“The seeds by nature planted
Take a deep root in the soil, and though for a time
The trenchant1 share and tearing harrow may
Sweep all appearance of them from the surface,
Yet with the first warm rains of spring they’ll shoot,
And with their rankness smother2 the good grain.
Heaven grant, it mayn’t be so with him.”
RICHES.
The scene of this tale must now be changed to the little inn, which at that period, as at the present, was situated3 in the vicinity of Harley College. The site of the modern establishment is the same with that of the ancient; but everything of the latter that had been built by hands has gone to decay and been removed, and only the earth beneath and around it remains4 the same. The modern building, a house of two stories, after a lapse5 of twenty years, is yet unfinished. On this account, it has retained the appellation6 of the “New Inn,” though, like many who have frequented it, it has grown old ere its maturity7. Its dingy8 whiteness, and its apparent superfluity of windows (many of them being closed with rough boards), give it somewhat of a dreary9 look, especially in a wet day.
The ancient inn was a house, of which the eaves approached within about seven feet of the ground; while the roof, sloping gradually upward, formed an angle at several times that height. It was a comfortable and pleasant abode10 to the weary traveller, both in summer and winter; for the frost never ventured within the sphere of its huge hearths11; and it was protected from the heat of the sultry season by three large elms that swept the roof with their long branches, and seemed to create a breeze where there was not one. The device upon the sign, suspended from one of these trees, was a hand holding a long-necked bottle, and was much more appropriate than the present unmeaning representation of a black eagle. But it is necessary to speak rather more at length of the landlord than of the house over which he presided.
Hugh Crombie was one for whom most of the wise men, who considered the course of his early years, had predicted the gallows13 as an end before he should arrive at middle age. That these prophets of ill had been deceived was evident from the fact that the doomed14 man had now passed the fortieth year, and was in more prosperous circumstances than most of those who had wagged their tongues against him. Yet the failure of their forebodings was more remarkable16 than their fulfilment would have been.
He had been distinguished17, almost from his earliest infancy18, by those precocious19 accomplishments20, which, because they consist in an imitation of the vices21 and follies22 of maturity, render a boy the favorite plaything of men. He seemed to have received from nature the convivial23 talents, which, whether natural or acquired, are a most dangerous possession; and, before his twelfth year, he was the welcome associate of all the idle and dissipated of his neighborhood, and especially of those who haunted the tavern24 of which he had now become the landlord. Under this course of education, Hugh Crombie grew to youth and manhood; and the lovers of good words could only say in his favor, that he was a greater enemy to himself than to any one else, and that, if he should reform, few would have a better chance of prosperity than he.
The former clause of this modicum25 of praise (if praise it may be termed) was indisputable; but it may be doubted, whether, under any circumstances where his success depended on his own exertions26, Hugh would have made his way well through the world. He was one of those unfortunate persons, who, instead of being perfect in any single art or occupation, are superficial in many, and who are supposed to possess a larger share of talent than other men, because it consists of numerous scraps27, instead of a single mass. He was partially28 acquainted with most of the manual arts that gave bread to others; but not one of them, nor all of them, would give bread to him. By some fatality29, the only two of his multifarious accomplishments in which his excellence30 was generally conceded were both calculated to keep him poor rather than to make him rich. He was a musician and a poet. There are yet remaining in that portion of the country many ballads31 and songs,— set to their own peculiar32 tunes,— the authorship of which is attributed to him. In general, his productions were upon subjects of local and temporary interest, and would consequently require a bulk of explanatory notes to render them interesting or intelligible33 to the world at large. A considerable proportion of the remainder are Anacreontics; though, in their construction, Hugh Crombie imitated neither the Teian nor any other bard34. These latter have generally a coarseness and sensuality intolerable to minds even of no very fastidious delicacy35. But there are two or three simple little songs, into which a feeling and a natural pathos36 have found their way, that still retain their influence over the heart. These, after two or three centuries, may perhaps be precious to the collectors of our early poetry. At any rate, Hugh Crombie’s effusions, tavern-haunter and vagrant37 though he was, have gained a continuance of fame (confined, indeed, to a narrow section of the country), which many who called themselves poets then, and would have scorned such a brother, have failed to equal.
During the long winter evenings, when the farmers were idle round their hearths, Hugh was a courted guest; for none could while away the hours more skilfully38 than he. The winter, therefore, was his season of prosperity; in which respect he differed from the butterflies and useless insects, to which he otherwise bore a resemblance. During the cold months, a very desirable alteration39 for the better appeared in his outward man. His cheeks were plump and sanguine40; his eyes bright and cheerful; and the tip of his nose glowed with a Bardolphian fire,— a flame, indeed, which Hugh was so far a vestal as to supply with its necessary fuel at all seasons of the year. But, as the spring advanced, he assumed a lean and sallow look, wilting41 and fading in the sunshine that brought life and joy to every animal and vegetable except himself. His winter patrons eyed him with an austere42 regard; and some even practised upon him the modern and fashionable courtesy of the “cut direct.”
Yet, after all, there was good, or something that Nature intended to be so, in the poor outcast,— some lovely flowers, the sweeter even for the weeds that choked them. An instance of this was his affection for an aged43 father, whose whole support was the broken reed,— his son. Notwithstanding his own necessities, Hugh contrived44 to provide food and raiment for the old man: how, it would be difficult to say, and perhaps as well not to inquire. He also exhibited traits of sensitiveness to neglect and insult, and of gratitude45 for favors; both of which feelings a course of life like his is usually quick to eradicate46.
At length the restraint — for such his father had ever been — upon Hugh Crombie’s conduct was removed by death; and then the wise men and the old began to shake their heads; and they who took pleasure in the follies, vices, and misfortunes of their fellow-creatures, looked for a speedy gratification. They were disappointed, however; for Hugh had apparently47 determined48, that, whatever might be his catastrophe49, he would meet it among strangers, rather than at home. Shortly after his father’s death, he disappeared altogether from the vicinity; and his name became, in the course of years, an unusual sound, where once the lack of other topics of interest had given it a considerable degree of notoriety. Sometimes, however, when the winter blast was loud round the lonely farm-house, its inmates50 remembered him who had so often chased away the gloom of such an hour, and, though with little expectation of its fulfilment, expressed a wish to behold51 him again.
Yet that wish, formed, perhaps, because it appeared so desperate, was finally destined52 to be gratified. One summer evening, about two years previous to the period of this tale, a man of sober and staid deportment, mounted upon a white horse, arrived at the Hand and Bottle, to which some civil or military meeting had chanced, that day, to draw most of the inhabitants of the vicinity. The stranger was well though plainly dressed, and anywhere but in a retired53 country town would have attracted no particular attention; but here, where a traveller was not of every-day occurrence, he was soon surrounded by a little crowd, who, when his eye was averted54, seized the opportunity diligently55 to peruse56 his person. He was rather a thickset man, but with no superfluous57 flesh; his hair was of iron-gray; he had a few wrinkles; his face was so deeply sunburnt, that, excepting a half-smothered glow on the tip of his nose, a dusky yellow was the only apparent hue58. As the people gazed, it was observed that the elderly men, and the men of substance, gat themselves silently to their steeds, and hied homeward with an unusual degree of haste; till at length the inn was deserted59, except by a few wretched objects to whom it was a constant resort. These, instead of retreating, drew closer to the traveller, peeping anxiously into his face, and asking, ever and anon, a question, in order to discover the tone of his voice. At length, with one consent, and as if the recognition had at once burst upon them, they hailed their old boon-companion, Hugh Crombie, and, leading him into the inn, did him the honor to partake of a cup of welcome at his expense.
But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the not very reputable acquaintances who alone acknowledged him, they speedily discovered that he was an altered man. He partook with great moderation of the liquor for which he was to pay; he declined all their flattering entreaties60 for one of his old songs; and finally, being urged to engage in a game at all-fours, he calmly observed, almost in the words of an old clergyman on a like occasion, that his principles forbade a profane61 appeal to the decision by lot.
On the next Sabbath Hugh Crombie made his appearance at public worship in the chapel62 of Harley College; and here his outward demeanor63 was unexceptionably serious and devout,— a praise which, on that particular occasion, could be bestowed65 on few besides. From these favorable symptoms, the old established prejudices against him began to waver; and as he seemed not to need, and to have no intention to ask, the assistance of any one, he was soon generally acknowledged by the rich as well as by the poor. His account of his past life, and of his intentions for the future, was brief, but not unsatisfactory. He said that, since his departure, he had been a seafaring man, and that, having acquired sufficient property to render him easy in the decline of his days, he had returned to live and die in the town of his nativity.
There was one person, and the one whom Hugh was most interested to please, who seemed perfectly66 satisfied of the verity67 of his reformation. This was the landlady68 of the inn, whom, at his departure, he had left a gay, and, even at thirty-five, a rather pretty wife, and whom, on his return, he found a widow of fifty, fat, yellow, wrinkled, and a zealous70 member of the church. She, like others, had, at first, cast a cold eye on the wanderer; but it shortly became evident to close observers, that a change was at work in the pious71 matron’s sentiments respecting her old acquaintance. She was now careful to give him his morning dram from her own peculiar bottle, to fill his pipe from her private box of Virginia, and to mix for him the sleeping-cup in which her late husband had delighted. Of all these courtesies Hugh Crombie did partake with a wise and cautious moderation, that, while it proved them to be welcome, expressed his fear of trespassing72 on her kindness. For the sake of brevity, it shall suffice to say, that, about six weeks after Hugh’s return, a writing appeared on one of the elm-trees in front of the tavern (where, as the place of greatest resort, such notices were usually displayed) setting forth73 that marriage was intended between Hugh Crombie and the Widow Sarah Hutchins. And the ceremony, which made Hugh a landholder, a householder, and a substantial man, in due time took place.
As a landlord, his general conduct was very praiseworthy. He was moderate in his charges, and attentive74 to his guests; he allowed no gross and evident disorders75 in his house, and practised none himself; he was kind and charitable to such as needed food and lodging76, and had not wherewithal to pay,— for with these his experience had doubtless given him a fellow-feeling. He was also sufficiently77 attentive to his wife; though it must be acknowledged that the religious zeal69 which had had a considerable influence in gaining her affections grew, by no moderate degrees, less fervent78. It was whispered, too, that the new landlord could, when time, place, and company were to his mind, upraise a song as merrily, and drink a glass as jollily, as in the days of yore. These were the weightiest charges that could now be brought against him; and wise men thought, that, whatever might have been the evil of his past life, he had returned with a desire (which years of vice12, if they do not sometimes produce, do not always destroy) of being honest, if opportunity should offer; and Hugh had certainly a fair one.
On the afternoon previous to the events related in the last chapter, the personage whose introduction to the reader has occupied so large a space was seated under one of the elms in front of his dwelling79. The bench which now sustained him, and on which were carved the names of many former occupants, was Hugh Crombie’s favorite lounging-place, unless when his attentions were required by his guests. No demand had that day been made upon the hospitality of the Hand and Bottle; and the landlord was just then murmuring at the unfrequency of employment. The slenderness of his profits, indeed, were no part of his concern; for the Widow Hutchins’s chief income was drawn80 from her farm, nor was Hugh ever miserly inclined. But his education and habits had made him delight in the atmosphere of the inn, and in the society of those who frequented it; and of this species of enjoyment81 his present situation certainly did not afford an overplus.
Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appearance of indolence and ease, as he sat under the old tree, polluting the sweet air with his pipe, and taking occasional draughts83 from a brown jug84 that stood near at hand. The basis of the potation contained in this vessel85 was harsh old cider, from the widow’s own orchard86; but its coldness and acidity87 were rendered innocuous by a due proportion of yet older brandy. The result of this mixture was extremely felicitous88, pleasant to the taste, and producing a tingling89 sensation on the coats of the stomach, uncommonly90 delectable91 to so old a toper as Hugh.
The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, along the road that led down the valley in the direction of the village: and at last, when the sun was wearing west-ward, he discovered the approach of a horseman. He immediately replenished92 his pipe, took a long draught82 from the brown jug, summoned the ragged94 youth who officiated in most of the subordinate departments of the inn, and who was now to act as hostler, and then prepared himself for confabulation with his guest.
“He comes from the sea-coast,” said Hugh to himself, as the traveller emerged into open view on the level road. “He is two days in advance of the post, with its news of a fortnight old. Pray Heaven he prove communicative!” Then, as the stranger drew nigher, “One would judge that his dark face had seen as hot a sun as mine. He has felt the burning breeze of the Indies, East and West, I warrant him. Ah, I see we shall send away the evening merrily! Not a penny shall come out of his purse,— that is, if his tongue runs glibly95. Just the man I was praying for — Now may the Devil take me if he is!” interrupted Hugh, in accents of alarm, and starting from his seat. He composed his countenance96, however, with the power that long habit and necessity had given him over his emotions, and again settled himself quietly on the bench.
The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, alighted, and gave his horse to the ragged hostler. He then advanced towards the door near which Hugh was seated, whose agitation97 was manifested by no perceptible sign, except by the shorter and more frequent puffs98 with which he plied99 his pipe. Their eyes did not meet till just as the stranger was about to enter, when he started apparently with a surprise and alarm similar to those of Hugh Crombie. He recovered himself, however, sufficiently to return the nod of recognition with which he was favored, and immediately entered the house, the landlord following.
“This way, if you please, sir,” said Hugh. “You will find this apartment cool and retired.”
He ushered100 his guest into a small room the windows of which were darkened by the creeping plants that clustered round them. Entering, and closing the door, the two gazed at each other a little space without speaking. The traveller first broke silence.
“Then this is your living self, Hugh Crombie?” he said. The landlord extended his hand as a practical reply to the question. The stranger took it, though with no especial appearance of cordiality.
“Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood,” he said, in the tone of one who would willingly have found it otherwise. “And how happens this, friend Hugh? I little thought to meet you again in this life. When I last heard from you, your prayers were said, and you were bound for a better world.”
“There would have been small danger of your meeting me there,” observed the landlord, dryly.
“It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh,” replied the traveller. “For which reason I regret that your voyage was delayed.”
“Nay101, that is a hard word to bestow64 on your old comrade,” said Hugh Crombie. “The world is wide enough for both of us; and why should you wish me out of it?”
“Wide as it is,” rejoined the stranger, “we have stumbled against each other,— to the pleasure of neither of us, if I may judge from your countenance. Methinks I am not a welcome guest at Hugh Crombie’s inn.”
“Your welcome must depend on the cause of your coming, and the length of your stay,” replied the landlord.
“And what if I come to settle down among these quiet hills where I was born?” inquired the other. “What if I, too, am weary of the life we have led,— or afraid, perhaps, that it will come to too speedy an end? Shall I have your good word, Hugh, to set me up in an honest way of life? Or will you make me a partner in your trade, since you know my qualifications? A pretty pair of publicans should we be; and the quart pot would have little rest between us.”
“It may be as well to replenish93 it now,” observed Hugh, stepping to the door of the room, and giving orders accordingly. “A meeting between old friends should never be dry. But for the partnership102, it is a matter in which you must excuse me. Heaven knows I find it hard enough to be honest, with no tempter but the Devil and my own thoughts; and, if I have you also to contend with, there is little hope of me.”
“Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions were always like cobwebs, and your evil habits like five-inch cables,” replied the traveller. “I am to understand, then, that you refuse my offer?”
“Not only that; but, if you have chosen this valley as your place of rest, Dame103 Crombie and I must look through the world for another. But hush104! here comes the wine.”
The hostler, in the performance of another part of his duty, now appeared, bearing a measure of the liquor that Hugh had ordered. The wine of that period, owing to the comparative lowness of the duties, was of more moderate price than in the mother-country, and of purer and better quality than at the present day.
“The stuff is well chosen, Hugh,” observed the guest, after a draught large enough to authorize105 an opinion. “You have most of the requisites106 for your present station; and I should be sorry to draw you from it. I trust there will be no need.”
“Yet you have a purpose in your journey hither,” observed his comrade.
“Yes; and you would fain be informed of it,” replied the traveller. He arose, and walked once or twice across the room; then, seeming to have taken his resolution, he paused, and fixed107 his eye steadfastly108 on Hugh Crombie. “I could wish, my old acquaintance,” he said, “that your lot had been cast anywhere rather than here. Yet, if you choose it, you may do me a good office, and one that shall meet with a good reward. Can I trust you?”
“My secrecy109, you can,” answered the host, “but nothing further. I know the nature of your plans, and whither they would lead me, too well to engage in them. To say the truth, since it concerns not me, I have little desire to hear your secret.”
“And I as little to tell it, I do assure you,” rejoined the guest. “I have always loved to manage my affairs myself, and to keep them to myself. It is a good rule; but it must sometimes be broken. And now, Hugh, how is it that you have become possessed110 of this comfortable dwelling and of these pleasant fields?”
“By my marriage with the Widow Sarah Hutchins,” replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a question which seemed to have little reference to the present topic of conversation.
“It is a most excellent method of becoming a man of substance,” continued the traveller; “attended with little trouble, and honest withal.”
“Why, as to the trouble,” said the landlord, “it follows such a bargain, instead of going before it. And for honesty,— I do not recollect111 that I have gained a penny more honestly these twenty years.”
“I can swear to that,” observed his comrade. “Well, mine host, I entirely112 approve of your doings, and, moreover, have resolved to prosper15 after the same fashion myself.”
“If that be the commodity you seek,” replied Hugh Crombie, “you will find none here to your mind. We have widows in plenty, it is true; but most of them have children, and few have houses and lands. But now to be serious, — and there has been something serious in your eye all this while,— what is your purpose in coming hither? You are not safe here. Your name has had a wider spread than mine, and, if discovered, it will go hard with you.”
“But who would know me now?” asked the guest.
“Few, few indeed!” replied the landlord, gazing at the dark features of his companion, where hardship, peril113, and dissipation had each left their traces. “No, you are not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood on the hill by moonlight to take a last look at his father’s cottage. There were tears in your eyes then; and, as often as I remember them, I repent114 that I did not turn you back, instead of leading you on.”
“Tears, were there? Well, there have been few enough since,” said his comrade, pressing his eyelids115 firmly together, as if even then tempted116 to give way to the weakness that he scorned. “And, for turning me back, Hugh, it was beyond your power. I had taken my resolution, and you did but show me the way to execute it.”
“You have not inquired after those you left behind,” observed Hugh Crombie.
“No — no; nor will I have aught of them,” exclaimed the traveller, starting from his seat, and pacing rapidly across the room. “My father, I know, is dead, and I have forgiven him. My mother — what could I hear of her but misery117? I will hear nothing.”
“You must have passed the cottage as you rode hitherward,” said Hugh. “How could you forbear to enter?”
“I did not see it,” he replied. “I closed my eyes, and turned away my head.”
“Oh, if I had had a mother, a loving mother! if there had been one being in the world that loved me, or cared for me, I should not have become an utter castaway,” exclaimed Hugh Crombie.
The landlord’s pathos, like all pathos that flows from the winecup, was sufficiently ridiculous; and his companion, who had already overcome his own brief feelings of sorrow and remorse118, now laughed aloud.
“Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle,” he cried in his usual hard, sarcastic119 tone; “be a man as much as in you lies. You had always a foolish trick of repentance120; but, as I remember, it was commonly of a morning, before you had swallowed your first dram. And now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and we will to business.”
When the landlord had complied with the wishes of his guest, the latter resumed in a lower tone than that of his ordinary conversation,—“There is a young lady lately become a resident hereabouts. Perhaps you can guess her name; for you have a quick apprehension121 in these matters.”
“A young lady?” repeated Hugh Crombie. “And what is your concern with her? Do you mean Ellen Langton, daughter of the old merchant Langton, whom you have some cause to remember?”
“I do remember him; but he is where he will speedily be forgotten,” answered the traveller. “And this girl,— I know your eye has been upon her, Hugh,— describe her to me.”
“Describe her!” exclaimed Hugh with much animation122. “It is impossible in prose; but you shall have her very picture in a verse of one of my own songs.”
“Nay, mine host, I beseech123 you to spare me. This is no time for quavering,” said the guest. “However, I am proud of your approbation124, my old friend; for this young lady do I intend to take to wife. What think you of the plan?”
Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion’s face for the space of a moment, in silence. There was nothing in its expression that looked like a jest. It still retained the same hard, cold look, that, except when Hugh had alluded125 to his home and family, it had worn through their whole conversation.
“On my word, comrade!” he at length replied, “my advice is, that you give over your application to the quart pot, and refresh your brain by a short nap. And yet your eye is cool and steady. What is the meaning of this?”
“Listen, and you shall know,” said the guest. “The old man, her father, is in his grave.”
“Not a bloody126 grave, I trust,” interrupted the landlord, starting, and looking fearfully into his comrade’s face.
“No, a watery127 one,” he replied calmly. “You see, Hugh, I am a better man than you took me for. The old man’s blood is not on my head, though my wrongs are on his. Now listen: he had no heir but this only daughter; and to her, and to the man she marries, all his wealth will belong. She shall marry me. Think you her father will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crombie, when I am his son-inlaw?”
“No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need be,” answered the landlord. “But the dead need not interpose to frustrate128 so wild a scheme.”
“I understand you,” said his comrade. “You are of opinion that the young lady’s consent may not be so soon won as asked. Fear not for that, mine host. I have a winning way with me, when opportunity serves; and it shall serve with Ellen Langton. I will have no rivals in my wooing.”
“Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get this poor girl into your power, and then to force her into a marriage,” said Hugh Crombie.
“It is; and I think I possess the means of doing it,” replied his comrade. “But methinks, friend Hugh, my enterprise has not your good wishes.”
“No; and I pray you to give it over,” said Hugh Crombie, very earnestly. “The girl is young, lovely, and as good as she is fair. I cannot aid in her ruin. Nay, more: I must prevent it.”
“Prevent it!” exclaimed the traveller, with a darkening countenance. “Think twice before you stir in this matter, I advise you. Ruin, do you say? Does a girl call it ruin to be made an honest wedded129 wife? No, no, mine host! nor does a widow either, else have you much to answer for.”
“I gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at least, which is more than poor Ellen is like to get,” observed the landlord. “My old comrade, will you not give up this scheme?”
“My old comrade, I will not give up this scheme,” returned the other, composedly. “Why, Hugh, what has come over you since we last met? Have we not done twenty worse deeds of a morning, and laughed over them at night?”
“He is right there,” said Hugh Crombie, in a meditative130 tone. “Of a certainty, my conscience has grown unreasonably131 tender within the last two years. This one small sin, if I were to aid in it, would add but a trifle to the sum of mine. But then the poor girl!”
His companion overheard him thus communing with himself, and having had much former experience of his infirmity of purpose, doubted not that he should bend him to his will. In fact, his arguments were so effectual, that Hugh at length, though reluctantly, promised his cooperation. It was necessary that their motions should be speedy; for on the second day thereafter, the arrival of the post would bring intelligence of the shipwreck132 by which Mr. Langton had perished.
“And after the deed is done,” said the landlord, “I beseech you never to cross my path again. There have been more wicked thoughts in my head within the last hour than for the whole two years that I have been an honest man.”
“What a saint art thou become, Hugh!” said his comrade. “But fear not that we shall meet again. When I leave this valley, it will be to enter it no more.”
“And there is little danger that any other who has known me will chance upon me here,” observed Hugh Crombie. “Our trade was unfavorable to length of days, and I suppose most of our old comrades have arrived at the end of theirs.”
“One whom you knew well is nearer to you than you think,” answered the traveller; “for I did not travel hitherward entirely alone.”
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trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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dingy
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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10
abode
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hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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vice
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gallows
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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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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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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23
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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24
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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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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27
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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29
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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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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33
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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34
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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35
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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36
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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37
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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38
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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39
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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40
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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41
wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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42
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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44
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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45
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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46
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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47
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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48
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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49
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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50
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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51
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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54
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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56
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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57
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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58
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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59
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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61
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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62
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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63
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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64
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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65
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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67
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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68
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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69
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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70
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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71
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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72
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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73
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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76
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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77
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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78
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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79
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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80
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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81
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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82
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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83
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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84
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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85
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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86
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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87
acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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88
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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89
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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90
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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91
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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92
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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93
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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94
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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95
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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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
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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98
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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99
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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100
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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102
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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103
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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104
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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105
authorize
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| v.授权，委任；批准，认可 | |
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106
requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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107
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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108
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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109
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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110
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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111
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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112
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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113
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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114
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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115
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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116
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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117
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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118
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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119
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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120
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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121
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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122
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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123
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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124
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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125
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
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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127
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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128
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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129
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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131
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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132
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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