere serious harm had been done; yet so wonderful is the retentive20 power of the human mind that though seventy and more momentous21 years have passed since I, a little fearsome child, huddled22 under the coverings breathless in my dread23 of the “bogie man,” I still recall my heartless, or perhaps my thoughtless, nurse vividly24.
At the age of six I was carried to Tuscaloosa, then the capital of the young State of Alabama, where I was placed in the care of my aunt, whose husband, Henry W. Collier, then a young lawyer, afterward25 became Chief Justice of the Supreme26 Court of his State, and its Governor. That first journey stretches out in my memory as an interminable pilgrimage. Mr. Fort, of Mississippi, his wife, my mother’s sister, and their two children, Mary and Martha, accompanied by a large following of Negroes, being en route for their plantation in Mississippi territory, I was given into their care for delivery to my kin1 in Tuscaloosa. No palace-car of later days has ever eclipsed the wonders of the cavalcade27 our company 5made as we passed along through towns and villages and the occasional Indian settlements that here and there dotted the untilled lands of those early nineteenth-century days!
My uncle drove in his gig at the head of the procession, while my aunt and the children made the journey in a big pudding-shaped carriage in charge of a trusty driver, beside whom my aunt’s maid sat. The carriage was built with windows at the sides, and adjustable28 steps, which were let down when we halted and secured in place by our Negro attendants. These followed behind the vehicles and were at hand to serve us when need arose.
Our cortege included several “Dearborns,” similar in shape to the ambulances of the present, in which the old and ailing29 Negroes were carried, and numerous wagons30 containing our household goods and provisions followed behind. At night, tents were pitched, in which my aunt and the children slept, unless by chance a storm arose, when the shelter of some hostelry or farmhouse31 was sought. The preparations for camping were altogether exciting, the erection of tents, the kindling32 of fires, the unharnessing and watering and feeding of the stock, and the eager industry of the cooks and their assistants in the midst of the array of shining utensils33 all combining to stamp the scene upon the mind of an impressionable child.
However, in the course of time the slow rolling of our carriage became monotonous34 to the restive35 children of the caravan36, and the novelty of standing37 at the windows and gazing over the lifting hills soon wore off. My aunt felt the fatigue38 less, we thought, for she was a famous soliloquist, and often talked to herself as we rode, sometimes laughing aloud at her own good company. I think we children regarded her as deranged39, if harmless, until one day she proved her sanity40 to our complete 6satisfaction. In a moment of insupportable tedium41 we conceived the idea of dropping the little tin cups, with which each was provided, in order to see if the wheels would run over them. One after another the vessels42 were lowered, and each, to our intense delight, was smashed flat as the proverbial pancake. When my aunt discovered our mischief44, being a gentle soul, she merely reprimanded us, and at the next settlement purchased others; but when these and yet others followed the fate of the first, she became less indulgent. Switches were cut from the forest trees, three pairs of pink palms tingled46 with the punishment then and there administered, and the remembrance thereof restrained my cousins’ and my own destructiveness for the remainder of the journey.
Arrived at Tuscaloosa, I spent four years in the shelter of the motherly affection of my aunt, Mrs. Collier, when, her health failing, I was placed in the home of my mother’s brother, Alfred Battle, a wealthy planter, residing a day’s journey from the little capital. My recollections of that early Alabama life centre themselves about a great white house set in widening grounds, in the midst of which was a wondrous47 sloe-tree, white with blooms. Many times I and my cousins played under it by moonlight, watching the shadows of the branches as they trembled on the white-sanded earth below, wondering at them, and not sure whether they were fairies’ or angels’ or witches’ shapes. Around that tree, too, we played “Chickamy, Chickamy, Craney Crow,” and, at the climax48, “What o’clock, Old Witch?” would scamper49 wildly to elude50 the pursuit of the imaginary old witch. Here, a healthy and happy child, I pursued my studies. My uncle’s wife, a woman of marked domestic tastes, taught me to sew and knit and to make a buttonhole, and I made progress in books under the guidance of a visiting teacher; but, my task ended, I flew to the meadows and orchards51 and to 7the full-flowering clover-field, or to the plantation nursery to see the old mammies feed the babies with “clabber,” with bread well crumbed52 in it, or cush, made of bread soaked in gravy53 and softly mashed43.
It was during this bucolic54 period of my life that the stars fell. I did not witness these celestial55 phenomena56, being sound asleep as a child should be; but, for years afterward, time was marked from that great event. I remember perfectly57 my aunt’s description of it. People ran from their houses weeping and falling on their knees, praying for mercy and forgiveness. Everywhere the terrifying belief spread that the Day of Judgment58 was at hand; and nights were made vocal59 with the exhortations60 of the black preachers who now became numerous upon the plantation. To very recent days old Negroes have dated their calendar from “de year when de stars fell.”
Ah, me! how long ago that time of childhood’s terrors and delights in that young open country! Of all my early playmates, but one, my cousin William Battle, remains61, a twin relic62 of antiquity63! From the first we were cronies; yet we had a memorable64 disagreement upon one occasion which caused a slight breach65 between us. We were both intensely fond of my aunt’s piano, but my cousin was compelled to satisfy his affection for music in secret; for Uncle Battle, who heartily66 encouraged my efforts, was positive in his disapproval67 of those of my cousin. He thought piano-playing in a man to be little short of a crime, and was quite resolved his son should not be guilty of it. My cousin and I, therefore, connived68 to arrange our practice in such a way as would allow him to finish his practice at the instrument before my uncle’s return from the day’s duties.
Upon the fatal occasion of our disagreement, however, I refused, upon my cousin’s appearance, to yield my seat, whereupon, losing his temper, he gave me a tap on the cheek. In a moment the struggle was on! Our 8tussle was at its height, I on top and pummelling with all my might, when, the door opening suddenly, a startled cousin appeared.
“La!” she exclaimed in terror, “Cousin Will and Virginia are fighting!”
“No, we’re not!” I replied stoutly69. “We’re just playing;” and I retired70 with tufts of reddish hair in both hands, but leaving redder spots on the face of my cousinly antagonist71. He, thoroughly72 satisfied to be released, no longer desired to play the piano, nor with me. His head has long been innocent of hair, an hereditary73 development, but he has always asserted that his baldness is attributable to “My cousin, Mrs. Clay, who, in our youthful gambols74, scalped me.”
During my twelfth year, my uncle removed to Tuscaloosa, where my real school days began. It was the good fortune of the young State at that time to have in the neighbourhood of its capital many excellent teachers, among whom was my instructress at the school in Tuscaloosa to which I now was sent. I cannot refrain from telling a strange incident in her altogether remarkable life. From the beginning it was full of unusual vicissitudes75. By birth an English gentlewoman, her mother had died while she was yet an infant. In the care of a young aunt, the child was sent to America to be brought up by family connections residing here. On the long sailing voyage the infant sickened and, to all appearances, died. The ship was in midocean, and the young guardian76, blaming her own inexperience, wept bitterly as preparations went on for the burial. At last, all else being ready, the captain himself came forward to sew the little body in the sack, which when weighted would sink the hapless baby into the sea. He bent77 over the little form, arranging it, when by some strange fortune a bottle of whisky, which he carried in his pocket, was spilled and the contents began to flow upon the child’s face. Before an 9exclamation could be made the little one opened its eyes and gave so many evidences of life that restoratives were applied78 promptly79. The infant recovered and grew to womanhood. She became, when widowed, the mistress of a school in our little capital, and her descendants, in many instances, have risen to places of distinction in public life.
An instructress of that period to whom the women of early Alabama owed much was Maria Brewster Brooks81, who, as Mrs. Stafford, the wife of Professor Samuel M. Stafford, became celebrated82, and fills a page of conspicuous83 value in the educational history of the State. She was born on the banks of the Merrimac and came to Tuscaloosa in her freshest womanhood. First her pupil, and afterward her friend, our mutual84 affection, begun in the early thirties, continued until her demise85 in the eighties. Many of her wards86 became in after years notable figures in the social life of the national capital, among them Mrs. Hilary Herbert.
In Tuscaloosa there resided, besides my Aunt Collier, few of my father’s and mother’s kin, and by a natural affinity87 I fell under the guardianship88 of my father’s brother, Thomas B. Tunstall, Secretary of State of Alabama. He was a bachelor; but all that I lacked in my separation from my father my uncle supplied, feeding the finer sides of my nature, and inspiring in me a love of things literary even at an age when I had scarce handled a book. My uncle’s influence began with my earliest days in Alabama. My aunt, Mrs. Collier, was delicate, Mrs. Battle domestic; Uncle Battle was a famous business man; and Uncle Collier was immersed in law and increasing political interests; but my memory crowds with pictures of my Uncle Tom, walking slowly up and down, playing his violin, and interspersing90 his numbers with some wise counsel to the child beside him. He taught me orally of poetry, and music, of letters 10and philosophy, and of the great world’s great interests. He early instilled91 in me a pride of family, while reading to me Scott’s fine tribute to Brian Tunstall, “the stainless92 knight93,” or, as he rehearsed stories of Sir Cuthbert Tunstall, Knight of the Garter, and Bishop94 of London in the time of gentle Queen Anne; and it was in good Uncle Tom’s and my father’s company that the fascinations95 of the drama were first revealed to me.
While I was yet a schoolgirl, and so green that, had I not been protected by these two loving guardians89, I would have been eaten up by the cows on the Mobile meadows, I was taken to see “The Gamester,” in which Charles Kean and Ellen Tree were playing. It was a remarkable and ever-remembered experience. As the play proceeded, I became so absorbed in the story, so real and so thrillingly portrayed96, that from silent weeping I took to sniffling and from sniffling to ill-repressed sobbing97. I leaned forward in my seat tensely, keeping my eyes upon the stage, and equally oblivious98 of my father and uncle and the strangers who were gazing at me on every side. Now and then, as I sopped99 the briny100 outflow of my grief, realising in some mechanical manner that my handkerchief was wet, I would take it by two corners and wave it back and forth101 in an effort to dry it; but all the while the tears gushed102 from my eyes in rivulets103. My guardians saw little of the play that night, for the amusement I afforded these experienced theatre-goers altogether exceeded in interest the mimic104 tragedy that so enthralled105 me.
When the curtain fell upon the death-scene I was exhausted106; but another and counteracting107 experience awaited me, for the after-piece was “Robert Macaire,” and now, heartily as I had wept before, I became convulsed with laughter as I saw the deft109 pickpocket110 (impersonated by Crisp, the comedian), courtly as a king, bowing in the dance, while removing from the unsuspecting ladies and gentlemen about him their brooches and 11jewels! My absorption in the performance was so great that I scarce heard the admonitions of my father and uncle, who begged me, in whispers, to control myself. Nor did I realise there was another person in the house but the performers on the stage and myself.
Years afterward, while travelling with my husband, he recognised in a fellow traveller a former friend from southern Alabama, a Mr. Montague, and brought him to me to present him. To my chagrin111, he had scarcely taken my hand when he burst into immoderate and inexplicable112 laughter.
“Never,” said he to Mr. Clay, “shall I forget the time when I first saw your wife! We went to see Tree; but, sir, not half the house knew what was going on on the stage for watching the little girl in the auditorium113! Never till then had I imagined the full power of the drama! Her delight, her tears and laughter, I am sure, were remembered by the Mobilians long after the ‘stars’ acting108 was forgotten.”
That visit to Mobile was my first flight into the beautiful world that lay beyond the horizon of my school life. In the enjoyments114 devised for me by my father in those few charmed days, I saw, if not clearly, at least prophetically, what of beauty and joy life might hold for me. Upon our arrival in the lovely little Bay city, my father, learning of a ball for which preparations were on foot, determined115 I should attend it. Guided perhaps in his choice of colour by the tints116 of health that lay in his little daughter’s cheeks, he selected for me a gown of peach-blossom silk, which all my life I have remembered as the most beautiful of dresses, and one which transformed me, heretofore confined to brown holland gowns by my prudent117 aunt, Mrs. Battle, as truly as Cinderella was changed into a princess.
Upon the evening of that never-to-be-forgotten Boat Club Ball, blushing and happy, eager, with delightful118 12anticipations, yet timorous119, too, for my guardians, the Battles, had disapproved120 of dancing and had rigorously excluded this and other worldly pleasures from their ward’s accomplishments121, I was conducted by my father to the ball. In my heart lay the fear that I would be, after all, a mere45 looker-on, or appear awkward if I should venture to dance as did the others; but neither of these misgivings122 proved to have been well founded.
My father led me at once to Mme. Le Vert, then the reigning123 queen of every gathering124 at which she appeared, and in her safe hands every fear vanished. I had heard my elders speak frequently of her beauty, and somehow had imagined her tall. She was less so than I had pictured, but so winning and cordial to me, a timid child, that I at once capitulated before the charm she cast over everyone who came into conversation with her. I thought her face the sweetest I had ever seen. She had a grace and frankness which made everyone with whom she talked feel that he or she alone commanded her attention. I do not recall her making a single bon mot, but she was vivacious125 and smiling. Her charm, it seemed to me, lay in her lovely manners and person and her permeating126 intellectuality.
I remember Mme. Le Vert’s appearance on that occasion distinctly, though to describe it now seems garish127. To see her then was bewildering, and all her colour was harmony. She wore a gown of golden satin, and on her hair a wreath of coral flowers, which her morocco shoes matched in hue128. In the dance she moved like a bird on the wing. I can see her now in her shining robe, as she swayed and glided129, holding the shimmering130 gown aside as she floated through the “ladies’ chain.” The first dance of my life was a quadrille, vis-à-vis with this renowned131 beauty, who took me under her protection and encouraged me from time to time.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear,” she would sweetly say, 13“Do just as I do,” and I glided after my wonderful instructress like one enchanted132, with never a mishap133.
Mme. Le Vert, who in years to come became internationally celebrated, was a kinswoman of Clement134 Claiborne Clay, and in after times, when I became his wife, I often met her, but throughout my long life I have remembered that first meeting in Mobile, and her charm and grace have remained a prized picture in my memory. It was of this exquisite135 belle136 that Washington Irving remarked: “But one such woman is born in the course of an empire.”
It was to my Uncle Tom that I owed the one love sorrow of my life. It was an affair of the greatest intensity137 while it endured, and was attended by the utmost anguish138 for some twelve or fourteen hours. During that space of time I endured all the hopes and fears, the yearnings and despairs to which the human heart is victim.
I was nearing the age of fifteen when my uncle one evening bade me put on my prettiest frock and accompany him to the home of a friend, where a dance was to be given. I was dressed with all the alacrity139 my old mammy was capable of summoning, and was soon ensconced in the carriage and on my way to the hospitable140 scene. En route we stopped at the hotel, where my uncle alighted, reappearing in a moment with a very handsome young man, who entered the carriage with him and drove with us to the house, where he, too, was to be a guest.
Never had my eyes beheld141 so pleasing a masculine wonder! He was the personification of manly142 beauty! His head was shapely as Tasso’s (in after life I often heard the comparison made), and in his eyes there burned a romantic fire that enslaved me from the moment their gaze rested upon me. At their warmth all the ardour, all the ideals upon which a romantic heart had fed rose in recognition of their realisation in him. During the evening he paid me some pretty compliments, remarking 14upon my hazel eyes and the gleam of gold in my hair, and he touched my curls admiringly, as if they were revered143 by him.
My head swam! Lohengrin never dazzled Elsa more completely than did this knight of the poet’s head charm the maiden144 that was I! We danced together frequently throughout the evening, and my hero rendered me every attention a kind man may offer to the little daughter of a valued friend. When at last we stepped into the carriage and turned homeward, the whole world was changed for me.
My first apprehension145 of approaching sorrow came as we neared the hotel. To my surprise, the knight was willing, nay146, desired to be set down there. A dark suspicion crept into my mind that perhaps, after all, my hero might be less gallant than I had supposed, else why did he not seek this opportunity of riding home with me? If this wonderful emotion that possessed147 me also had actuated him—and how could I doubt it after his devotion throughout the evening?—how could he bear to part from me in this way without a single word or look of tenderness?
As the door closed behind him I leaned back in the darkest corner of the carriage and thought hard, though not hardly of him. After a little my uncle roused me by saying, “Did my little daughter enjoy this evening?”
I responded enthusiastically.
“And was I not kind to provide you with such a gallant cavalier? Isn’t Colonel Jere Clemens a handsome man?”
Ah, was he not? My full heart sang out his praises with an unmistakable note. My uncle listened sympathetically. Then he continued, “Yes, he’s a fine fellow! A fine fellow, Virginia, and he has a nice little wife and baby!”
No thunderbolt ever fell more crushingly upon the unsuspecting than did these awful words from the lips of my uncle! I know not how I reached my room, but 15once there I wept passionately148 throughout the night and much of the following morning. Within my own heart I accused my erstwhile hero of the rankest perfidy149; of villainy of every imaginable quality; and in this recoil150 of injured pride perished my first love dream, vanished the heroic wrappings of my quondam knight!
Having finished the curriculum of the institute presided over by Miss Brooks, I was sent to the “Female Academy” at Nashville, Tennessee, to perfect my studies in music and literature, whence I returned to Tuscaloosa all but betrothed151 to Alexander Keith McClung, already a famous duellist152. I met him during a visit to my Uncle Fort’s home, in Columbus, Mississippi, and the Colonel’s devotion to me for many months was the talk of two States. He was the gallantest lover that ever knelt at a lady’s feet! Many a winsome153 girl admired him, and my sweet cousin, Martha Fort, was wont154 to say she would “rather marry Colonel McClung than any man alive”; but I—I loved him madly while with him, but feared him when away from him; for he was a man of fitful, uncertain moods and given to periods of the deepest melancholy155. At such times he would mount his horse “Rob Roy,” wild and untamable as himself, and dash to the cemetery156, where he would throw himself down on a convenient grave and stare like a madman into the sky for hours. A man of reckless bravery, in after years he was the first to mount the ramparts of Monterey shouting victory. As he ran, carrying his country’s flag in his right hand, a shot whizzing by took off two fingers of his left.
I was thrown much in the company of Colonel McClung while at my uncle’s home, but resisted his pleading for a binding157 engagement, telling him with a strange courage and frankness, ere I left Columbus, my reason for this persistent158 indecision. Before leaving for the academy at Nashville, I had met, at my Uncle Collier’s, in Tuscaloosa, the young legislator, Clement C. Clay, Jr., and had 16then had a premonition that if we should meet when I returned from school I would marry him. At that time I was an unformed girl, and he, Mr. Clay, was devoted159 to a young lady of the capital; but this, as I knew, was a matter of the past. I would surely meet him again at Uncle Collier’s (I told Mr. McClung), and, if the attraction continued, I felt sure I would marry him. If not, I would marry him, Colonel McClung. So we parted, and, though at that time the Colonel did not doubt but that mine was a dreaming girl’s talk, my premonitions were promptly realised.
Upon my return to our provincial160 little capital, then a community of six thousand souls, I found it thronging161 with gallants from every county in the State. The belles162 of the town, in preparation for the gayety of the legislative163 “season” of two months, were resplendent in fresh and fashionable toilettes. Escritoires were stocked with stationery164 suitable for the billet-doux that were sure to be required; and there, too, were the little boxes of glazed165 mottoed wafers, then all the fashion, with which to seal the pretty missives. All the swains of that day wrote in verse to the ladies they admired, and each tender rhyme required a suitably presented acknowledgment. I remember, though I have preserved none save those my husband wrote me, several creditable effusions by Colonel McClung, one of which began:
“Fearful and green your breathless poet stands,” etc.
Shortly after my return from Columbus, I attended a ball where I danced with William L. Yancey, even then recognised for the splendour of his intellectual powers and his eloquence166 in the forum167. I had heard him speak, and thought his address superb, and I told him so.
“Ah,” he answered gayly, “if it had not been for one pair of hazel eyes I should have been submerged in a mere sea of rhetoric169!”
On the night of my dance with him I wore a white 17feather in my hair, and on the morrow a messenger from Mr. Yancey bore me some charming verses, addressed “To the lady with the snow-white plume170!”
I have said my strange premonitions regarding Mr. Clay were realised. Ten days after we met we were affianced. There was a hastily gathered trousseau selected in part by Mme. LeVert in Mobile, and hurried on to my aunt’s home. A month later, and our marriage was celebrated with all the éclat our little city could provide, and the congratulations of a circle of friends that included half the inhabitants. It is sixty years since that wonderful wedding day, and of the maidens171 who attended me—there were six—and the happy company that thronged172 Judge Collier’s home on that crisp February morning when I crossed the Rubicon of life, all—even the bridegroom—have passed long since into the shadowy company of memory and the dead.
That marriage feast in the morn of my life was beautiful; the low, spacious173 house of primitive174 architecture was white with hyacinths, and foliage175 decorated every available space. The legislature came in a body, solons of the State, and young aspirants176 for fame; the president and faculty177 of the State University, of which Mr. Clay was a favoured son; Dr. Capers178, afterward Bishop of South Carolina, officiated, and, in that glorious company of old Alabamians, my identity as Virginia Tunstall was merged168 forever with that of the rising young statesman, Clement C. Clay, Jr.
A week of festivity followed the ceremony, and then my husband took me to my future home, among his people, in the northern part of the State. There being no railroad connection between Tuscaloosa and Huntsville in those days (the early forties), we made the journey from the capital in a big four-wheeled stage-coach. The stretch of country now comprised in the active city of Birmingham, the southern Pittsburg, was then a rugged179 18place of rocks and boulders180 over which our vehicle pitched perilously181. Stone Mountain reached, we were obliged to descend80 and pick our way on foot, the roughness of the road making the passage of the coach a very dangerous one. But these difficulties only lent a charm to us, for the whole world was enwrapped in the glamour182 of our youthful joys. The sunsets, blazing crimson183 on the horizon, seemed gloriously to proclaim the sunrise of our life.
We arrived in Huntsville on the evening of the second day of our journey. Our driver, enthusiastically proud of his part in the home-bringing of the bride, touched up the spirited horses as we crossed the Public Square and blew a bugle184 blast as we wheeled round the corner; when, fairly dashing down Clinton Street, he pulled up in masterly style in front of “Clay Castle.” It was wide and low and spacious, as were all the affluent185 homes of that day, and now was ablaze186 with candles to welcome the travellers. All along the streets friendly hands and kerchiefs had waved a welcome to us. Here, within, awaited a great gathering of family and friends eager to see the chosen bride of a well-loved son. This was my home-coming to Huntsville, thereafter to be my haven187 for all time, though called in a few years by my husband’s growing reputation to take my place beside him in Congressional circles at Washington.
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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limn
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| v.描画；描述 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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crafty
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misnomer
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bloody
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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graveyard
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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retentive
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momentous
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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23
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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24
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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25
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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26
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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27
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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28
adjustable
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| adj.可调整的，可校准的 | |
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29
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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30
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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31
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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32
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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33
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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34
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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35
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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36
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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37
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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38
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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39
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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40
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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41
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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42
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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43
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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44
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
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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48
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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49
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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50
elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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51
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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52
crumbed
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| 捏碎，弄碎（crumb的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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54
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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55
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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56
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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59
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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60
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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61
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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62
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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63
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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64
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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65
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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66
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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67
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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68
connived
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| v.密谋 ( connive的过去式和过去分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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69
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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70
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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71
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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72
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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73
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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74
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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76
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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77
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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78
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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79
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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80
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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81
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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82
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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83
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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84
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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85
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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86
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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87
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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88
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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89
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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90
interspersing
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| v.散布，散置( intersperse的现在分词 )；点缀 | |
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91
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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93
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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94
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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95
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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96
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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97
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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98
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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99
sopped
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| adj.湿透的，浸透的v.将（面包等）在液体中蘸或浸泡( sop的过去式和过去分词 )；用海绵、布等吸起（液体等） | |
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100
briny
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|
| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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101
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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102
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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103
rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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104
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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105
enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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106
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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107
counteracting
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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108
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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109
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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110
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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111
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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112
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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113
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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114
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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115
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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116
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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117
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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118
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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119
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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120
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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122
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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123
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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124
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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125
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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126
permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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127
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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128
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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129
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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130
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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131
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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132
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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133
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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134
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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135
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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136
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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137
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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138
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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139
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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140
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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141
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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142
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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143
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
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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145
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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146
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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147
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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148
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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149
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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150
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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151
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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152
duellist
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| n.决斗者；[体]重剑运动员 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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156
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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161
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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162
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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163
legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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164
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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165
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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166
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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169
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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170
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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171
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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174
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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175
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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176
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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177
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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178
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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180
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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181
perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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182
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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183
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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185
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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186
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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