"I want a glass of wine, it would keep me alive for some hours, but there is not one I can trust to get it for me,—they'd steal a bottle, and ruin me." John was greatly shocked. "Sir, for God's sake, let ME get a glass of wine for you." "Do you know where?" said the old man, with an expression in his face John could not understand. "No, Sir; you know I have been rather a stranger here, Sir." "Take this key," said old Melmoth, after a violent spasm3; "take this key, there is wine in that closet,—Madeira. I always told them there was nothing there, but they did not believe me, or I should not have been robbed as I have been. At one time I said it was whisky, and then I fared worse than ever, for they drank twice as much of it."
John took the key from his uncle's hand; the dying man pressed it as he did so, and John, interpreting this as a mark of kindness, returned the pressure. He was undeceived by the whisper that followed,—"John, my lad, don't drink any of that wine while you are there." "Good God!" said John, indignantly throwing the key on the bed; then, recollecting4 that the miserable5 being before him was no object of resentment6, he gave the promise required, and entered the closet, which no foot but that of old Melmoth had entered for nearly sixty years. He had some difficulty in finding out the wine, and indeed stayed long enough to justify7 his uncle's suspicions,—but his mind was agitated8, and his hand unsteady. He could not but remark his uncle's extraordinary look, that had the ghastliness of fear superadded to that of death, as he gave him permission to enter his closet. He could not but see the looks of horror which the women exchanged as he approached it. And, finally, when he was in it, his memory was malicious9 enough to suggest some faint traces of a story, too horrible for imagination, connected with it. He remembered in one moment most distinctly, that no one but his uncle had ever been known to enter it for many years.
Before he quitted it, he held up the dim light, and looked around him with a mixture of terror and curiosity. There was a great deal of decayed and useless lumber10, such as might be supposed to be heaped up to rot in a miser1's closet; but John's eyes were in a moment, and as if by magic, riveted11 on a portrait that hung on the wall, and appeared, even to his untaught eye, far superior to the tribe of family pictures that are left to molder on the walls of a family mansion12. It represented a man of middle age. There was nothing remarkable13 in the costume, or in the countenance14, but THE EYES, John felt, were such as one feels they wish they had never seen, and feels they can never forget. Had he been acquainted with the poetry of Southey, he might have often exclaimed in his after- life,
"Only the eyes had life,
From an impulse equally resistless and painful, he approached the portrait, held the candle toward it, and could distinguish the words on the border of the painting,—Jno. Melmoth, anno 1646. John was neither timid by nature, nor nervous by constitution, nor superstitious16 from habit, yet he continued to gaze in stupid horror on this singular picture, till, aroused by his uncle's cough, he hurried into his room. The old man swallowed the wine. He appeared a little revived; it was long since he had tasted such a cordial,—his heart appeared to expand to a momentary17 confidence. "John, what did you see in that room?" "Nothing, Sir." "That's a lie; everyone wants to cheat or to rob me." "Sir, I don't want to do either." "Well, what did you see that you—you took notice of?" "Only a picture, Sir." "A picture, Sir!—the original is still alive." John, though under the impression of his recent feelings, could not but look incredulous. "John," whispered his uncle;— "John, they say I am dying of this and that; and one says it is for want of nourishment18, and one says it is for want of medicine,—but, John," and his face looked hideously20 ghastly, "I am dying of a fright. That man," and he extended his meager21 arm toward the closet, as if he was pointing to a living being; "that man, I have good reason to know, is alive still." "How is that possible, Sir?" said John involuntarily, "the date on the picture is 1646." "You have seen it,—you have noticed it," said his uncle. "Well,"—he rocked and nodded on his bolster22 for a moment, then, grasping John's hand with an unutterable look, he exclaimed, "You will see him again, he is alive." Then, sinking back on his bolster, he fell into a kind of sleep or stupor23, his eyes still open, and fixed24 on John.
The house was now perfectly25 silent, and John had time and space for reflection. More thoughts came crowding on him than he wished to welcome, but they would not be repulsed26. He thought of his uncle's habits and character, turned the matter over and over again in his mind, and he said to himself, "The last man on earth to be superstitious. He never thought of anything but the price of stocks, and the rate of exchange, and my college expenses, that hung heavier at his heart than all; and such a man to die of a fright,—a ridiculous fright, that a man living 150 years ago is alive still, and yet—he is dying." John paused, for facts will confute the most stubborn logician28. "With all his hardness of mind, and of heart, he is dying of a fright. I heard it in the kitchen, I have heard it from himself,—he could not be deceived. If I had ever heard he was nervous, or fanciful, or superstitious, but a character so contrary to all these impressions;—a man that, as poor Butler says, in his 'Remains29 of the Antiquarian,' would have 'sold Christ over again for the numerical piece of silver which Judas got for him,'—such a man to die of fear! Yet he IS dying," said John, glancing his fearful eye on the contracted nostril30, the glazed31 eye, the drooping32 jaw33, the whole horrible apparatus34 of the facies Hippocraticae displayed, and soon to cease its display.
Old Melmoth at this moment seemed to be in a deep stupor; his eyes lost that little expression they had before, and his hands, that had convulsively been catching35 at the blankets, let go their short and quivering grasp, and lay extended on the bed like the claws of some bird that had died of hunger,—so meager, so yellow, so spread. John, unaccustomed to the sight of death, believed this to be only a sign that he was going to sleep; and, urged by an impulse for which he did not attempt to account to himself, caught up the miserable light, and once more ventured into the forbidden room,— the BLUE CHAMBER36 of the dwelling37. The motion roused the dying man;—he sat bolt upright in his bed. This John could not see, for he was now in the closet; but he heard the groan38, or rather the choked and gurgling rattle39 of the throat, that announces the horrible conflict between muscular and mental convulsion. He started, turned away; but, as he turned away, he thought he saw the eyes of the portrait, on which his own was fixed, MOVE, and hurried back to his uncle's bedside.
Old Melmoth died in the course of that night, and died as he had lived, in a kind of avaricious40 delirium41. John could not have imagined a scene so horrible as his last hours presented. He cursed and blasphemed about three halfpence, missing, as he said, some weeks before, in an account of change with his groom42, about hay to a starved horse that he kept. Then he grasped John's hand, and asked him to give him the sacrament. "If I send to the clergyman, he will charge me something for it, which I cannot pay,— I cannot. They say I am rich,—look at this blanket;—but I would not mind that, if I could save my soul." And, raving43, he added, "Indeed, Doctor, I am a very poor man. I never troubled a clergyman before, and all I want is, that you will grant me two trifling44 requests, very little matters in your way,—save my soul, and (whispering) make interest to get me a parish coffin,—I have not enough left to bury me. I always told everyone I was poor, but the more I told them so, the less they believed me."
John, greatly shocked, retired45 from the bedside, and sat down in a distant corner of the room. The women were again in the room, which was very dark. Melmoth was silent from exhaustion46, and there was a deathlike pause for some time. At this moment John saw the door open, and a figure appear at it, who looked round the room, and then quietly and deliberately47 retired, but not before John had discovered in his face the living original of the portrait. His first impulse was to utter an exclamation48 of terror, but his breath felt stopped. He was then rising to pursue the figure, but a moment's reflection checked him. What could be more absurd, than to be alarmed or amazed at a resemblance between a living man and the portrait of a dead one! The likeness49 was doubtless strong enough to strike him even in that darkened room, but it was doubtless only a likeness; and though it might be imposing50 enough to terrify an old man of gloomy and retired habits, and with a broken constitution, John resolved it should not produce the same effect on him.
But while he was applauding himself for this resolution, the door opened, and the figure appeared at it, beckoning51 and nodding to him, with a familiarity somewhat terrifying. John now started up, determined52 to pursue it; but the pursuit was stopped by the weak but shrill53 cries of his uncle, who was struggling at once with the agonies of death and his housekeeper54. The poor woman, anxious for her master's reputation and her own, was trying to put on him a clean shirt and nightcap, and Melmoth, who had just sensation enough to perceive they were taking something from him, continued exclaiming feebly, "They are robbing me,—robbing me in my last moments,—robbing a dying man. John, won't you assist me,—I shall die a beggar; they are taking my last shirt,—I shall die a beggar."—And the miser died.
. . . . .
A few days after the funeral, the will was opened before proper witnesses, and John was found to be left sole heir to his uncle's property, which, though originally moderate, had, by his grasping habits, and parsimonious55 life, become very considerable.
As the attorney who read the will concluded, he added, "There are some words here, at the corner of the parchment, which do not appear to be part of the will, as they are neither in the form of a codicil56, nor is the signature of the testator affixed57 to them; but, to the best of my belief, they are in the handwriting of the deceased." As he spoke58 he showed the lines to Melmoth, who immediately recognized his uncle's hand (that perpendicular60 and penurious61 hand, that seems determined to make the most of the very paper, thriftily62 abridging63 every word, and leaving scarce an atom of margin), and read, not without some emotion, the following words: "I enjoin64 my nephew and heir, John Melmoth, to remove, destroy, or cause to be destroyed, the portrait inscribed65 J. Melmoth, 1646, hanging in my closet. I also enjoin him to search for a manuscript, which I think he will find in the third and lowest left-hand drawer of the mahogany chest standing66 under that portrait,—it is among some papers of no value, such as manuscript sermons, and pamphlets on the improvement of Ireland, and such stuff; he will distinguish it by its being tied round with a black tape, and the paper being very moldy67 and discolored. He may read it if he will;—I think he had better not. At all events, I adjure68 him, if there be any power in the adjuration69 of a dying man, to burn it."
After reading this singular memorandum70, the business of the meeting was again resumed; and as old Melmoth's will was very clear and legally worded, all was soon settled, the party dispersed71, and John Melmoth was left alone.
. . . . .
He resolutely72 entered the closet, shut the door, and proceeded to search for the manuscript. It was soon found, for the directions of old Melmoth were forcibly written, and strongly remembered. The manuscript, old, tattered73, and discolored, was taken from the very drawer in which it was mentioned to be laid. Melmoth's hands felt as cold as those of his dead uncle, when he drew the blotted74 pages from their nook. He sat down to read,—there was a dead silence through the house. Melmoth looked wistfully at the candles, snuffed them, and still thought they looked dim, (perchance he thought they burned blue, but such thought he kept to himself). Certain it is, he often changed his posture75, and would have changed his chair, had there been more than one in the apartment.
He sank for a few moments into a fit of gloomy abstraction, till the sound of the clock striking twelve made him start,—it was the only sound he had heard for some hours, and the sounds produced by inanimate things, while all living beings around are as dead, have at such an hour an effect indescribably awful. John looked at his manuscript with some reluctance77, opened it, paused over the first lines, and as the wind sighed round the desolate78 apartment, and the rain pattered with a mournful sound against the dismantled79 window, wished—what did he wish for?—he wished the sound of the wind less dismal80, and the dash of the rain less monotonous81.—He may be forgiven, it was past midnight, and there was not a human being awake but himself within ten miles when he began to read.
. . . . .
The manuscript was discolored, obliterated82, and mutilated beyond any that had ever before exercised the patience of a reader. Michaelis himself, scrutinizing83 into the pretended autograph of St. Mark at Venice, never had a harder time of it.—Melmoth could make out only a sentence here and there. The writer, it appeared, was an Englishman of the name of Stanton, who had traveled abroad shortly after the Restoration. Traveling was not then attended with the facilities which modern improvement has introduced, and scholars and literati, the intelligent, the idle, and the curious, wandered over the Continent for years, like Tom Corvat, though they had the modesty85, on their return, to entitle the result of their multiplied observations and labors86 only "crudities."
Stanton, about the year 1676, was in Spain; he was, like most of the travelers of that age, a man of literature, intelligence, and curiosity, but ignorant of the language of the country, and fighting his way at times from convent to convent, in quest of what was called "Hospitality," that is, obtaining board and lodging87 on the condition of holding a debate in Latin, on some point theological or metaphysical, with any monk88 who would become the champion of the strife89. Now, as the theology was Catholic, and the metaphysics Aristotelian, Stanton sometimes wished himself at the miserable Posada from whose filth90 and famine he had been fighting his escape; but though his reverend antagonists91 always denounced his creed92, and comforted themselves, even in defeat, with the assurance that he must be damned, on the double score of his being a heretic and an Englishman, they were obliged to confess that his Latin was good, and his logic27 unanswerable; and he was allowed, in most cases, to sup and sleep in peace. This was not doomed94 to be his fate on the night of the 17th August 1677, when he found himself in the plains of Valencia, deserted95 by a cowardly guide, who had been terrified by the sight of a cross erected96 as a memorial of a murder, had slipped off his mule97 unperceived, crossing himself every step he took on his retreat from the heretic, and left Stanton amid the terrors of an approaching storm, and the dangers of an unknown country. The sublime98 and yet softened99 beauty of the scenery around, had filled the soul of Stanton with delight, and he enjoyed that delight as Englishmen generally do, silently.
The magnificent remains of two dynasties that had passed away, the ruins of Roman palaces, and of Moorish101 fortresses102, were around and above him;—the dark and heavy thunder clouds that advanced slowly, seemed like the shrouds104 of these specters of departed greatness; they approached, but did not yet overwhelm or conceal105 them, as if Nature herself was for once awed106 by the power of man; and far below, the lovely valley of Valencia blushed and burned in all the glory of sunset, like a bride receiving the last glowing kiss of the bridegroom before the approach of night. Stanton gazed around. The difference between the architecture of the Roman and Moorish ruins struck him. Among the former are the remains of a theater, and something like a public place; the latter present only the remains of fortresses, embattled, castellated, and fortified107 from top to bottom,—not a loophole for pleasure to get in by,—the loopholes were only for arrows; all denoted military power and despotic subjugation108 a l'outrance. The contrast might have pleased a philosopher, and he might have indulged in the reflection, that though the ancient Greeks and Romans were savages110 (as Dr. Johnson says all people who want a press must be, and he says truly), yet they were wonderful savages for their time, for they alone have left traces of their taste for pleasure in the countries they conquered, in their superb theaters, temples (which were also dedicated111 to pleasure one way or another), and baths, while other conquering bands of savages never left anything behind them but traces of their rage for power. So thought Stanton, as he still saw strongly defined, though darkened by the darkening clouds, the huge skeleton of a Roman amphitheater, its arched and gigantic colonnades112 now admitting a gleam of light, and now commingling113 with the purple thunder cloud; and now the solid and heavy mass of a Moorish fortress103, no light playing between its impermeable114 walls,— the image of power, dark, isolated115, impenetrable. Stanton forgot his cowardly guide, his loneliness, his danger amid an approaching storm and an inhospitable country, where his name and country would shut every door against him, and every peal116 of thunder would be supposed justified117 by the daring intrusion of a heretic in the dwelling of an old Christian118, as the Spanish Catholics absurdly term themselves, to mark the distinction between them and the baptized Moors119.
All this was forgot in contemplating120 the glorious and awful scenery before him,—light struggling with darkness,—and darkness menacing a light still more terrible, and announcing its menace in the blue and livid mass of cloud that hovered121 like a destroying angel in the air, its arrows aimed, but their direction awfully122 indefinite. But he ceased to forget these local and petty dangers, as the sublimity123 of romance would term them, when he saw the first flash of the lightning, broad and red as the banners of an insulting army whose motto is Vae victis, shatter to atoms the remains of a Roman tower;—the rifted stones rolled down the hill, and fell at the feet of Stanton. He stood appalled124, and, awaiting his summons from the Power in whose eye pyramids, palaces, and the worms whose toil125 has formed them, and the worms who toil out their existence under their shadow or their pressure, are perhaps all alike contemptible126, he stood collected, and for a moment felt that defiance127 of danger which danger itself excites, and we love to encounter it as a physical enemy, to bid it "do its worst," and feel that its worst will perhaps be ultimately its best for us. He stood and saw another flash dart128 its bright, brief, and malignant129 glance over the ruins of ancient power, and the luxuriance of recent fertility. Singular contrast! The relics130 of art forever decaying,—the productions of nature forever renewed.—(Alas! for what purpose are they renewed, better than to mock at the perishable131 monuments which men try in vain to rival them by.) The pyramids themselves must perish, but the grass that grows between their disjointed stones will be renewed from year to year.
Stanton was thinking thus, when all power of thought was suspended, by seeing two persons bearing between them the body of a young, and apparently132 very lovely girl, who had been struck dead by the lightning. Stanton approached, and heard the voices of the bearers repeating, "There is none who will mourn for her!" "There is none who will mourn for her!" said other voices, as two more bore in their arms the blasted and blackened figure of what had once been a man, comely133 and graceful;—"there is not ONE to mourn for her now!" They were lovers, and he had been consumed by the flash that had destroyed her, while in the act of endeavoring to defend her. As they were about to remove the bodies, a person approached with a calmness of step and demeanor134, as if he were alone unconscious of danger, and incapable135 of fear; and after looking on them for some time, burst into a laugh so loud, wild, and protracted136, that the peasants, starting with as much horror at the sound as at that of the storm, hurried away, bearing the corpses137 with them. Even Stanton's fears were subdued138 by his astonishment139, and, turning to the stranger, who remained standing on the same spot, he asked the reason of such an outrage140 on humanity. The stranger, slowly turning round, and disclosing a countenance which—(Here the manuscript was illegible141 for a few lines), said in English—(A long hiatus followed here, and the next passage that was legible, though it proved to be a continuation of the narrative142, was but a fragment.)
. . . . .
The terrors of the night rendered Stanton a sturdy and unappeasable applicant143; and the shrill voice of the old woman, repeating, "no heretic—no English—Mother of God protect us—avaunt Satan!"— combined with the clatter144 of the wooden casement145 (peculiar146 to the houses in Valencia) which she opened to discharge her volley of anathematization, and shut again as the lightning glanced through the aperture147, were unable to repel148 his importunate149 request for admittance, in a night whose terrors ought to soften100 all the miserable petty local passions into one awful feeling of fear for the Power who caused it, and compassion150 for those who were exposed to it.—But Stanton felt there was something more than national bigotry151 in the exclamations152 of the old woman; there was a peculiar and personal horror of the English.—And he was right; but this did not diminish the eagerness of his. . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
—The benches were by the wall, but there were none to sit there; the tables were spread in what had been the hall, but it seemed as if none had gathered round them for many years;—the clock struck audibly, there was no voice of mirth or of occupation to drown its sound; time told his awful lesson to silence alone;—the hearths155 were black with fuel long since consumed;—the family portraits looked as if they were the only tenants157 of the mansion; they seemed to say, from their moldering frames, "there are none to gaze on us;" and the echo of the steps of Stanton and his feeble guide, was the only sound audible between the peals159 of thunder that rolled still awfully, but more distantly,—every peal like the exhausted160 murmurs161 of a spent heart. As they passed on, a shriek162 was heard. Stanton paused, and fearful images of the dangers to which travelers on the Continent are exposed in deserted and remote habitations, came into his mind. "Don't heed163 it," said the old woman, lighting164 him on with a miserable lamp;—"it is only he. . . .
. . . . .
The old woman having now satisfied herself, by ocular demonstration165, that her English guest, even if he was the devil, had neither horn, hoof166, nor tail, that he could bear the sign of the cross without changing his form, and that, when he spoke, not a puff167 of sulphur came out of his mouth, began to take courage, and at length commenced her story, which, weary and comfortless as Stanton was, . . . .
. . . . .
Every obstacle was now removed; parents and relations at last gave up all opposition168, and the young pair were united. Never was there a lovelier,—they seemed like angels who had only anticipated by a few years their celestial169 and eternal union. The marriage was solemnized with much pomp, and a few days after there was a feast in that very wainscoted chamber which you paused to remark was so gloomy. It was that night hung with rich tapestry170, representing the exploits of the Cid, particularly that of his burning a few Moors who refused to renounce171 their accursed religion. They were represented beautifully tortured, writhing172 and howling, and "Mahomet! Mahomet!" issuing out of their mouths, as they called on him in their burning agonies;—you could almost hear them scream. At the upper end of the room, under a splendid estrade, over which was an image of the blessed Virgin173, sat Donna Isabella de Cardoza, mother to the bride, and near her Donna Ines, the bride, on rich almohadas; the bridegroom sat opposite to her, and though they never spoke to each other, their eyes, slowly raised, but suddenly withdrawn174 (those eyes that blushed), told to each other the delicious secret of their happiness. Don Pedro de Cardoza had assembled a large party in honor of his daughter's nuptials176; among them was an Englishman of the name of MELMOTH, a traveler; no one knew who had brought him there. He sat silent like the rest, while the iced waters and the sugared wafers were presented to the company. The night was intensely hot, and the moon glowed like a sun over the ruins of Saguntum; the embroidered177 blinds flapped heavily, as if the wind made an effort to raise them in vain, and then desisted.
(Another defect in the manuscript occurred here, but it was soon supplied.)
. . . . .
The company were dispersed through various alleys178 of the garden; the bridegroom and bride wandered through one where the delicious perfume of the orange trees mingled179 itself with that of the myrtles in blow. On their return to the ball, both of them asked, Had the company heard the exquisite180 sounds that floated through the garden just before they quitted it? No one had heard them. They expressed their surprise. The Englishman had never quitted the hall; it was said he smiled with a most particular and extraordinary expression as the remark was made. His silence had been noticed before, but it was ascribed to his ignorance of the Spanish language, an ignorance that Spaniards are not anxious either to expose or remove by speaking to a stranger. The subject of the music was not again reverted181 to till the guests were seated at supper, when Donna Ines and her young husband, exchanging a smile of delighted surprise, exclaimed they heard the same delicious sounds floating round them. The guests listened, but no one else could hear it;—everyone felt there was something extraordinary in this. Hush182! was uttered by every voice almost at the same moment. A dead silence followed,—you would think, from their intent looks, that they listened with their very eyes. This deep silence, contrasted with the splendor183 of the feast, and the light effused from torches held by the domestics, produced a singular effect,—it seemed for some moments like an assembly of the dead. The silence was interrupted, though the cause of wonder had not ceased, by the entrance of Father Olavida, the Confessor of Donna Isabella, who had been called away previous to the feast, to administer extreme unction to a dying man in the neighborhood. He was a priest of uncommon184 sanctity, beloved in the family, and respected in the neighborhood, where he had displayed uncommon taste and talents for exorcism;—in fact, this was the good Father's forte93, and he piqued185 himself on it accordingly. The devil never fell into worse hands than Father Olavida's, for when he was so contumacious186 as to resist Latin, and even the first verses of the Gospel of St. John in Greek, which the good Father never had recourse to but in cases of extreme stubbornness and difficulty,— (here Stanton recollected187 the English story of the Boy of Bilson, and blushed even in Spain for his countrymen),—then he always applied188 to the Inquisition; and if the devils were ever so obstinate189 before, they were always seen to fly out of the possessed190, just as, in the midst of their cries (no doubt of blasphemy191), they were tied to the stake. Some held out even till the flames surrounded them; but even the most stubborn must have been dislodged when the operation was over, for the devil himself could no longer tenant158 a crisp and glutinous193 lump of cinders194. Thus Father Olavida's fame spread far and wide, and the Cardoza family had made uncommon interest to procure195 him for a Confessor, and happily succeeded. The ceremony he had just been performing had cast a shade over the good Father's countenance, but it dispersed as he mingled among the guests, and was introduced to them. Room was soon made for him, and he happened accidentally to be seated opposite the Englishman. As the wine was presented to him, Father Olavida (who, as I observed, was a man of singular sanctity) prepared to utter a short internal prayer. He hesitated,— trembled,—desisted; and, putting down the wine, wiped the drops from his forehead with the sleeve of his habit. Donna Isabella gave a sign to a domestic, and other wine of a higher quality was offered to him. His lips moved, as if in the effort to pronounce a benediction196 on it and the company, but the effort again failed; and the change in his countenance was so extraordinary, that it was perceived by all the guests. He felt the sensation that his extraordinary appearance excited, and attempted to remove it by again endeavoring to lift the cup to his lips. So strong was the anxiety with which the company watched him, that the only sound heard in that spacious and crowded hall was the rustling197 of his habit as he attempted to lift the cup to his lips once more—in vain. The guests sat in astonished silence. Father Olavida alone remained standing; but at that moment the Englishman rose, and appeared determined to fix Olavida's regards by a gaze like that of fascination198. Olavida rocked, reeled, grasped the arm of a page, and at last, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to escape the horrible fascination of that unearthly glare (the Englishman's eyes were observed by all the guests, from the moment of his entrance, to effuse a most fearful and preternatural luster199), exclaimed, "Who is among us?—Who?—I cannot utter a blessing200 while he is here. I cannot feel one. Where he treads, the earth is parched201!—Where he breathes, the air is fire!—Where he feeds, the food is poison!— Where he turns his glance is lightning!—WHO IS AMONG US?—WHO?" repeated the priest in the agony of adjuration, while his cowl fallen back, his few thin hairs around the scalp instinct and alive with terrible emotion, his outspread arms protruded202 from the sleeves of his habit, and extended toward the awful stranger, suggested the idea of an inspired being in the dreadful rapture203 of prophetic denunciation. He stood—still stood, and the Englishman stood calmly opposite to him. There was an agitated irregularity in the attitudes of those around them, which contrasted strongly the fixed and stern postures204 of those two, who remained gazing silently at each other. "Who knows him?" exclaimed Olavida, starting apparently from a trance; "who knows him? who brought him here?"
The guests severally disclaimed205 all knowledge of the Englishman, and each asked the other in whispers, "who HAD brought him there?" Father Olavida then pointed206 his arm to each of the company, and asked each individually, "Do you know him?" No! no! no!" was uttered with vehement207 emphasis by every individual. "But I know him," said Olavida, "by these cold drops!" and he wiped them off;— "by these convulsed joints208!" and he attempted to sign the cross, but could not. He raised his voice, and evidently speaking with increased difficulty,—"By this bread and wine, which the faithful receive as the body and blood of Christ, but which HIS presence converts into matter as viperous209 as the suicide foam210 of the dying Judas,—by all these—I know him, and command him to be gone!—He is—he is—" and he bent211 forward as he spoke, and gazed on the Englishman with an expression which the mixture of rage, hatred212, and fear rendered terrible. All the guests rose at these words,— the whole company now presented two singular groups, that of the amazed guests all collected together, and repeating, "Who, what is he?" and that of the Englishman, who stood unmoved, and Olavida, who dropped dead in the attitude of pointing to him.
. . . . .
The body was removed into another room, and the departure of the Englishman was not noticed till the company returned to the hall. They sat late together, conversing213 on this extraordinary circumstance, and finally agreed to remain in the house, lest the evil spirit (for they believed the Englishman no better) should take certain liberties with the corse by no means agreeable to a Catholic, particularly as he had manifestly died without the benefit of the last sacraments. Just as this laudable resolution was formed, they were roused by cries of horror and agony from the bridal chamber, where the young pair had retired.
They hurried to the door, but the father was first. They burst it open, and found the bride a corse in the arms of her husband.
. . . . .
He never recovered his reason; the family deserted the mansion rendered terrible by so many misfortunes. One apartment is still tenanted by the unhappy maniac214; his were the cries you heard as you traversed the deserted rooms. He is for the most part silent during the day, but at midnight he always exclaims, in a voice frightfully piercing, and hardly human, "They are coming! they are coming!" and relapses into profound silence.
The funeral of Father Olavida was attended by an extraordinary circumstance. He was interred216 in a neighboring convent; and the reputation of his sanctity, joined to the interest caused by his extraordinary death, collected vast numbers at the ceremony. His funeral sermon was preached by a monk of distinguished217 eloquence218, appointed for the purpose. To render the effect of his discourse219 more powerful, the corse, extended on a bier, with its face uncovered, was placed in the aisle220. The monk took his text from one of the prophets,—"Death is gone up into our palaces." He expatiated221 on mortality, whose approach, whether abrupt222 or lingering, is alike awful to man.—He spoke of the vicisstudes of empires with much eloquence and learning, but his audience were not observed to be much affected223.—He cited various passages from the lives of the saints, descriptive of the glories of martyrdom, and the heroism224 of those who had bled and blazed for Christ and his blessed mother, but they appeared still waiting for something to touch them more deeply. When he inveighed225 against the tyrants226 under whose bloody227 persecution228 those holy men suffered, his hearers were roused for a moment, for it is always easier to excite a passion than a moral feeling. But when he spoke of the dead, and pointed with emphatic229 gesture to the corse, as it lay before them cold and motionless, every eye was fixed, and every ear became attentive230. Even the lovers, who, under pretense231 of dipping their fingers into the holy water, were contriving232 to exchange amorous233 billets, forbore for one moment this interesting intercourse234, to listen to the preacher. He dwelt with much energy on the virtues235 of the deceased, whom he declared to be a particular favorite of the Virgin; and enumerating236 the various losses that would be caused by his departure to the community to which he belonged, to society, and to religion at large; he at last worked up himself to a vehement expostulation with the Deity237 on the occasion. "Why hast thou," he exclaimed, "why hast thou, Oh God! thus dealt with us? Why hast thou snatched from our sight this glorious saint, whose merits, if properly applied, doubtless would have been sufficient to atone238 for the apostasy239 of St. Peter, the opposition of St. Paul (previous to his conversion), and even the treachery of Judas himself? Why hast thou, Oh God! snatched him from us?"—and a deep and hollow voice from among the congregation answered,—"Because he deserved his fate." The murmurs of approbation240 with which the congregation honored this apostrophe half drowned this extraordinary interruption; and though there was some little commotion241 in the immediate59 vicinity of the speaker, the rest of the audience continued to listen intently. "What," proceeded the preacher, pointing to the corse, "what hath laid thee there, servant of God?"—"Pride, ignorance, and fear," answered the same voice, in accents still more thrilling. The disturbance242 now became universal. The preacher paused, and a circle opening, disclosed the figure of a monk belonging to the convent, who stood among them.
. . . . .
After all the usual modes of admonition, exhortation243, and discipline had been employed, and the bishop244 of the diocese, who, under the report of these extraordinary circumstances, had visited the convent in person to obtain some explanation from the contumacious monk in vain, it was agreed, in a chapter extraordinary, to surrender him to the power of the Inquisition. He testified great horror when this determination was made known to him,—and offered to tell over and over again all that he COULD relate of the cause of Father Olavida's death. His humiliation245, and repeated offers of confession246, came too late. He was conveyed to the Inquisition. The proceedings247 of that tribunal are rarely disclosed, but there is a secret report (I cannot answer for its truth) of what he said and suffered there. On his first examination, he said he would relate all he COULD. He was told that was not enough, he must relate all he knew.
. . . . .
"Why did you testify such horror at the funeral of Father Olavida?"—"Everyone testified horror and grief at the death of that venerable ecclesiastic248, who died in the odor of sanctity. Had I done otherwise, it might have been reckoned a proof of my guilt249." "Why did you interrupt the preacher with such extraordinary exclamations?"—To this no answer. "Why do you refuse to explain the meaning of those exclamations?"—No answer. "Why do you persist in this obstinate and dangerous silence? Look, I beseech250 you, brother, at the cross that is suspended against this wall," and the Inquisitor pointed to the large black crucifix at the back of the chair where he sat; "one drop of the blood shed there can purify you from all the sin you have ever committed; but all that blood, combined with the intercession of the Queen of Heaven, and the merits of all its martyrs251, nay252, even the absolution of the Pope, cannot deliver you from the curse of dying in unrepented sin."—"What sin, then, have I committed?"—"The greatest of all possible sins; you refuse answering the questions put to you at the tribunal of the most holy and merciful Inquisition;—you will not tell us what you know concerning the death of Father Olavida."—"I have told you that I believe he perished in consequence of his ignorance and presumption253." "What proof can you produce of that?"— "He sought the knowledge of a secret withheld254 from man." "What was that?"—"The secret of discovering the presence or agency of the evil power." "Do you possess that secret?"—After much agitation255 on the part of the prisoner, he said distinctly, but very faintly, "My master forbids me to disclose it." "If your master were Jesus Christ, he would not forbid you to obey the commands, or answer the questions of the Inquisition."—"I am not sure of that." There was a general outcry of horror at these words. The examination then went on. "If you believed Olavida to be guilty of any pursuits or studies condemned256 by our mother the church, why did you not denounce him to the Inquisition?"—"Because I believed him not likely to be injured by such pursuits; his mind was too weak,— he died in the struggle," said the prisoner with great emphasis. "You believe, then, it requires strength of mind to keep those abominable257 secrets, when examined as to their nature and tendency?"—"No, I rather imagine strength of body." "We shall try that presently," said an Inquisitor, giving a signal for the torture.
. . . . .
The prisoner underwent the first and second applications with unshrinking courage, but on the infliction259 of the water-torture, which is indeed insupportable to humanity, either to suffer or relate, he exclaimed in the gasping260 interval261, he would disclose everything. He was released, refreshed, restored, and the following day uttered the following remarkable confession. . . .
. . . . .
The old Spanish woman further confessed to Stanton, that. . . .
. . . . .
and that the Englishman certainly had been seen in the neighborhood since;—seen, as she had heard, that very night. "Great G—d!" exclaimed Stanton, as he recollected the stranger whose demoniac laugh had so appalled him, while gazing on the lifeless bodies of the lovers, whom the lightning had struck and blasted.
As the manuscript, after a few blotted and illegible pages, became more distinct, Melmoth read on, perplexed262 and unsatisfied, not knowing what connection this Spanish story could have with his ancestor, whom, however, he recognized under the title of the Englishman; and wondering how Stanton could have thought it worth his while to follow him to Ireland, write a long manuscript about an event that occurred in Spain, and leave it in the hands of his family, to "verify untrue things," in the language of Dogberry,— his wonder was diminished, though his curiosity was still more inflamed263, by the perusal264 of the next lines, which he made out with some difficulty. It seems Stanton was now in England.
. . . . .
About the year 1677, Stanton was in London, his mind still full of his mysterious countryman. This constant subject of his contemplations had produced a visible change in his exterior,—his walk was what Sallust tells us of Catiline's,—his were, too, the "faedi oculi." He said to himself every moment, "If I could but trace that being, I will not call him man,"—and the next moment he said, "and what if I could?" In this state of mind, it is singular enough that he mixed constantly in public amusements, but it is true. When one fierce passion is devouring266 the soul, we feel more than ever the necessity of external excitement; and our dependence267 on the world for temporary relief increases in direct proportion to our contempt of the world and all its works. He went frequently to the theaters, THEN fashionable, when
"The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimproved away."
. . . . .
It was that memorable268 night, when, according to the history of the veteran Betterton,* Mrs. Barry, who personated Roxana, had a green- room squabble with Mrs. Bowtell, the representative of Statira, about a veil, which the partiality of the property man adjudged to the latter. Roxana suppressed her rage till the fifth act, when, stabbing Statira, she aimed the blow with such force as to pierce through her stays, and inflict258 a severe though not dangerous wound. Mrs. Bowtell fainted, the performance was suspended, and, in the commotion which this incident caused in the house, many of the audience rose, and Stanton among them. It was at this moment that, in a seat opposite to him, he discovered the object of his search for four years,—the Englishman whom he had met in the plains of Valencia, and whom he believed the same with the subject of the extraordinary narrative he had heard there.
* Vide Betterton's History of the Stage.
He was standing up. There was nothing particular or remarkable in his appearance, but the expression of his eyes could never be mistaken or forgotten. The heart of Stanton palpitated with violence,—a mist overspread his eye,—a nameless and deadly sickness, accompanied with a creeping sensation in every pore, from which cold drops were gushing269, announced the. . . .
. . . . .
Before he had well recovered, a strain of music, soft, solemn, and delicious, breathed round him, audibly ascending270 from the ground, and increasing in sweetness and power till it seemed to fill the whole building. Under the sudden impulse of amazement271 and pleasure, he inquired of some around him from whence those exquisite sounds arose. But, by the manner in which he was answered, it was plain that those he addressed considered him insane; and, indeed, the remarkable change in his expression might well justify the suspicion. He then remembered that night in Spain, when the same sweet and mysterious sounds were heard only by the young bridegroom and bride, of whom the latter perished on that very night. "And am I then to be the next victim?" thought Stanton; "and are those celestial sounds, that seem to prepare us for heaven, only intended to announce the presence of an incarnate272 fiend, who mocks the devoted273 with 'airs from heaven,' while he prepares to surround them with 'blasts from hell'?" It is very singular that at this moment, when his imagination had reached its highest pitch of elevation,—when the object he had pursued so long and fruitlessly, had in one moment become as it were tangible274 to the grasp both of mind and body,—when this spirit, with whom he had wrestled275 in darkness, was at last about to declare its name, that Stanton began to feel a kind of disappointment at the futility276 of his pursuits, like Bruce at discovering the source of the Nile, or Gibbon on concluding his History. The feeling which he had dwelt on so long, that he had actually converted it into a duty, was after all mere277 curiosity; but what passion is more insatiable, or more capable of giving a kind of romantic grandeur278 to all its wanderings and eccentricities279? Curiosity is in one respect like love, it always compromises between the object and the feeling; and provided the latter possesses sufficient energy, no matter how contemptible the former may be. A child might have smiled at the agitation of Stanton, caused as it was by the accidental appearance of a stranger; but no man, in the full energy of his passions, was there, but must have trembled at the horrible agony of emotion with which he felt approaching, with sudden and irresistible280 velocity281, the crisis of his destiny.
When the play was over, he stood for some moments in the deserted streets. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and he saw near him a figure, whose shadow, projected half across the street (there were no flagged ways then, chains and posts were the only defense282 of the foot passenger), appeared to him of gigantic magnitude. He had been so long accustomed to contend with these phantoms283 of the imagination, that he took a kind of stubborn delight in subduing284 them. He walked up to the object, and observing the shadow only was magnified, and the figure was the ordinary height of man, he approached it, and discovered the very object of his search,—the man whom he had seen for a moment in Valencia, and, after a search of four years, recognized at the theater.
. . . . .
"You were in quest of me?"—"I was." "Have you anything to inquire of me?"—"Much." "Speak, then."—"This is no place." "No place! poor wretch285, I am independent of time and place. Speak, if you have anything to ask or to learn."—"I have many things to ask, but nothing to learn, I hope, from you." "You deceive yourself, but you will be undeceived when next we meet."—"And when shall that be?" said Stanton, grasping his arm; "name your hour and your place." "The hour shall be midday," answered the stranger, with a horrid286 and unintelligible287 smile; "and the place shall be the bare walls of a madhouse, where you shall rise rattling288 in your chains, and rustling from your straw, to greet me,—yet still you shall have THE CURSE OF SANITY289, and of memory. My voice shall ring in your ears till then, and the glance of these eyes shall be reflected from every object, animate76 or inanimate, till you behold290 them again."—"Is it under circumstances so horrible we are to meet again?" said Stanton, shrinking under the full-lighted blaze of those demon eyes. "I never," said the stranger, in an emphatic tone,—"I never desert my friends in misfortune. When they are plunged291 in the lowest abyss of human calamity293, they are sure to be visited by me."
. . . . .
The narrative, when Melmoth was again able to trace its continuation, described Stanton, some years after, plunged in a state the most deplorable.
He had been always reckoned of a singular turn of mind, and the belief of this, aggravated294 by his constant talk of Melmoth, his wild pursuit of him, his strange behavior at the theater, and his dwelling on the various particulars of their extraordinary meetings, with all the intensity295 of the deepest conviction (while he never could impress them on any one's conviction but his own), suggested to some prudent296 people the idea that he was deranged297. Their malignity298 probably took part with their prudence299. The selfish Frenchman* says, we feel a pleasure even in the misfortunes of our friends,—a plus forte in those of our enemies; and as everyone is an enemy to a man of genius of course, the report of Stanton's malady300 was propagated with infernal and successful industry. Stanton's next relative, a needy301 unprincipled man, watched the report in its circulation, and saw the snares302 closing round his victim. He waited on him one morning, accompanied by a person of a grave, though somewhat repulsive303 appearance. Stanton was as usual abstracted and restless, and, after a few moments' conversation, he proposed a drive a few miles out of London, which he said would revive and refresh him. Stanton objected, on account of the difficulty of getting a hackney coach (for it is singular that at this period the number of private equipages, though infinitely304 fewer than they are now, exceeded the number of hired ones), and proposed going by water. This, however, did not suit the kinsman305's views; and, after pretending to send for a carriage (which was in waiting at the end of the street), Stanton and his companions entered it, and drove about two miles out of London.
* Rochefoucauld.
The carriage then stopped. Come, Cousin," said the younger Stanton,—"come and view a purchase I have made." Stanton absently alighted, and followed him across a small paved court; the other person followed. "In troth, Cousin," said Stanton, "your choice appears not to have been discreetly306 made; your house has somewhat of a gloomy aspect."—"Hold you content, Cousin," replied the other; "I shall take order that you like it better, when you have been some time a dweller307 therein." Some attendants of a mean appearance, and with most suspicious visages, awaited them on their entrance, and they ascended308 a narrow staircase, which led to a room meanly furnished. "Wait here," said the kinsman, to the man who accompanied them, "till I go for company to divertise my cousin in his loneliness." They were left alone. Stanton took no notice of his companion, but as usual seized the first book near him, and began to read. It was a volume in manuscript,—they were then much more common than now.
The first lines struck him as indicating insanity309 in the writer. It was a wild proposal (written apparently after the great fire of London) to rebuild it with stone, and attempting to prove, on a calculation wild, false, and yet sometimes plausible310, that this could be done out of the colossal311 fragments of Stonehenge, which the writer proposed to remove for that purpose. Subjoined were several grotesque312 drawings of engines designed to remove those massive blocks, and in a corner of the page was a note,—"I would have drawn175 these more accurately313, but was not allowed a KNIFE to mend my pen."
The next was entitled, "A modest proposal for the spreading of Christianity in foreign parts, whereby it is hoped its entertainment will become general all over the world."—This modest proposal was, to convert the Turkish ambassadors (who had been in London a few years before), by offering them their choice of being strangled on the spot, or becoming Christians315. Of course the writer reckoned on their embracing the easier alternative, but even this was to be clogged316 with a heavy condition,—namely, that they must be bound before a magistrate317 to convert twenty Mussulmans a day, on their return to Turkey. The rest of the pamphlet was reasoned very much in the conclusive318 style of Captain Bobadil,— these twenty will convert twenty more apiece, and these two hundred converts, converting their due number in the same time, all Turkey would be converted before the Grand Signior knew where he was. Then comes the coup319 d'eclat,—one fine morning, every minaret320 in Constantinople was to ring out with bells, instead of the cry of the Muezzins; and the Imaum, coming out to see what was the matter, was to be encountered by the Archbishop of Canterbury, in pontificalibus, performing Cathedral service in the church of St. Sophia, which was to finish the business. Here an objection appeared to arise, which the ingenuity321 of the writer had anticipated.—"It may be redargued," saith he, "by those who have more spleen than brain, that forasmuch as the Archbishop preacheth in English, he will not thereby322 much edify323 the Turkish folk, who do altogether hold in a vain gabble of their own." But this (to use his own language) he "evites," by judiciously324 observing, that where service was performed in an unknown tongue, the devotion of the people was always observed to be much increased thereby; as, for instance, in the church of Rome,—that St. Augustine, with his monks325, advanced to meet King Ethelbert singing litanies (in a language his majesty326 could not possibly have understood), and converted him and his whole court on the spot;—that the sybilline books. . . .
. . . . .
Cum multis aliis.
Between the pages were cut most exquisitely327 in paper the likenesses of some of these Turkish ambassadors; the hair of the beards, in particular, was feathered with a delicacy328 of touch that seemed the work of fairy fingers,—but the pages ended with a complaint of the operator, that his scissors had been taken from him. However, he consoled himself and the reader with the assurance, that he would that night catch a moonbeam as it entered through the grating, and, when he had whetted329 it on the iron knobs of his door, would do wonders with it. In the next page was found a melancholy proof of powerful but prostrated330 intellect. It contained some insane lines, ascribed to Lee the dramatic poet, commencing,
There is no proof whatever that these miserable lines were really written by Lee, except that the measure is the fashionable quatrain of the period. It is singular that Stanton read on without suspicion of his own danger, quite absorbed in the album of a madhouse, without ever reflecting on the place where he was, and which such compositions too manifestly designated.
It was after a long interval that he looked round, and perceived that his companion was gone. Bells were unusual then. He proceeded to the door,—it was fastened. He called aloud,—his voice was echoed in a moment by many others, but in tones so wild and discordant332, that he desisted in involuntary terror. As the day advanced, and no one approached, he tried the window, and then perceived for the first time it was grated. It looked out on the narrow flagged yard, in which no human being was; and if there had, from such a being no human feeling could have been extracted.
Sickening with unspeakable horror, he sunk rather than sat down beside the miserable window, and "wished for day."
. . . . .
At midnight he started from a doze333, half a swoon, half a sleep, which probably the hardness of his seat, and of the deal table on which he leaned, had not contributed to prolong.
He was in complete darkness; the horror of his situation struck him at once, and for a moment he was indeed almost qualified334 for an inmate335 of that dreadful mansion. He felt his way to the door, shook it with desperate strength, and uttered the most frightful215 cries, mixed with expostulations and commands. His cries were in a moment echoed by a hundred voices. In maniacs336 there is a peculiar malignity, accompanied by an extraordinary acuteness of some of the senses, particularly in distinguishing the voice of a stranger. The cries that he heard on every side seemed like a wild and infernal yell of joy, that their mansion of misery337 had obtained another tenant.
He paused, exhausted,—a quick and thundering step was heard in the passage. The door was opened, and a man of savage109 appearance stood at the entrance,—two more were seen indistinctly in the passage. "Release me, villain338!"—"Stop, my fine fellow, what's all this noise for?" "Where am I?" "Where you ought to be." "Will you dare to detain me?"—"Yes, and a little more than that," answered the ruffian, applying a loaded horsewhip to his back and shoulders, till the patient soon fell to the ground convulsed with rage and pain. "Now you see you are where you ought to be," repeated the ruffian, brandishing339 the horsewhip over him, "and now take the advice of a friend, and make no more noise. The lads are ready for you with the darbies, and they'll clink them on in the crack of this whip, unless you prefer another touch of it first." They then were advancing into the room as he spoke, with fetters340 in their hands (strait waistcoats being then little known or used), and showed, by their frightful countenances341 and gestures, no unwillingness342 to apply them. Their harsh rattle on the stone pavement made Stanton's blood run cold; the effect, however, was useful. He had the presence of mind to acknowledge his (supposed) miserable condition, to supplicate343 the forbearance of the ruthless keeper, and promise complete submission344 to his orders. This pacified345 the ruffian, and he retired.
Stanton collected all his resolution to encounter the horrible night; he saw all that was before him, and summoned himself to meet it. After much agitated deliberation, he conceived it best to continue the same appearance of submission and tranquillity346, hoping that thus he might in time either propitiate347 the wretches348 in whose hands he was, or, by his apparent inoffensiveness, procure such opportunities of indulgence, as might perhaps ultimately facilitate his escape. He therefore determined to conduct himself with the utmost tranquillity, and never to let his voice be heard in the house; and he laid down several other resolutions with a degree of prudence which he already shuddered349 to think might be the cunning of incipient351 madness, or the beginning result of the horrid habits of the place.
These resolutions were put to desperate trial that very night. Just next to Stanton's apartment were lodged192 two most uncongenial neighbors. One of them was a puritanical352 weaver353, who had been driven mad by a single sermon from the celebrated354 Hugh Peters, and was sent to the madhouse as full of election and reprobation355 as he could hold,—and fuller. He regularly repeated over the five points while daylight lasted, and imagined himself preaching in a conventicle with distinguished success; toward twilight356 his visions were more gloomy, and at midnight his blasphemies357 became horrible. In the opposite cell was lodged a loyalist tailor, who had been ruined by giving credit to the cavaliers and their ladies,—(for at this time, and much later, down to the reign314 of Anne, tailors were employed by females even to make and fit on their stays),—who had run mad with drink and loyalty358 on the burning of the Rump, and ever since had made the cells of the madhouse echo with fragments of the ill-fated Colonel Lovelace's song, scraps359 from Cowley's "Cutter of Coleman street," and some curious specimens360 from Mrs. Aphra Behn's plays, where the cavaliers are denominated the heroicks, and Lady Lambert and Lady Desborough represented as going to meeting, their large Bibles carried before them by their pages, and falling in love with two banished361 cavaliers by the way. The voice in which he shrieked362 out such words was powerfully horrible, but it was like the moan of an infant compared to the voice which took up and reechoed the cry, in a tone that made the building shake. It was the voice of a maniac, who had lost her husband, children, subsistence, and finally her reason, in the dreadful fire of London. The cry of fire never failed to operate with terrible punctuality on her associations. She had been in a disturbed sleep, and now started from it as suddenly as on that dreadful night. It was Saturday night too, and she was always observed to be particularly violent on that night,—it was the terrible weekly festival of insanity with her. She was awake, and busy in a moment escaping from the flames; and she dramatized the whole scene with such hideous19 fidelity363, that Stanton's resolution was far more in danger from her than from the battle between his neighbors Testimony364 and Hothead. She began exclaiming she was suffocated365 by the smoke; then she sprung from her bed, calling for a light, and appeared to be struck by the sudden glare that burst through her casement.—"The last day," she shrieked, "The last day! The very heavens are on fire!"—"That will not come till the Man of Sin be first destroyed," cried the weaver; "thou ravest of light and fire, and yet thou art in utter darkness.—I pity thee, poor mad soul, I pity thee!" The maniac never heeded366 him; she appeared to be scrambling367 up a staircase to her children's room. She exclaimed she was scorched369, singed370, suffocated; her courage appeared to fail, and she retreated. "But my children are there!" she cried in a voice of unspeakable agony, as she seemed to make another effort; "here I am—here I am come to save you.—Oh God! They are all blazing!—Take this arm—no, not that, it is scorched and disabled— well, any arm—take hold of my clothes—no, they are blazing too!— Well, take me all on fire as I am!—And their hair, how it hisses371!—Water, one drop of water for my youngest—he is but an infant—for my youngest, and let me burn!" She paused in horrid silence, to watch the fall of a blazing rafter that was about to shatter the staircase on which she stood.—"The roof has fallen on my head!" she exclaimed. "The earth is weak, and all the inhabitants thereof," chanted the weaver; "I bear up the pillars of it."
The maniac marked the destruction of the spot where she thought she stood by one desperate bound, accompanied by a wild shriek, and then calmly gazed on her infants as they rolled over the scorching372 fragments, and sunk into the abyss of fire below. "There they go,— one—two—three—all!" and her voice sunk into low mutterings, and her convulsions into faint, cold shudderings, like the sobbings of a spent storm, as she imagined herself to "stand in safety and despair," amid the thousand houseless wretches assembled in the suburbs of London on the dreadful nights after the fire, without food, roof, or raiment, all gazing on the burning ruins of their dwellings374 and their property. She seemed to listen to their complaints, and even repeated some of them very affectingly, but invariably answered them with the same words, "But I have lost all my children—all!" It was remarkable, that when this sufferer began to rave84, all the others became silent. The cry of nature hushed every other cry,—she was the only patient in the house who was not mad from politics, religion, ebriety, or some perverted375 passion; and terrifying as the outbreak of her frenzy376 always was, Stanton used to await it as a kind of relief from the dissonant377, melancholy, and ludicrous ravings of the others.
But the utmost efforts of his resolution began to sink under the continued horrors of the place. The impression on his senses began to defy the power of reason to resist them. He could not shut out these frightful cries nightly repeated, nor the frightful sound of the whip employed to still them. Hope began to fail him, as he observed, that the submissive tranquillity (which he had imagined, by obtaining increased indulgence, might contribute to his escape, or perhaps convince the keeper of his sanity) was interpreted by the callous378 ruffian, who was acquainted only with the varieties of MADNESS, as a more refined species of that cunning which he was well accustomed to watch and baffle.
On his first discovery of his situation, he had determined to take the utmost care of his health and intellect that the place allowed, as the sole basis of his hope of deliverance. But as that hope declined, he neglected the means of realizing it. He had at first risen early, walked incessantly379 about his cell, and availed himself of every opportunity of being in the open air. He took the strictest care of his person in point of cleanliness, and with or without appetite, regularly forced down his miserable meals; and all these efforts were even pleasant, as long as hope prompted them. But now he began to relax them all. He passed half the day in his wretched bed, in which he frequently took his meals, declined shaving or changing his linen381, and, when the sun shone into his cell, he turned from it on his straw with a sigh of heartbroken despondency. Formerly382, when the air breathed through his grating, he used to say, "Blessed air of heaven, I shall breathe you once more in freedom!—Reserve all your freshness for that delicious evening when I shall inhale383 you, and be as free as you myself." Now when he felt it, he sighed and said nothing. The twitter of the sparrows, the pattering of rain, or the moan of the wind, sounds that he used to sit up in his bed to catch with delight, as reminding him of nature, were now unheeded.
He began at times to listen with sullen384 and horrible pleasure to the cries of his miserable companions. He became squalid, listless, torpid385, and disgusting in his appearance.
. . . . .
It was one of those dismal nights, that, as he tossed on his loathsome386 bed,—more loathsome from the impossibility to quit it without feeling more "unrest,"—he perceived the miserable light that burned in the hearth156 was obscured by the intervention387 of some dark object. He turned feebly toward the light, without curiosity, without excitement, but with a wish to diversify388 the monotony of his misery, by observing the slightest change made even accidentally in the dusky atmosphere of his cell. Between him and the light stood the figure of Melmoth, just as he had seen him from the first; the figure was the same; the expression of the face was the same,—cold, stony389, and rigid390; the eyes, with their infernal and dazzling luster, were still the same.
Stanton's ruling passion rushed on his soul; he felt this apparition391 like a summons to a high and fearful encounter. He heard his heart beat audibly, and could have exclaimed with Lee's unfortunate heroine,—"It pants as cowards do before a battle; Oh the great march has sounded!"
Melmoth approached him with that frightful calmness that mocks the terror it excites. "My prophecy has been fulfilled;—you rise to meet me rattling from your chains, and rustling from your straw—am I not a true prophet?" Stanton was silent. "Is not your situation very miserable?"—Still Stanton was silent; for he was beginning to believe this an illusion of madness. He thought to himself, "How could he have gained entrance here?"—"Would you not wish to be delivered from it?" Stanton tossed on his straw, and its rustling seemed to answer the question. "I have the power to deliver you from it." Melmoth spoke very slowly and very softly, and the melodious392 smoothness of his voice made a frightful contrast to the stony rigor393 of his features, and the fiendlike brilliancy of his eyes. "Who are you, and whence come you?" said Stanton, in a tone that was meant to be interrogatory and imperative394, but which, from his habits of squalid debility, was at once feeble and querulous. His intellect had become affected by the gloom of his miserable habitation, as the wretched inmate of a similar mansion, when produced before a medical examiner, was reported to be a complete Albino.—His skin was bleached395, his eyes turned white; he could not bear the light; and, when exposed to it, he turned away with a mixture of weakness and restlessness, more like the writhings of a sick infant than the struggles of a man.
Such was Stanton's situation. He was enfeebled now, and the power of the enemy seemed without a possibility of opposition from either his intellectual or corporeal396 powers.
. . . . .
Of all their horrible dialogue, only these words were legible in the manuscript, "You know me now."—"I always knew you."—"That is false; you imagined you did, and that has been the cause of all the wild . of the . . . . . . of your finally being lodged in this mansion of misery, where only I would seek, where only I can succor397 you."—"You, demon!"— "Demon!—Harsh words!—Was it a demon or a human being placed you here?—Listen to me, Stanton; nay, wrap not yourself in that miserable blanket,—that cannot shut out my words. Believe me, were you folded in thunder clouds, you must hear ME! Stanton, think of your misery. These bare walls—what do they present to the intellect or to the senses?—Whitewash, diversified398 with the scrawls399 of charcoal400 or red chalk, that your happy predecessors401 have left for you to trace over. You have a taste for drawing—I trust it will improve. And here's a grating, through which the sun squints402 on you like a stepdame, and the breeze blows, as if it meant to tantalize403 you with a sigh from that sweet mouth, whose kiss you must never enjoy. And where's your library,—intellectual man,—traveled man?" he repeated in a tone of bitter derision; "where be your companions, your peaked men of countries, as your favorite Shakespeare has it? You must be content with the spider and the rat, to crawl and scratch round your flock bed! I have known prisoners in the Bastille to feed them for companions,—why don't you begin your task? I have known a spider to descend404 at the tap of a finger, and a rat to come forth405 when the daily meal was brought, to share it with his fellow prisoner!—How delightful406 to have vermin for your guests! Aye, and when the feast fails them, they make a meal of their entertainer!—You shudder350.—Are you, then, the first prisoner who has been devoured407 alive by the vermin that infested408 his cell?—Delightful banquet, not 'where you eat, but where you are eaten'! Your guests, however, will give you one token of repentance409 while they feed; there will be gnashing of teeth, and you shall hear it, and feel it too perchance!—And then for meals—Oh you are daintily off!—The soup that the cat has lapped; and (as her progeny410 has probably contributed to the hell broth) why not? Then your hours of solitude411, deliciously diversified by the yell of famine, the howl of madness, the crash of whips, and the broken-hearted sob373 of those who, like you, are supposed, or DRIVEN mad by the crimes of others!—Stanton, do you imagine your reason can possibly hold out amid such scenes?— Supposing your reason was unimpaired, your health not destroyed,— suppose all this, which is, after all, more than fair supposition can grant, guess the effect of the continuance of these scenes on your senses alone. A time will come, and soon, when, from mere habit, you will echo the scream of every delirious412 wretch that harbors near you; then you will pause, clasp your hands on your throbbing413 head, and listen with horrible anxiety whether the scream proceeded from YOU or THEM. The time will come, when, from the want of occupation, the listless and horrible vacancy414 of your hours, you will feel as anxious to hear those shrieks415, as you were at first terrified to hear them,—when you will watch for the ravings of your next neighbor, as you would for a scene on the stage. All humanity will be extinguished in you. The ravings of these wretches will become at once your sport and your torture. You will watch for the sounds, to mock them with the grimaces416 and bellowings of a fiend. The mind has a power of accommodating itself to its situation, that you will experience in its most frightful and deplorable efficacy. Then comes the dreadful doubt of one's own sanity, the terrible announcer that THAT doubt will soon become fear, and THAT fear certainty. Perhaps (still more dreadful) the FEAR will at last become a HOPE,—shut out from society, watched by a brutal417 keeper, writhing with all the impotent agony of an incarcerated418 mind, without communication and without sympathy, unable to exchange ideas but with those whose ideas are only the hideous specters of departed intellect, or even to hear the welcome sound of the human voice, except to mistake it for the howl of a fiend, and stop the ear desecrated419 by its intrusion,— then at last your fear will become a more fearful hope; you will wish to become one of them, to escape the agony of consciousness. As those who have long leaned over a precipice420, have at last felt a desire to plunge292 below, to relieve the intolerable temptation of their giddiness,* you will hear them laugh amid their wildest paroxysms; you will say, 'Doubtless those wretches have some consolation421, but I have none; my sanity is my greatest curse in this abode422 of horrors. They greedily devour265 their miserable meals, while I loathe423 mine. They sleep sometimes soundly, while my sleep is—worse than their waking. They are revived every morning by some delicious illusion of cunning madness, soothing424 them with the hope of escaping, baffling or tormenting426 their keeper; my sanity precludes427 all such hope. I KNOW I NEVER CAN ESCAPE, and the preservation428 of my faculties429 is only an aggravation430 of my sufferings. I have all their miseries,—I have none of their consolations431. They laugh,—I hear them; would I could laugh like them.' You will try, and the very effort will be an invocation to the demon of insanity to come and take full possession of you from that moment forever."
* A fact, related to me by a person who was near committing suicide in a similar situation, to escape what he called "the excruciating torture of giddiness."
(There were other details, both of the menaces and temptations employed by Melmoth, which are too horrible for insertion. One of them may serve for an instance.)
"You think that the intellectual power is something distinct from the vitality432 of the soul, or, in other words, that if even your reason should be destroyed (which it nearly is), your soul might yet enjoy beatitude in the full exercise of its enlarged and exalted433 faculties, and all the clouds which obscured them be dispelled434 by the Sun of Righteousness, in whose beams you hope to bask435 forever and ever. Now, without going into any metaphysical subtleties436 about the distinction between mind and soul, experience must teach you, that there can be no crime into which madmen would not, and do not, precipitate437 themselves; mischief438 is their occupation, malice439 their habit, murder their sport, and blasphemy their delight. Whether a soul in this state can be in a hopeful one, it is for you to judge; but it seems to me, that with the loss of reason (and reason cannot long be retained in this place) you lose also the hope of immortality440.—Listen," said the tempter, pausing, "listen to the wretch who is raving near you, and whose blasphemies might make a demon start.—He was once an eminent442 puritanical preacher. Half the day he imagines himself in a pulpit, denouncing damnation against Papists, Arminians, and even Sublapsarians (he being a Supra-lapsarian himself). He foams443, he writhes444, he gnashes his teeth; you would imagine him in the hell he was painting, and that the fire and brimstone he is so lavish445 of were actually exhaling446 from his jaws447. At night his creed retaliates448 on him; he believes himself one of the reprobates449 he has been all day denouncing, and curses God for the very decree he has all day been glorifying450 Him for.
"He, whom he has for twelve hours been vociferating 'is the loveliest among ten thousand,' becomes the object of demoniac hostility451 and execration452. He grapples with the iron posts of his bed, and says he is rooting out the cross from the very foundations of Calvary; and it is remarkable, that in proportion as his morning exercises are intense, vivid, and eloquent453, his nightly blasphemies are outrageous454 and horrible.—Hark! Now he believes himself a demon; listen to his diabolical455 eloquence of horror!"
Stanton listened, and shuddered . .
. . . . .
"Escape—escape for your life," cried the tempter; "break forth into life, liberty, and sanity. Your social happiness, your intellectual powers, your immortal441 interests, perhaps, depend on the choice of this moment.—There is the door, and the key is in my hand.—Choose—choose!"—"And how comes the key in your hand? and what is the condition of my liberation?" said Stanton.
. . . . .
The explanation occupied several pages, which, to the torture of young Melmoth, were wholly illegible. It seemed, however, to have been rejected by Stanton with the utmost rage and horror, for Melmoth at last made out,—"Begone, monster, demon!—begone to your native place. Even this mansion of horror trembles to contain you; its walls sweat, and its floors quiver, while you tread them."
. . . . .
The conclusion of this extraordinary manuscript was in such a state, that, in fifteen moldy and crumbling456 pages, Melmoth could hardly make out that number of lines. No antiquarian, unfolding with trembling hand the calcined leaves of an Herculaneum manuscript, and hoping to discover some lost lines of the Aeneis in Virgil's own autograph, or at least some unutterable abomination of Petronius or Martial457, happily elucidatory458 of the mysteries of the Spintriae, or the orgies of the Phallic worshipers, ever pored with more luckless diligence, or shook a head of more hopeless despondency over his task. He could but just make out what tended rather to excite than assuage459 that feverish460 thirst of curiosity which was consuming his inmost soul. The manuscript told no more of Melmoth, but mentioned that Stanton was finally liberated461 from his confinement,—that his pursuit of Melmoth was incessant380 and indefatigable,—that he himself allowed it to be a species of insanity,—that while he acknowledged it to be the master passion, he also felt it the master torment425 of his life. He again visited the Continent, returned to England,—pursued, inquired, traced, bribed462, but in vain. The being whom he had met thrice, under circumstances so extraordinary, he was fated never to encounter again IN HIS LIFETIME. At length, discovering that he had been born in Ireland, he resolved to go there,—went, and found his pursuit again fruitless, and his inquiries463 unanswered. The family knew nothing of him, or at least what they knew or imagined, they prudently464 refused to disclose to a stranger, and Stanton departed unsatisfied. It is remarkable, that he too, as appeared from many half-obliterated pages of the manuscript, never disclosed to mortal the particulars of their conversation in the madhouse; and the slightest allusion465 to it threw him into fits of rage and gloom equally singular and alarming. He left the manuscript, however, in the hands of the family, possibly deeming, from their incuriosity, their apparent indifference466 to their relative, or their obvious unacquaintance with reading of any kind, manuscript or books, his deposit would be safe. He seems, in fact, to have acted like men, who, in distress467 at sea, intrust their letters and dispatches to a bottle sealed, and commit it to the waves. The last lines of the manuscript that were legible, were sufficiently468 extraordinary. . . .
. . . . .
"I have sought him everywhere.—The desire of meeting him once more is become as a burning fire within me,—it is the necessary condition of my existence. I have vainly sought him at last in Ireland, of which I find he is a native.—Perhaps our final meeting will be in. . . .
. . . . .
Such was the conclusion of the manuscript which Melmoth found in his uncle's closet. When he had finished it, he sunk down on the table near which he had been reading it, his face hid in his folded arms, his senses reeling, his mind in a mingled state of stupor and excitement. After a few moments, he raised himself with an involuntary start, and saw the picture gazing at him from its canvas. He was within ten inches of it as he sat, and the proximity469 appeared increased by the strong light that was accidentally thrown on it, and its being the only representation of a human figure in the room. Melmoth felt for a moment as if he were about to receive an explanation from its lips.
He gazed on it in return,—all was silent in the house,—they were alone together. The illusion subsided470 at length: and as the mind rapidly passes to opposite extremes, he remembered the injunction of his uncle to destroy the portrait. He seized it;—his hand shook at first, but the moldering canvas appeared to assist him in the effort. He tore it from the frame with a cry half terrific, half triumphant,—it fell at his feet, and he shuddered as it fell. He expected to hear some fearful sounds, some unimaginable breathings of prophetic horror, follow this act of sacrilege, for such he felt it, to tear the portrait of his ancestor from his native walls. He paused and listened:—"There was no voice, nor any that answered;"—but as the wrinkled and torn canvas fell to the floor, its undulations gave the portrait the appearance of smiling. Melmoth felt horror indescribable at this transient and imaginary resuscitation471 of the figure. He caught it up, rushed into the next room, tore, cut, and hacked472 it in every direction, and eagerly watched the fragments that burned like tinder in the turf fire which had been lit in his room. As Melmoth saw the last blaze, he threw himself into bed, in hope of a deep and intense sleep. He had done what was required of him, and felt exhausted both in mind and body; but his slumber473 was not so sound as he had hoped for. The sullen light of the turf fire, burning but never blazing, disturbed him every moment. He turned and turned, but still there was the same red light glaring on, but not illuminating474, the dusky furniture of the apartment. The wind was high that night, and as the creaking door swung on its hinges, every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the lock, or of a foot pausing on the threshold. But (for Melmoth never could decide) was it in a dream or not, that he saw the figure of his ancestor appear at the door?—hesitatingly as he saw him at first on the night of his uncle's death,—saw him enter the room, approach his bed, and heard him whisper, "You have burned me, then; but those are flames I can survive.—I am alive,—I am beside you." Melmoth started, sprung from his bed,—it was broad daylight. He looked round,—there was no human being in the room but himself. He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his right arm. He looked at it, it was black and blue, as from the recent gripe of a strong hand.
Balzac's tale, Melmoth Reconciled, in Vol. IV., furnishes a solution to the terrible problem which Maturin has stated in this story.—EDITOR'S NOTE.
Introduction to "A Mystery with a Moral"
The next Mystery Story is like no other in these volumes. The editor's defense lies in the plea that Laurence Sterne is not like other writers of English. He is certainly one of the very greatest. Yet nowadays he is generally unknown. His rollicking frankness, his audacious unconventionality, are enough to account for the neglect. Even the easy mannered England of 1760 opened its eyes in horror when "Tristram Shandy" appeared. "A most unclerical clergyman," the public pronounced the rector of Sutton and prebendary of York.
Besides, his style was rambling368 to the last degree. Plot concerned him least of all authors of fiction.
For instance, it is more than doubtful that the whimsical parson really INTENDED a moral to be read into the adventures of his "Sentimental475 Journey" that follow in these pages. He used to declare that he never intended anything—he never knew whither his pen was leading—the rash implement476, once in hand, was likely to fly with him from Yorkshire to Italy—or to Paris—or across the road to Uncle Toby's; and what could the helpless author do but improve each occasion?
So here is one such "occasion" thus "improved" by disjointed sequels—heedless, one would say, and yet glittering with the unreturnable thrust of subtle wit, or softening477 with simple emotion, like a thousand immortal passages of this random478 philosopher.
Even the slightest turns of Sterne's pen bear inspiration. No less a critic than the severe Hazlitt was satisfied that "his works consist only of brilliant passages."
And because the editors of the present volumes found added to "The Mystery" not only a "Solution" but an "Application" of worldly wisdom, and a "Contrast" in Sterne's best vein479 of quiet happiness— they have felt emboldened480 to ascribe the passage "A Mystery with a Moral."
As regards the "Application": Sterne knew whereof he wrote. He sought the South of France for health in 1762, and was run after and feted by the most brilliant circles of Parisian litterateurs. This foreign sojourn481 failed to cure his lung complaint, but suggested the idea to him of the rambling and charming "Sentimental Journey." Only three weeks after its publication, on March 18, 1768, Sterne died alone in his London lodgings482.
Spite of all that marred483 his genius, his work has lived and wil1 live, if only for the exquisite literary art which ever made great things out of little.—The EDITOR.
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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spasm
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recollecting
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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resentment
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justify
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agitated
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malicious
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lumber
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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mansion
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remarkable
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countenance
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demon
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superstitious
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momentary
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nourishment
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hideous
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hideously
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meager
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bolster
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stupor
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fixed
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perfectly
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repulsed
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logic
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logician
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remains
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nostril
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glazed
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drooping
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jaw
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apparatus
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catching
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chamber
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dwelling
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groan
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rattle
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avaricious
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delirium
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groom
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raving
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trifling
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retired
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exhaustion
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deliberately
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exclamation
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likeness
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beckoning
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determined
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shrill
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housekeeper
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parsimonious
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codicil
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affixed
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spoke
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immediate
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perpendicular
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penurious
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thriftily
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abridging
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| 节略( abridge的现在分词 )； 减少； 缩短； 剥夺（某人的）权利（或特权等） | |
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64
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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65
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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66
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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67
moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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68
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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69
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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70
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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71
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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72
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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73
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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74
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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75
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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76
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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77
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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78
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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79
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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80
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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81
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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82
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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83
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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84
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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85
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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86
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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87
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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88
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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89
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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90
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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91
antagonists
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| 对立[对抗] 者，对手，敌手( antagonist的名词复数 )； 对抗肌； 对抗药 | |
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92
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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93
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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94
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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95
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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96
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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97
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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98
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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99
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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100
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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101
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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102
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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103
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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104
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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105
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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106
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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108
subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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109
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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110
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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111
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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112
colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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113
commingling
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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114
impermeable
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| adj.不能透过的，不渗透的 | |
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115
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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116
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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117
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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118
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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119
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
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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121
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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122
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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123
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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124
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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125
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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126
contemptible
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|
| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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127
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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128
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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129
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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130
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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131
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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132
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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133
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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134
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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135
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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136
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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137
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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138
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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139
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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140
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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141
illegible
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|
| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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142
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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143
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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144
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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145
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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146
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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147
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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148
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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149
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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150
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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151
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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152
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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153
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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154
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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155
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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156
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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157
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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158
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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159
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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161
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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162
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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163
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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164
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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165
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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166
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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167
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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168
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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169
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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170
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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171
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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172
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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173
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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174
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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175
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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176
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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177
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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178
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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179
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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180
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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181
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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182
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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183
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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184
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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185
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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186
contumacious
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|
| adj.拒不服从的，违抗的 | |
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187
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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189
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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190
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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191
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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192
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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193
glutinous
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| adj.粘的，胶状的 | |
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194
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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195
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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196
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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197
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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198
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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199
luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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200
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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201
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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202
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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204
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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205
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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207
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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208
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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209
viperous
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| adj.有毒的，阴险的 | |
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210
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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211
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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212
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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213
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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214
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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215
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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216
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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218
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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219
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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220
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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221
expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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222
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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223
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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224
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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225
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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227
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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228
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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229
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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230
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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231
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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232
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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233
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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234
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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235
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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236
enumerating
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|
| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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237
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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238
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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239
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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240
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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241
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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242
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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243
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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244
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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245
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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246
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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247
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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248
ecclesiastic
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|
| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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249
guilt
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|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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250
beseech
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|
| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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251
martyrs
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|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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252
nay
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|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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253
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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254
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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255
agitation
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|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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256
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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257
abominable
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|
| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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258
inflict
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|
| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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259
infliction
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|
| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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260
gasping
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|
| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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261
interval
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|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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262
perplexed
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|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
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263
inflamed
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|
| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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265
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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266
devouring
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|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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267
dependence
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|
| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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268
memorable
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|
| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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269
gushing
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|
| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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270
ascending
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|
| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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271
amazement
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|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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272
incarnate
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|
| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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273
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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274
tangible
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|
| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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275
wrestled
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|
| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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276
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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277
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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278
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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279
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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280
irresistible
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|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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281
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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282
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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283
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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284
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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285
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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286
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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287
unintelligible
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|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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288
rattling
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|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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289
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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290
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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291
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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292
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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293
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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294
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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295
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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296
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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297
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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298
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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299
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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300
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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301
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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302
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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303
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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304
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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305
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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306
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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307
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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308
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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309
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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310
plausible
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|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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311
colossal
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|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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312
grotesque
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|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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313
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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314
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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315
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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316
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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317
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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318
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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319
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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320
minaret
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| n.（回教寺院的）尖塔 | |
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321
ingenuity
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|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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322
thereby
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|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
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323
edify
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|
| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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324
judiciously
|
|
| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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325
monks
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|
| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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326
majesty
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|
| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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327
exquisitely
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|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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328
delicacy
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|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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329
whetted
|
|
| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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330
prostrated
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|
| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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331
bleat
|
|
| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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332
discordant
|
|
| adj.不调和的 | |
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333
doze
|
|
| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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334
qualified
|
|
| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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335
inmate
|
|
| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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336
maniacs
|
|
| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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337
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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338
villain
|
|
| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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339
brandishing
|
|
| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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340
fetters
|
|
| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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341
countenances
|
|
| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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342
unwillingness
|
|
| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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343
supplicate
|
|
| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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344
submission
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|
| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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345
pacified
|
|
| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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346
tranquillity
|
|
| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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347
propitiate
|
|
| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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348
wretches
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|
| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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349
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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350
shudder
|
|
| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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351
incipient
|
|
| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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352
puritanical
|
|
| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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353
weaver
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|
| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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354
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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355
reprobation
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|
| n.斥责 | |
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356
twilight
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|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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357
blasphemies
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|
| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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358
loyalty
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|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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359
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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360
specimens
|
|
| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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361
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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362
shrieked
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|
| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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363
fidelity
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|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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364
testimony
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|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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365
suffocated
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|
| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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366
heeded
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|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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367
scrambling
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|
| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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368
rambling
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|
| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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369
scorched
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|
| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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370
singed
|
|
| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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371
hisses
|
|
| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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372
scorching
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|
| adj. 灼热的 | |
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373
sob
|
|
| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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374
dwellings
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|
| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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375
perverted
|
|
| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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376
frenzy
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|
| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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377
dissonant
|
|
| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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378
callous
|
|
| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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379
incessantly
|
|
| ad.不停地 | |
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380
incessant
|
|
| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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381
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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382
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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383
inhale
|
|
| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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384
sullen
|
|
| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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385
torpid
|
|
| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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386
loathsome
|
|
| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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387
intervention
|
|
| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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388
diversify
|
|
| v.（使）不同，（使）变得多样化 | |
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389
stony
|
|
| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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390
rigid
|
|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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391
apparition
|
|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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392
melodious
|
|
| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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393
rigor
|
|
| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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394
imperative
|
|
| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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395
bleached
|
|
| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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396
corporeal
|
|
| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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397
succor
|
|
| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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398
diversified
|
|
| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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399
scrawls
|
|
| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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400
charcoal
|
|
| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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401
predecessors
|
|
| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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402
squints
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|
| 斜视症( squint的名词复数 )； 瞥 | |
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403
tantalize
|
|
| vt.使干着急，逗弄 | |
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404
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
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405
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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406
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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407
devoured
|
|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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408
infested
|
|
| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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409
repentance
|
|
| n.懊悔 | |
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410
progeny
|
|
| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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411
solitude
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|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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412
delirious
|
|
| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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413
throbbing
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|
| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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414
vacancy
|
|
| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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415
shrieks
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|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
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416
grimaces
|
|
| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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417
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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418
incarcerated
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| 钳闭的 | |
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419
desecrated
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|
| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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420
precipice
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|
| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
参考例句： |
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421
consolation
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|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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422
abode
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|
| n.住处，住所 | |
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423
loathe
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|
| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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424
soothing
|
|
| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
参考例句： |
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425
torment
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|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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426
tormenting
|
|
| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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427
precludes
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|
| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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428
preservation
|
|
| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
参考例句： |
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429
faculties
|
|
| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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430
aggravation
|
|
| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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431
consolations
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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432
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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433
exalted
|
|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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434
dispelled
|
|
| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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435
bask
|
|
| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
参考例句： |
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436
subtleties
|
|
| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
参考例句： |
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437
precipitate
|
|
| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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438
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
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439
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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440
immortality
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|
| n.不死，不朽 | |
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441
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
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442
eminent
|
|
| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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443
foams
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| n.泡沫，泡沫材料( foam的名词复数 ) | |
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444
writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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445
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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446
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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447
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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448
retaliates
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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449
reprobates
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| n.道德败坏的人，恶棍( reprobate的名词复数 ) | |
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450
glorifying
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| 赞美( glorify的现在分词 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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451
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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452
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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453
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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454
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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455
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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456
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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457
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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458
elucidatory
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| adj.阐释的，阐明的 | |
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459
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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460
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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461
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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462
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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463
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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464
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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465
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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466
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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467
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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468
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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469
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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470
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；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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471
resuscitation
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| n.复活 | |
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472
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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473
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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474
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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475
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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476
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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477
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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478
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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479
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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480
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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481
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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482
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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483
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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