BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
hat is to be thought of sudden death? It is remarkable1 that, in different conditions of society, it has been variously regarded as the consummation of an earthly career most fervently2 to be desired, and on the other hand, as that consummation which is most of all to be deprecated. C?sar the Dictator, at his last dinner-party (c?na), and the very evening before his assassination3, being questioned as to the mode of death which, in his opinion, might seem the most eligible4, replied, “That which should be most sudden.” On the other hand, the divine Litany of our English Church, when breathing forth5 supplications, as if in some representative character for the whole human race prostrate6 before God, places such a death in the very van of horrors. “From lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence7, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death,—Good Lord, deliver us.” Sudden death is here made to crown the climax8 in a grand ascent9 of calamities10; it is the last of curses; and yet, by the noblest of Romans, it was treated as the first of blessings11.[183] In that difference, most readers will see little more than the difference between Christianity and Paganism. But there I hesitate. The Christian12 Church may be right in its estimate of sudden death; and it is a natural feeling, though after all it may also be an infirm one, to wish for a quiet dismissal from life,—as that which seems most reconcilable with meditation13, with penitential retrospects14, and with the humilities of farewell prayer. There does not, however, occur to me any direct Scriptural warrant for this earnest petition of the English Litany. It seems rather a petition indulged to human infirmity, than exacted from human piety15. And, however that may be, two remarks suggest themselves as prudent16 restraints upon a doctrine17, which else may wander, and has wandered, into an uncharitable superstition18. The first is this: that many people are likely to exaggerate the horror of a sudden death (I mean the objective horror to him who contemplates20 such a death, not the subjective21 horror to him who suffers it), from the false disposition22 to lay a stress upon words or acts, simply because by an accident they have become words or acts. If a man dies, for instance, by some sudden death when he happens to be intoxicated23, such a death is falsely regarded with peculiar24 horror; as though the intoxication25 were suddenly exalted26 into a blasphemy27. But that is unphilosophic. The man was, or he was not, habitually30 a drunkard. If not, if his intoxication were a solitary31 accident, there can be no reason at all for allowing special emphasis to this act, simply because through misfortune it became his final act. Nor, on the other hand, if it were no accident, but one of his habitual29 transgressions32, will it be the more[184] habitual or the more a transgression33, because some sudden calamity34, surprising him, has caused this habitual transgression to be also a final one? Could the man have had any reason even dimly to foresee his own sudden death, there would have been a new feature in his act of intemperance,—a feature of presumption35 and irreverence36, as in one that by possibility felt himself drawing near to the presence of God. But this is no part of the case supposed. And the only new element in the man’s act is not any element of extra immorality37, but simply of extra misfortune.
The other remark has reference to the meaning of the word sudden. And it is a strong illustration of the duty which forever calls us to the stern valuation of words, that very possibly C?sar and the Christian Church do not differ in the way supposed; that is, do not differ by any difference of doctrine as between Pagan and Christian views of the moral temper appropriate to death, but that they are contemplating38 different cases. Both contemplate19 a violent death, a Βιαθανατο?—death that is Βιαιο?: but the difference is that the Roman by the word “sudden” means an unlingering death: whereas the Christian Litany by “sudden” means a death without warning, consequently without any available summons to religious preparation. The poor mutineer, who kneels down to gather into his heart the bullets from twelve firelocks of his pitying comrades, dies by a most sudden death in C?sar’s sense: one shock, one mighty39 spasm40, one (possibly not one) groan41, and all is over. But, in the sense of the Litany, his death is far from sudden; his offence, originally, his imprisonment42, his trial, the[185] interval43 between his sentence and its execution, having all furnished him with separate warnings of his fate,—having all summoned him to meet it with solemn preparation.
Meantime, whatever may be thought of a sudden death as a mere44 variety in the modes of dying, where death in some shape is inevitable45,—a question which, equally in the Roman and the Christian sense, will be variously answered according to each man’s variety of temperament,—certainly, upon one aspect of sudden death there can be no opening for doubt, that of all agonies incident to man it is the most frightful46, that of all martyrdoms it is the most freezing to human sensibilities,—namely, where it surprises a man under circumstances which offer (or which seem to offer) some hurried and inappreciable chance of evading47 it. Any effort, by which such an evasion48 can be accomplished49, must be as sudden as the danger which it affronts50. Even that, even the sickening necessity for hurrying in extremity51 where all hurry seems destined52 to be vain, self-baffled, and where the dreadful knell53 of too late is already sounding in the ears by anticipation54,—even that anguish55 is liable to a hideous56 exasperation57 in one particular case, namely, where the agonizing58 appeal is made not exclusively to the instinct of self-preservation, but to the conscience on behalf of another life besides your own, accidentally cast upon your protection. To fail, to collapse59 in a service merely your own, might seem comparatively venial60; though, in fact, it is far from venial. But to fail in a case where Providence61 has suddenly thrown into your hands the final interests of another,—of a fellow-creature shuddering[186] between the gates of life and death; this, to a man of apprehensive62 conscience, would mingle63 the misery64 of an atrocious criminality with the misery of a bloody65 calamity. The man is called upon, too probably, to die; but to die at the very moment when, by any momentary66 collapse, he is self-denounced as a murderer. He had but the twinkling of an eye for his effort, and that effort might, at the best, have been unavailing; but from this shadow of a chance, small or great, how if he has recoiled67 by a treasonable lacheté? The effort might have been without hope; but to have risen to the level of that effort would have rescued him, though not from dying, yet from dying as a traitor68 to his duties.
The situation here contemplated69 exposes a dreadful ulcer70 lurking71 far down in the depths of human nature. It is not that men generally are summoned to face such awful trials. But potentially, and in shadowy outline, such a trial is moving subterraneously72 in perhaps all men’s natures,—muttering under ground in one world, to be realized perhaps in some other. Upon the secret mirror of our dreams such a trial is darkly projected at intervals73, perhaps, to every one of us. That dream, so familiar to childhood, of meeting a lion, and, from languishing74 prostration75 in hope and vital energy, that constant sequel of lying down before him, publishes the secret frailty76 of human nature,—reveals its deep-seated Pariah78 falsehood to itself,—records its abysmal79 treachery. Perhaps not one of us escapes that dream; perhaps, as by some sorrowful doom80 of man, that dream repeats for every one of us, through every generation, the original temptation in Eden. Every one of us, in[187] this dream, has a bait offered to the infirm places of his own individual will; once again a snare81 is made ready for leading him into captivity82 to a luxury of ruin; again, as in aboriginal83 Paradise, the man falls from innocence84; once again, by infinite iteration, the ancient Earth groans85 to God, through her secret caves, over the weakness of her child; “Nature, from her seat, sighing through all her works,” again “gives signs of woe86 that all is lost”; and again the countersign87 is repeated to the sorrowing heavens of the endless rebellion against God. Many people think that one man, the patriarch of our race, could not in his single person execute this rebellion for all his race. Perhaps they are wrong. But, even if not, perhaps in the world of dreams every one of us ratifies88 for himself the original act. Our English rite89 of Confirmation90, by which, in years of awakened91 reason, we take upon us the engagements contracted for us in our slumbering93 infancy94,—how sublime95 a rite is that! The little postern gate, through which the baby in its cradle had been silently placed for a time within the glory of God’s countenance96, suddenly rises to the clouds as a triumphal arch, through which, with banners displayed and martial97 pomps, we make our second entry as crusading soldiers militant98 for God, by personal choice and by sacramental oath. Each man says in effect, “Lo! I rebaptize myself; and that which once was sworn on my behalf, now I swear for myself.” Even so in dreams, perhaps, under some secret conflict of the midnight sleeper99, lighted up to the consciousness at the time, but darkened to the memory as soon as all is finished, each several child of our mysterious race completes for himself the aboriginal fall.
[188]
As I drew near to the Manchester post-office, I found that it was considerably100 past midnight; but to my great relief, as it was important for me to be in Westmoreland by the morning, I saw by the huge saucer eyes of the mail, blazing through the gloom of overhanging houses, that my chance was not yet lost. Past the time it was; but by some luck, very unusual in my experience, the mail was not even yet ready to start. I ascended101 to my seat on the box, where my cloak was still lying as it had lain at the Bridgewater Arms. I had left it there in imitation of a nautical103 discoverer, who leaves a bit of bunting on the shore of his discovery, by way of warning off the ground the whole human race, and signalizing to the Christian and the heathen worlds, with his best compliments, that he has planted his throne forever upon that virgin104 soil: henceforward claiming the jus dominii to the top of the atmosphere above it, and also the right of driving shafts105 to the centre of the earth below it; so that all people found after this warning, either aloft in the atmosphere, or in the shafts, or squatting106 on the soil, will be treated as trespassers,—that is, decapitated by their very faithful and obedient servant, the owner of the said bunting. Possibly my cloak might not have been respected, and the jus gentium might have been cruelly violated in my person,—for in the dark, people commit deeds of darkness, gas being a great ally of morality,—but it so happened that, on this night, there was no other outside passenger; and the crime, which else was but too probable, missed fire for want of a criminal. By the way, I may as well mention at this point, since a circumstantial accuracy is essential to the effect[189] of my narrative107, that there was no other person of any description whatever about the mail—the guard, the coachman, and myself being allowed for—except only one,—a horrid108 creature of the class known to the world as insiders, but whom young Oxford109 called sometimes “Trojans,” in opposition110 to our Grecian selves, and sometimes “vermin.” A Turkish Effendi, who piques111 himself on good-breeding, will never mention by name a pig. Yet it is but too often that he has reason to mention this animal; since constantly, in the streets of Stamboul, he has his trousers deranged112 or polluted by this vile113 creature running between his legs. But under any excess of hurry he is always careful, out of respect to the company he is dining with, to suppress the odious114 name, and to call the wretch115 “that other creature,” as though all animal life beside formed one group, and this odious beast (to whom, as Chrysippus observed, salt serves as an apology for a soul) formed another and alien group on the outside of creation. Now I, who am an English Effendi, that think myself to understand good-breeding as well as any son of Othman, beg my reader’s pardon for having mentioned an insider by his gross natural name. I shall do so no more; and, if I should have occasion to glance at so painful a subject, I shall always call him “that other creature.” Let us hope, however, that no such distressing116 occasion will arise. But, by the way, an occasion arises at this moment; for the Reader will be sure to ask, when we come to the story, “Was this other creature present?” He was not; or more correctly, perhaps, it was not. We dropped the creature—or the creature, by natural imbecility, dropped itself—within[190] the first ten miles from Manchester. In the latter case, I wish to make a philosophic28 remark of a moral tendency. When I die, or when the reader dies, and by repute suppose of fever, it will never be known whether we died in reality of the fever or of the doctor. But this other creature, in the case of dropping out of the coach, will enjoy a coroner’s inquest; consequently he will enjoy an epitaph. For I insist upon it, that the verdict of a coroner’s jury makes the best of epitaphs. It is brief, so that the public all find time to read; it is pithy117, so that the surviving friends (if any can survive such a loss) remember it without fatigue118; it is upon oath, so that rascals119 and Dr. Johnsons cannot pick holes in it. “Died through the visitation of intense stupidity, by impinging on a moonlight night against the off-hind120 wheel of the Glasgow mail! Deodand upon the said wheel—twopence.” What a simple lapidary121 inscription122! Nobody much in the wrong but an off-wheel; and with few acquaintances; and if it were but rendered into choice Latin, though there would be a little bother in finding a Ciceronian word for “off-wheel,” Marcellus himself, that great master of sepulchral123 eloquence124, could not show a better. Why I call this little remark moral is, from the compensation it points out. Here, by the supposition, is that other creature on the one side, the beast of the world; and he (or it) gets an epitaph. You and I, on the contrary, the pride of our friends, get none.
But why linger on the subject of vermin? Having mounted the box, I took a small quantity of laudanum, having already travelled two hundred and fifty miles,—namely, from a point seventy miles beyond London, upon[191] a simple breakfast. In the taking of laudanum there was nothing extraordinary. But by accident it drew upon me the special attention of my assessor on the box, the coachman. And in that there was nothing extraordinary. But by accident, and with great delight, it drew my attention to the fact that this coachman was a monster in point of size, and that he had but one eye. In fact, he had been foretold125 by Virgil as—
“Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens cui lumen ademptum.”
He answered in every point,—a monster he was,—dreadful, shapeless, huge, who had lost an eye. But why should that delight me? Had he been one of the Calendars in the Arabian Nights, and had paid down his eye as the price of his criminal curiosity, what right had I to exult126 in his misfortune? I did not exult; I delighted in no man’s punishment, though it were even merited. But these personal distinctions identified in an instant an old friend of mine, whom I had known in the South for some years as the most masterly of mail-coachmen. He was the man in all Europe that could best have undertaken to drive six-in-hand full gallop127 over Al Sirat,—that famous bridge of Mahomet across the bottomless gulf128,—backing himself against the Prophet and twenty such fellows. I used to call him Cyclops mastigophorus, Cyclops the whip-bearer, until I observed that his skill made whips useless, except to fetch off an impertinent fly from a leader’s head; upon which I changed his Grecian name to Cyclops diphrélates (Cyclops the charioteer). I, and others known to me, studied under him the diphrelatic art. Excuse, reader, a word too elegant[192] to be pedantic129. And also take this remark from me, as a gage92 d’amitié, that no word ever was or can be pedantic which, by supporting a distinction, supports the accuracy of logic130; or which fills up a chasm131 for the understanding. As a pupil, though I paid extra fees, I cannot say that I stood high in his esteem132. It showed his dogged honesty (though, observe, not his discernment), that he could not see my merits. Perhaps we ought to excuse his absurdity133 in this particular by remembering his want of an eye. That made him blind to my merits. Irritating as this blindness was (surely it could not be envy!) he always courted my conversation, in which art I certainly had the whip-hand of him. On this occasion, great joy was at our meeting. But what was Cyclops doing here? Had the medical men recommended northern air, or how? I collected, from such explanations as he volunteered, that he had an interest at stake in a suit-at-law pending134 at Lancaster; so that probably he had got himself transferred to this station, for the purpose of connecting with his professional pursuits an instant readiness for the calls of his lawsuit135.
Meantime, what are we stopping for? Surely, we’ve been waiting long enough. O, this procrastinating136 mail, and O, this procrastinating post-office! Can’t they take a lesson upon that subject from me? Some people have called me procrastinating. Now you are witness, reader, that I was in time for them. But can they lay their hands on their hearts, and say that they were in time for me? I, during my life, have often had to wait for the post-office; the post-office never waited a minute for me. What are they about? The guard tells me that there is[193] a large extra accumulation of foreign mails this night, owing to irregularities caused by war and by the packet service, when as yet nothing is done by steam. For an extra hour, it seems, the post-office has been engaged in threshing out the pure wheaten correspondence of Glasgow, and winnowing137 it from the chaff138 of all baser intermediate towns. We can hear the flails139 going at this moment. But at last all is finished. Sound your horn, guard. Manchester, good by; we’ve lost an hour by your criminal conduct at the post-office; which, however, though I do not mean to part with a serviceable ground of complaint, and one which really is such for the horses, to me secretly is an advantage, since it compels us to recover this last hour amongst the next eight or nine. Off we are at last, and at eleven miles an hour; and at first I detect no changes in the energy or in the skill of Cyclops.
From Manchester to Kendal, which virtually (though not in law) is the capital of Westmoreland, were at this time seven stages of eleven miles each. The first five of these, dated from Manchester, terminated in Lancaster, which was therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and the same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three terminated in Preston (called, by way of distinction from other towns of that name, proud Preston), at which place it was that the separate roads from Liverpool and from Manchester to the north became confluent. Within these first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and termination of our night’s adventure. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops was mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep,—a thing which[194] I had never previously140 suspected. If a man is addicted141 to the vicious habit of sleeping, all the skill in aurigation of Apollo himself, with the horses of Aurora142 to execute the motions of his will, avail him nothing. “O Cyclops!” I exclaimed more than once, “Cyclops, my friend; thou art mortal. Thou snorest.” Through this first eleven miles, however, he betrayed his infirmity—which I grieve to say he shared with the whole Pagan Pantheon—only by short stretches. On waking up, he made an apology for himself, which, instead of mending the matter, laid an ominous143 foundation for coming disasters. The summer assizes were now proceeding144 at Lancaster: in consequence of which, for three nights and three days, he had not lain down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his uncertain summons as a witness on the trial in which he was interested; or he was drinking with the other witnesses, under the vigilant145 surveillance of the attorneys. During the night, or that part of it when the least temptations existed to conviviality146, he was driving. Throughout the second stage he grew more and more drowsy147. In the second mile of the third stage, he surrendered himself finally and without a struggle to his perilous149 temptation. All his past resistance had but deepened the weight of this final oppression. Seven atmospheres of sleep seemed resting upon him; and to consummate150 the case, our worthy151 guard, after singing “Love amongst the Roses” for the fiftieth or sixtieth time, without any invitation from Cyclops or me, and without applause for his poor labors153, had moodily154 resigned himself to slumber,—not so deep doubtless as the coachman’s, but deep enough for mischief155, and having,[195] probably, no similar excuse. And thus at last, about ten miles from Preston, I found myself left in charge of his Majesty’s London and Glasgow mail, then running about eleven miles an hour.
What made this negligence156 less criminal than else it must have been thought, was the condition of the roads at night during the assizes. At that time all the law business of populous157 Liverpool, and of populous Manchester, with its vast cincture of populous rural districts, was called up by ancient usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. To break up this old traditional usage required a conflict with powerful established interests, a large system of new arrangements, and a new parliamentary statute158. As things were at present, twice in the year so vast a body of business rolled northwards, from the southern quarter of the county, that a fortnight at least occupied the severe exertions159 of two judges for its despatch160. The consequence of this was, that every horse available for such a service, along the whole line of road, was exhausted161 in carrying down the multitudes of people who were parties to the different suits. By sunset, therefore, it usually happened that, through utter exhaustion162 amongst men and horses, the roads were all silent. Except exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of York from a contested election, nothing like it was ordinarily witnessed in England.
On this occasion, the usual silence and solitude163 prevailed along the road. Not a hoof164 nor a wheel was to be heard. And to strengthen this false luxurious165 confidence in the noiseless roads, it happened also that the night was one of peculiar solemnity and peace. I myself,[196] though slightly alive to the possibilities of peril148, had so far yielded to the influence of the mighty calm as to sink into a profound revery. The month was August, in which lay my own birthday; a festival, to every thoughtful man, suggesting solemn and often sigh-born thoughts. The county was my own native county,—upon which, in its southern section, more than upon any equal area known to man past or present, had descended166 the original curse of labor152 in its heaviest form, not mastering the bodies of men only as slaves, or criminals in mines, but working through the fiery167 will. Upon no equal space of earth was, or ever had been, the same energy of human power put forth daily. At this particular season also of the assizes, that dreadful hurricane of flight and pursuit, as it might have seemed to a stranger, that swept to and from Lancaster all day long, hunting the county up and down, and regularly subsiding168 about sunset, united with the permanent distinction of Lancashire as the very metropolis169 and citadel170 of labor, to point the thoughts pathetically upon that counter-vision of rest, of saintly repose171 from strife172 and sorrow, towards which, as to their secret haven173, the profounder aspirations174 of man’s heart are continually travelling. Obliquely175 we were nearing the sea upon our left, which also must, under the present circumstances, be repeating the general state of halcyon176 repose. The sea, the atmosphere, the light, bore an orchestral part in this universal lull177. Moonlight and the first timid tremblings of the dawn were now blending; and the blendings were brought into a still more exquisite178 state of unity179 by a slight silvery mist, motionless and dreamy, that covered the woods and fields, but with a[197] veil of equable transparency. Except the feet of our own horses, which, running on a sandy margin180 of the road, made little disturbance181, there was no sound abroad. In the clouds and on the earth prevailed the same majestic182 peace; and in spite of all that the villain183 of a schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our sublimer184 thoughts, which are the thoughts of our infancy, we still believe in no such nonsense as a limited atmosphere. Whatever we may swear with our false feigning185 lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe, and must forever believe, in fields of air traversing the total gulf between earth and the central heavens. Still, in the confidence of children that tread without fear every chamber186 in their father’s house, and to whom no door is closed, we, in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour upon nights like this, ascend102 with easy steps from the sorrow-stricken fields of earth upwards187 to the sandals of God.
Suddenly from thoughts like these I was awakened to a sullen188 sound, as of some motion on the distant road. It stole upon the air for a moment; I listened in awe189; but then it died away. Once roused, however, I could not but observe with alarm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years’ experience had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion; and I saw that we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence of mind. On the contrary, my fear is, that I am miserably190 and shamefully191 deficient192 in that quality as regards action. The palsy of doubt and distraction193 hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remembrances upon my energies, when the signal is flying for action. But, on the other hand, this accursed gift I have, as regards thought,[198] that in the first step towards the possibility of a misfortune, I see its total evolution; in the radix I see too certainly and too instantly its entire expansion; in the first syllable194 of the dreadful sentence, I read already the last. It was not that I feared for ourselves. What could injure us? Our bulk and impetus195 charmed us against peril in any collision. And I had rode through too many hundreds of perils196 that were frightful to approach, that were matter of laughter as we looked back upon them, for any anxiety to rest upon our interests. The mail was not built, I felt assured, nor bespoke197, that could betray me who trusted to its protection. But any carriage that we could meet would be frail77 and light in comparison of ourselves. And I remarked this ominous accident of our situation. We were on the wrong side of the road. But then the other party, if other there was, might also be on the wrong side; and two wrongs might make a right. That was not likely. The same motive198 which had drawn199 us to the right-hand side of the road, namely, the soft beaten sand, as contrasted with the paved centre, would prove attractive to others. Our lamps, still lighted, would give the impression of vigilance on our part. And every creature that met us would rely upon us for quartering. All this, and if the separate links of the anticipation had been a thousand times more, I saw, not discursively200 or by effort, but as by one flash of horrid intuition.
Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil which might be gathering201 ahead, ah, reader! what a sullen mystery of fear, what a sigh of woe, seemed to steal upon the air, as again the far-off sound of a wheel was[199] heard! A whisper it was,—a whisper from, perhaps, four miles off,—secretly announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less inevitable. What could be done—who was it that could do it—to check the storm-flight of these maniacal202 horses? What! could I not seize the reins203 from the grasp of the slumbering coachman? You, reader, think that it would have been in your power to do so. And I quarrel not with your estimate of yourself. But, from the way in which the coachman’s hand was viced between his upper and lower thigh204, this was impossible. The guard subsequently found it impossible, after this danger had passed. Not the grasp only, but also the position of this Polyphemus, made the attempt impossible. You still think otherwise. See, then, that bronze equestrian205 statue. The cruel rider has kept the bit in his horse’s mouth for two centuries. Unbridle him, for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth with water. Or stay, reader, unhorse me that marble emperor: knock me those marble feet from those marble stirrups of Charlemagne.
The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the sounds of wheels. Who and what could it be? Was it industry in a taxed cart? Was it youthful gayety in a gig? Whoever it was, something must be attempted to warn them. Upon the other party rests the active responsibility, but upon us—and, woe is me! that us was my single self—rests the responsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished? Might I not seize the guard’s horn? Already, on the first thought, I was making my way over the roof to the guard’s seat. But this, from the foreign mail’s being[200] piled upon the roof, was a difficult and even dangerous attempt, to one cramped206 by nearly three hundred miles of outside travelling. And, fortunately, before I had lost much time in the attempt, our frantic207 horses swept round an angle of the road, which opened upon us the stage where the collision must be accomplished, the parties that seemed summoned to the trial, and the impossibility of saving them by any communication with the guard.
Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, perhaps, in length; and the umbrageous208 trees, which rose in a regular line from either side, meeting high overhead, gave to it the character of a cathedral aisle209. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early light; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the farther end of this Gothic aisle, a light, reedy gig, in which were seated a young man, and, by his side, a young lady. Ah, young sir! what are you about? If it is necessary that you should whisper your communications to this young lady,—though really I see nobody at this hour, and on this solitary road, likely to overhear your conversation,—is it, therefore, necessary that you should carry your lips forward to hers? The little carriage is creeping on at one mile an hour; and the parties within it, being thus tenderly engaged, are naturally bending down their heads. Between them and eternity210, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a half. What is it that I shall do? Strange it is, and, to a mere auditor211 of the tale, might seem laughable, that I should need a suggestion from the Iliad to prompt the sole recourse that remained. But so it was. Suddenly[201] I remembered the shout of Achilles, and its effect. But could I pretend to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas? No, certainly: but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia militant; a shout would suffice, such as should carry terror into the hearts of two thoughtless young people, and one gig horse. I shouted,—and the young man heard me not. A second time I shouted,—and now he heard me, for now he raised his head.
Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done: more on my part was not possible. Mine had been the first step: the second was for the young man: the third was for God. If, said I, the stranger is a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side,—or, loving her not, if he feels the obligation pressing upon every man worthy to be called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman confided212 to his protection,—he will at least make some effort to save her. If that fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face to the danger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to save. But if he makes no effort, shrinking, without a struggle, from his duty, he himself will not the less certainly perish for this baseness of poltroonery213. He will die no less: and why not? Wherefore should we grieve that there is one craven less in the world? No; let him perish, without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him; and, in that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl, who now, upon the least shadow of failure in him, must, by the fiercest of translations,—must, without time for[202] a prayer,—must, within seventy seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God.
But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down: already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and already he was measuring his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a vulgar thing does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a day: ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when some fearful crisis on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest214 of some mountainous wave, from which, accordingly as he chooses his course, he describes two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “This way lies hope; take the other way and mourn forever!” Yet, even then, amidst the raving215 of the seas and the frenzy216 of the danger, the man is able to confront his situation,—is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek all his counsel from him! For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly217 upon us, as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him. For five seconds more he sat immovably, like one that mused218 on some great purpose. For five he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide him towards the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and, by a sudden strain upon the reins, raising his horse’s forefeet from the ground, he slewed219 him round on the pivot220 of his hind legs, so as to plant the little equipage in a position nearly at right angles[203] to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved; except as a first step had been taken towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late: fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be unexhausted; and one almighty221 bound forward may avail to clear the ground. Hurry then, hurry! for the flying moments—they hurry! O, hurry, hurry, my brave young man! for the cruel hoofs222 of our horses—they also hurry! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for him, if human energy can suffice: faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty; faithful was the horse to his command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile223 creature’s forefeet upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the little equipage had then cleared our over-towering shadow: that was evident even to my own agitated224 sight. But it mattered little that one wreck225 should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were embarked226 the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage—was that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the question? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide the one from the other? Light does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly, than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping efforts of the gig. That must[204] the young man have felt too plainly. His back was now turned to us; not by sight could he any longer communicate with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle227 of our harness, too truly had his ear been instructed,—that all was finished as regarded any further effort of his. Already in resignation he had rested from his struggle; and perhaps in his heart he was whispering, “Father, which art above, do thou finish in heaven what I on earth have attempted.” We ran past them faster than ever mill-race in our inexorable flight. O, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit228! Either with the swingle-bar, or with the haunch of our near leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather obliquely and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately229 parallel with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded230 terrifically. I rose in horror, to look upon the ruins we might have caused. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its records on my heart forever.
The horse was planted immovably, with his forefeet upon the paved crest of the central road. He of the whole party was alone untouched by the passion of death. The little cany carriage,—partly perhaps from the dreadful torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow we had given to it,—as if it sympathized with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But his was the steadiness of agitation231 frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared[205] not to look round; for he knew that if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were accomplished. But the lady—
But the lady,—O heavens! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing! Figure to yourself, reader, the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your mind the circumstances of the unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night,—from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight,—from the manly232 tenderness of this flattering, whispering, murmuring love,—suddenly as from the woods and fields,—suddenly as from the chambers233 of the air opening in revelation,—suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts234, Death the crownéd phantom235, with all the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice.
The moments were numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right angles we wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams forever.
The End
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1
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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3
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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4
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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6
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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12
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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13
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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14
retrospects
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| n.回顾，回想( retrospect的名词复数 )v.回顾，回想( retrospect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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17
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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19
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 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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21
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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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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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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34
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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40
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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41
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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42
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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43
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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44
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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46
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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47
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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48
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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49
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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50
affronts
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| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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51
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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52
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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53
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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54
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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55
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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56
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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57
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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58
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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59
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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60
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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61
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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62
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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63
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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64
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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65
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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66
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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67
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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69
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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70
ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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71
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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72
subterraneously
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| adj.地下的，隐匿的 | |
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73
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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74
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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75
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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76
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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77
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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78
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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79
abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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80
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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81
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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82
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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83
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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84
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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85
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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86
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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87
countersign
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| v.副署，会签 | |
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88
ratifies
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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89
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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90
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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91
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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92
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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93
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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94
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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95
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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96
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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97
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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98
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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99
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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100
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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101
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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103
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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104
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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105
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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106
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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107
narrative
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|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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108
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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109
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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110
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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111
piques
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的第三人称单数 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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112
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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113
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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114
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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115
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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116
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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117
pithy
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|
| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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118
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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119
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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120
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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121
lapidary
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| n.宝石匠；adj.宝石的；简洁优雅的 | |
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122
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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123
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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124
eloquence
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|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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125
foretold
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|
| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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127
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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128
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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129
pedantic
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|
| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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130
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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131
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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132
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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133
absurdity
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|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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134
pending
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|
| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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135
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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136
procrastinating
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| 拖延，耽搁( procrastinate的现在分词 )； 拖拉 | |
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137
winnowing
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| v.扬( winnow的现在分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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138
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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139
flails
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|
| v.鞭打( flail的第三人称单数 )；用连枷脱粒；（臂或腿）无法控制地乱动；扫雷坦克 | |
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140
previously
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|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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141
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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142
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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143
ominous
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|
| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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144
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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145
vigilant
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|
| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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146
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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147
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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148
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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149
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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150
consummate
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|
| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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151
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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152
labor
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|
| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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153
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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154
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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155
mischief
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|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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156
negligence
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|
| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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157
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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158
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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159
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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160
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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161
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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162
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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163
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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164
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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165
luxurious
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|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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166
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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167
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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168
subsiding
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|
| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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169
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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170
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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171
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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172
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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173
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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174
aspirations
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|
| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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175
obliquely
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|
| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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176
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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177
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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178
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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179
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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180
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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181
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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182
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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183
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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184
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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185
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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186
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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187
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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188
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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189
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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190
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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191
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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192
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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193
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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194
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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195
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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196
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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197
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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198
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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199
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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200
discursively
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| adv.东拉西扯地，推论地 | |
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201
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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202
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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203
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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204
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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205
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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206
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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207
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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208
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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209
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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210
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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211
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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212
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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213
poltroonery
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| n.怯懦，胆小 | |
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214
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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215
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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216
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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217
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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218
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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219
slewed
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|
| adj.喝醉的v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去式 )( slew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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221
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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222
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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223
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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224
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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225
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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226
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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227
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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228
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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229
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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230
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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231
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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232
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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233
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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234
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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235
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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