PLINY
The manuscript was discoloured, obliterated1, and mutilated beyond any that had ever before exercised the patience of a reader. Michaelis himself, scrutinizing2 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 travelled abroad shortly after the Restoration. Travelling 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 Coryat, though they had the modesty4, on their return, to entitle the result of their multiplied observations and labours only ‘crudities.’
Stanton, about the year 1676, was in Spain; he was, like most of the travellers 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 lodging5 on the condition of holding a debate in Latin, on some point theological or metaphysical, with any monk7 who would become the champion of the strife8. Now, as the theology was Catholic, and the metaphysics Aristotelian, Stanton sometimes wished himself at the miserable9 Posada from whose filth10 and famine he had been fighting his escape; but though his reverend antagonists11 always denounced his creed12, 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 logic6 unanswerable; and he was allowed, in most cases, to sup and sleep in peace. This was not doomed14 to be his fate on the night of the 17th August 1677, when he found himself in the plains of Valencia, deserted15 by a cowardly guide, who had been terrified by the sight of a cross erected16 as a memorial of a murder, had slipped off his mule17 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 sublime18 and yet softened20 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 remains21 of two dynasties that had passed away, the ruins of Roman palaces, and of Moorish22 fortresses24, were around and above him; — the dark and heavy thunder-clouds that advanced slowly, seemed like the shrouds27 of these spectres of departed greatness; they approached, but did not yet overwhelm or conceal28 them, as if nature herself was for once awed29 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 theatre, and something like a public place; the latter present only the remains of fortresses, embattled, castellated, and fortified30 from top to bottom, — not a loop-hole for pleasure to get in by, — the loop-holes were only for arrows; all denoted military power and despotic subjugation31 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 savages33, (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 theatres, temples, (which were also dedicated34 to pleasure one way or another), and baths, while other conquering bands of savages never left any thing 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 amphitheatre, its arched and gigantic colonnades35 now admitting a gleam of light, and now commingling36 with the purple thunder-cloud; and now the solid and heavy mass of a Moorish fortress25, no light playing between its impermeable37 walls, — the image of power, dark, isolated38, 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 peal39 of thunder would be supposed justified40 by the daring intrusion of a heretic in the dwelling41 of an old Christian42, as the Spanish Catholics absurdly term themselves, to mark the distinction between them and the baptised Moors43. — All this was forgot in contemplating44 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 hovered45 like a destroying angel in the air, its arrows aimed, but their direction awfully46 indefinite. But he ceased to forget these local and petty dangers, as the sublimity47 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 V? 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 appalled48, and awaiting his summons from the Power in whose eye pyramids, palaces, and the worms whose toil49 has formed them, and the worms who toil out their existence under their shadow or their pressure, are perhaps all alike contemptible50, he stood collected, and for a moment felt that defiance52 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 dart53 its bright, brief, and malignant54 glance over the ruins of ancient power, and the luxuriance of recent fertility. Singular contrast! The relics55 of art for ever decaying, — the productions of nature for ever renewed. — (Alas! for what purpose are they renewed, better than to mock at the perishable56 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 apparently57 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, comely58 and graceful59; — ‘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 endeavouring to defend her. As they were about to remove the bodies, a person approached with a calmness of step and demeanour, as if he were alone unconscious of danger, and incapable60 of fear; and after looking on them for some time, burst into a laugh so loud, wild, and protracted61, that the peasants, starting with as much horror at the sound as at that of the storm, hurried away, bearing the corse with them. Even Stanton’s fears were subdued62 by his astonishment63, and, turning to the stranger, who remained standing64 on the same spot, he asked the reason of such an outrage65 on humanity. The stranger, slowly turning round, and disclosing a countenance66 which — (Here the manuscript was illegible67 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 narrative68, was but a fragment).
The terrors of the night rendered Stanton a sturdy and unappeasable applicant69; and the shrill70 voice of the old woman, repeating, ‘no heretic — no English — Mother of God protect us — avaunt Satan!’ — combined with the clatter71 of the wooden casement72 (peculiar73 to the houses in Valentia) which she opened to discharge her volley of anathematization, and shut again as the lightning glanced through the aperture74, were unable to repel75 his importunate76 request for admittance, in a night whose terrors ought to soften19 all the miserable petty local passions into one awful feeling of fear for the Power who caused it, and compassion77 for those who were exposed to it. — But Stanton felt there was something more than national bigotry78 in the exclamations80 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 house was handsome and spacious81, but the melancholy82 appearance of desertion * * * * *
— 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 hearths84 were black with fuel long since consumed; — the family portraits looked as if they were the only tenants85 of the mansion87; they seemed to say, from their mouldering88 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 peals89 of thunder that rolled still awfully, but more distantly, — every peal like the exhausted90 murmurs91 of a spent heart. As they passed on, a shriek92 was heard. Stanton paused, and fearful images of the dangers to which travellers on the Continent are exposed in deserted and remote habitations, came into his mind. ‘Don’t heed93 it,’ said the old woman, lighting94 him on with a miserable lamp; — ‘it is only he * * * * *
The old woman having now satisfied herself, by ocular demonstration96, that her English guest, even if he was the devil, had neither horn, hoof97, or tail, that he could bear the sign of the cross without changing his form, and that, when he spoke98, not a puff99 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 opposition100, and the young pair were united. Never was there a lovelier, — they seemed like angels who had only anticipated by a few years their celestial101 and eternal union. The marriage was solemnized with much pomp, and a few days after there was a feast in that very wainscotted chamber102 which you paused to remark was so gloomy. It was that night hung with rich tapestry103, representing the exploits of the Cid, particularly that of his burning a few Moors who refused to renounce104 their accursed religion. They were represented beautifully tortured, writhing105 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 Virgin106, sat Donna Isabella de Cardoza, mother to the bride, and near her Donna Ines, the bride, on rich almohadas; the bridegroom sat opposite her; and though they never spoke to each other, their eyes, slowly raised, but suddenly withdrawn107, (those eyes that blushed), told to each other the delicious secret of their happiness. Don Pedro de Cardoza had assembled a large party in honour of his daughter’s nuptials109; among them was an Englishman of the name of Melmoth, a traveller; 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 embroidered110 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 dispersed111 through various alleys112 of the garden; the bridegroom and bride wandered through one where the delicious perfume of the orange trees mingled113 itself with that of the myrtles in blow. On their return to the hall, both of them asked, Had the company heard the exquisite114 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 reverted115 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; — every one felt there was something extraordinary in this. Hush116! 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 splendour 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 neighbourhood. He was a priest of uncommon118 sanctity, beloved in the family, and respected in the neighbourhood, where he had displayed uncommon taste and talents for exorcism; — in fact, this was the good Father’s forte13, and he piqued119 himself on it accordingly. The devil never fell into worse hands than Father Olavida’s, for when he was so contumacious120 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 recollected121 the English story of the Boy of Bilsdon, and blushed even in Spain for his countrymen), — then he always applied122 to the Inquisition; and if the devils were ever so obstinate123 before, they were always seen to fly out of the possessed124, just as, in the midst of their cries, (no doubt of blasphemy125), 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 tenant86 a crisp and glutinous127 lump of cinders128. Thus Father Olavida’s fame spread far and wide, and the Cardoza family had made uncommon interest to procure129 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 benediction130 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 endeavouring 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 rustling131 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 determined132 to fix Olavida’s regards by a gaze like that of fascination133. 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 lustre134), exclaimed, ‘Who is among us? — Who? — I cannot utter a blessing135 while he is here. I cannot feel one. Where he treads, the earth is parched136! — 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 adjuration137, while his cowl fallen back, his few thin hairs around the scalp instinct and alive with terrible emotion, his outspread arms protruded138 from the sleeves of his habit, and extended towards the awful stranger, suggested the idea of an inspired being in the dreadful rapture139 of prophetic denunciation. He stood — still stood, and the Englishman stood calmly opposite to him. There was an agitated140 irregularity in the attitudes of those around them, which contrasted strongly the fixed141 and stern postures142 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 disclaimed143 all knowledge of the Englishman, and each asked the other in whispers, ‘who had brought him there?’ Father Olavida then pointed144 his arm to each of the company, and asked each individually, ‘Do you know him?’ ‘No! no! no!’ was uttered with vehement145 emphasis by every individual ‘But I know him,’ said Olavida, ‘by these cold drops!’ and he wiped them off, — ‘by these convulsed joints146!’ 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 viperous147 as the suicide foam148 of the dying Judas, — by all these — I know him, and command him to be gone! — He is — he is — ‘ and he bent149 forwards as he spoke, and gazed on the Englishman with an expression which the mixture of rage, hatred150, and fear, rendered terrible. All the guests rose at these words, — the whole company now presented two singular groupes, 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, conversing151 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 retired152.
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 maniac153; 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 interred155 in a neighbouring 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 distinguished156 eloquence157, appointed for the purpose. To render the effect of his discourse158 more powerful, the corse, extended on a bier, with its face uncovered, was placed in the aisle159. The monk took his text from one of the prophets, — ‘Death is gone up into our palaces.’ He expatiated160 on mortality, whose approach, whether abrupt161 or lingering, is alike awful to man. — He spoke of the vicissitudes162 of empires with much eloquence and learning, but his audience were not observed to be much affected163. — He cited various passages from the lives of the saints, descriptive of the glories of martyrdom, and the heroism164 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 inveighed165 against the tyrants166 under whose bloody167 persecutions 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 emphatic168 gesture to the corse, as it lay before them cold and motionless, every eye was fixed, and every ear became attentive169. Even the lovers, who, under pretence170 of dipping their fingers into the holy water, were contriving171 to exchange amorous172 billets, forbore for one moment this interesting intercourse173, to listen to the preacher. He dwelt with much energy on the virtues174 of the deceased, whom he declared to be a particular favourite of the Virgin; and enumerating176 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 Deity177 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 atone178 for the apostacy 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 approbation179 with which the congregation honoured this apostrophe, half-drowned this extraordinary interruption; and though there was some little commotion180 in the immediate181 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 disturbance182 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, exhortation183, and discipline had been employed, and the bishop184 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 humiliation185, and repeated offers of confession186, came too late. He was conveyed to the Inquisition. The proceedings187 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?’ — ‘Every one testified horror and grief at the death of that venerable ecclesiastic188, who died in the odour of sanctity. Had I done otherwise, it might have been reckoned a proof of my guilt189.’ ‘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 beseech190 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 martyrs191, nay192, 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 presumption193.’ ‘What proof can you produce of that?’ — ‘He sought the knowledge of a secret withheld194 from man.’ ‘What was that?’ — ‘The secret of discovering the presence or agency of the evil power.’ ‘Do you possess that secret?’ — After much agitation195 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 condemned196 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 abominable197 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 infliction199 of the water-torture, which is indeed insupportable to humanity, either to suffer or relate, he exclaimed in the gasping200 interval201, he would disclose every thing. He was released, refreshed, restored, and the following day uttered the following remarkable202 confession * * * * *
The old Spanish woman further confessed to Stanton, that * * * * * * * * and that the Englishman certainly had been seen in the neighbourhood 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 blotted203 and illegible pages, became more distinct, Melmoth read on, perplexed204 and unsatisfied, not knowing what connexion this Spanish story could have with his ancestor, whom, however, he recognised 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 inflamed205, by the perusal206 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 exterior207, — his walk was what Sallust tells us of Catiline’s, — his were, too, the ‘f?di 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 devouring209 the soul, we feel more than ever the necessity of external excitement; and our dependence210 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 theatres, then fashionable, when
‘The fair sat panting at a courtier’s play,
And not a mask went unimproved away.’
The London theatres then presented a spectacle which ought for ever to put to silence the foolish outcry against progressive deterioration211 of morals, — foolish even from the pen of Juvenal, and still more so from the lips of a modern Puritan. Vice212 is always nearly on an average: The only difference in life worth tracing, is that of manners, and there we have manifestly the advantage of our ancestors. Hypocrisy213 is said to be the homage214 that vice pays to virtue175, — decorum is the outward expression of that homage; and if this be so, we must acknowledge that vice has latterly grown very humble215 indeed. There was, however, something splendid, ostentatious, and obtrusive216, in the vices217 of Charles the Second’s reign218. — A view of the theatres alone proved it, when Stanton was in the habit of visiting them. At the doors stood on one side the footmen of a fashionable nobleman, (with arms concealed219 under their liveries), surrounding the sedan of a popular actress1, whom they were to carry off vi et armis, as she entered it at the end of the play. At the other side waited the glass coach of a woman of fashion, who waited to take Kynaston (the Adonis of the day), in his female dress, to the park after the play was over, and exhibit him in all the luxurious220 splendour of effeminate beauty, (heightened by theatrical221 dress), for which he was so distinguished.
1 Mrs Marshall, the original Roxana in Lee’s Alexander, and the only virtuous222 woman then on the stage. She was carried off in the manner described, by Lord Orrery, who, finding all his solicitations repelled223, had recourse to a sham224 marriage performed by a servant in the habit of a clergyman.
Plays being then performed at four o’clock, allowed ample time for the evening drive, and the midnight assignation, when the parties met by torch-light, masked, in St James’s park, and verified the title of Wycherly’s play, ‘Love in a Wood.’ The boxes, as Stanton looked round him, were filled with females, whose naked shoulders and bosoms225, well testified in the paintings of Lely, and the pages of Grammont, might save modern puritanism many a vituperative227 groan228 and affected reminiscence. They had all taken the precaution to send some male relative, on the first night of a new play, to report whether it was fit for persons of ‘honour and reputation’ to appear at; but in spite of this precaution, at certain passages (which occurred about every second sentence) they were compelled to spread out their fans, or play with the still cherished love-lock, which Prynne himself had not been able to write down.
The men in the boxes were composed of two distinct classes, the ‘men of wit and pleasure about town,’ distinguished by their Flanders lace cravats229, soiled with snuff, their diamond rings, the pretended gift of a royal mistress, (n’importe whether the Duchess of Portsmouth or Nell Gwynne); their uncombed wigs230, whose curls descended232 to their waists, and the loud and careless tone in which they abused Dryden, Lee, and Otway, and quoted Sedley and Rochester; — the other class were the lovers, the gentle ‘squires of dames,’ equally conspicuous233 for their white fringed gloves, their obsequious234 bows, and their commencing every sentence addressed to a lady, with the profane235 exclamation79 of ‘Oh Jesu!’1 or the softer, but equally unmeaning one of ‘I beseech you, Madam,’ or, ‘Madam, I burn.’2 One circumstance sufficiently236 extraordinary marked the manners of the day; females had not then found their proper level in life; they were alternately adored as goddesses, and assailed237 as prostitutes; and the man who, this moment, addressed his mistress in language borrowed from Orondates worshipping Cassandra, in the next accosted238 her with ribaldry that might put to the blush the piazzas239 of Covent Garden.3
1 Vide Pope, (copying from Donne).
‘Peace, fools, or Gonson will for Papists seize you,
If once he catch you at your Jesu, Jesu.’
2 Vide the Old Bachelor, whose Araminta, wearied by the repetition of these phrases, forbids her lover to address her in any sentence commencing with them.
3 Vide any old play you may have the patience to peruse240; or, instar omnium, read the courtly loves of Rhodophil and Melantha, Palamede and Doralice, in Dryden’s Marriage a la Mode.”
The pit presented a more various spectacle. There were the critics armed cap-a-pee from Aristotle and Bossu; these men dined at twelve, dictated241 at a coffee-house till four, then called to the boy to brush their shoes, and strode to the theatre, where, till the curtain rose, they sat hushed in grim repose242, and expecting their evening prey243. There were the templars, spruce, pert, and loquacious244; and here and there a sober citizen, doffing246 his steeple-crowned hat, and hiding his little band under the folds of his huge puritanic cloke, while his eyes, declined with an expression half leering, half ejaculatory, towards a masked female, muffled247 in a hood117 and scarf, testified what had seduced248 him into these ‘tents of Kedar.’ There were females, too, but all in vizard masks, which, though worn as well as aunt Dinah’s in Tristram Shandy, served to conceal them from the ‘young bubbles’ they were in quest of, and from all but the orange-women, who hailed them loudly as they passed the doors.1 In the galleries were the happy souls who waited for the fulfilment of Dryden’s promise in one of his prologues;2 no matter to them whether it were the ghost of Almanzor’s mother in her dripping shroud26, or that of Laius, who, according to the stage directions, rises in his chariot, armed with the ghosts of his three murdered attendants behind him; — a joke that did not escape l’Abbe le Blanc3, in his recipe for writing an English tragedy. Some, indeed, from time to time called out for the ‘burning of the Pope;’ but though
‘Space was obedient to the boundless250 piece,
Which oped in Mexico and closed in Greece,’
it was not always possible to indulge them in this laudable amusement, as the scene of the popular plays was generally laid in Africa or Spain; Sir Robert Howard, Elkanah Settle, and John Dryden, all agreeing in their choice of Spanish and Moorish subjects for their principal plays. Among this joyous251 groupe were seated several women of fashion masked, enjoying in secrecy252 the licentiousness253 which they dared not openly patronise, and verifying Gay’s characteristic description, though it was written many years later,
‘Mobbed in the gallery Laura sits secure,
And laughs at jests that turn the box demure254.’
Stanton gazed on all this with the look of one who ‘could not be moved to smile at any thing.’ He turned to the stage, the play was Alexander, then acted as written by Lee, and the principal character was performed by Hart, whose god-like ardour in making love, is said almost to have compelled the audience to believe that they beheld255 the ‘son of Ammon.’
1 Vide Southern’s Oroonoko, — I mean the comic part.
2 A charm, a song, a murder, and a ghost.’
Prologue249 to Oedipus.
3 Vide Le Blanc’s Letters.
There were absurdities256 enough to offend a classical, or even a rational spectator. There were Grecian heroes with roses in their shoes, feathers in their hats, and wigs down to their waists; and Persian princesses in stiff stays and powdered hair. But the illusion of the scene was well sustained, for the heroines were rivals in real as well as theatrical life. It was that memorable257 night, when, according to the history of the veteran Betterton,1 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 inflict198 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 Valentia, and whom he believed the same with the subject of the extraordinary narrative he had heard there.
1 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 eyes, — a nameless and deadly sickness, accompanied with a creeping sensation in every pore, from which cold drops were gushing258, announced the * * * * *
Before he had well recovered, a strain of music, soft, solemn, and delicious, breathed round him, audibly ascending259 from the ground, and increasing in sweetness and power till it seemed to fill the whole building. Under the sudden impulse of amazement260 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 justify261 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 incarnate262 fiend, who mocks the devoted263 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 elevation264, — when the object he had pursued so long and fruitlessly, had in one moment become as it were tangible265 to the grasp both of mind and body, — when this spirit, with whom he had wrestled266 in darkness, was at last about to declare its name, that Stanton began to feel a kind of disappointment at the futility267 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 mere268 curiosity; but what passion is more insatiable, or more capable of giving a kind of romantic grandeur269 to all its wanderings and eccentricities270? 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 irresistible271 velocity272, 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 defence of the foot-passenger), appeared to him of gigantic magnitude. He had been so long accustomed to contend with these phantoms273 of the imagination, that he took a kind of stubborn delight in subduing274 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 Valentia, and, after a search of four years, recognised at the theatre.
‘You were in quest of me?’ — ‘I was.’ ‘Have you any thing to inquire of me?’ — ‘Much.’ ‘Speak, then.’ — ‘This is no place.’ ‘No place! poor wretch275, I am independent of time and place. Speak, if you have any thing 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 mid-day,’ answered the stranger, with a horrid276 and unintelligible277 smile; ‘and the place shall be the bare walls of a madhouse, where you shall rise rattling278 in your chains, and rustling from your straw, to greet me, — yet still you shall have the curse of sanity279, and of memory. My voice shall ring in your ears till then, and the glance of these eyes shall be reflected from every object, animate280 or inanimate, till you behold281 them again.’ — ‘Is it under circumstances so horrible we are to meet again?’ said Stanton, shrinking under the full-lighted blaze of those demon95 eyes. ‘I never,’ said the stranger, in an emphatic tone, — ‘I never desert my friends in misfortune. When they are plunged282 in the lowest abyss of human calamity284, 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, aggravated285 by his constant talk of Melmoth, his wild pursuit of him, his strange behaviour at the theatre, and his dwelling on the various particulars of their extraordinary meetings, with all the intensity286 of the deepest conviction, (while he never could impress them on any one’s conviction but his own), suggested to some prudent287 people the idea that he was deranged288. Their malignity289 probably took part with their prudence290. The selfish Frenchman1 says, we feel a pleasure even in the misfortunes of our friends,’ — a plus forte in those of our enemies; and as every one is an enemy to a man of genius of course, the report of Stanton’s malady291 was propagated with infernal and successful industry. Stanton’s next relative, a needy292 unprincipled man, watched the report in its circulation, and saw the snares293 closing round his victim. He waited on him one morning, accompanied by a person of a grave, though somewhat repulsive294 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 infinitely295 fewer than they are now, exceeded the number of hired ones), and proposed going by water. This, however, did not suit the kinsman296’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.
1 Rochefoucault.
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 discreetly297 made; your house has something 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 dweller298 therein.’ Some attendants of a mean appearance, and with most suspicious visages, awaited them on their entrance, and they ascended299 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 insanity300 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 plausible301, that this could be done out of the colossal302 fragments of Stonehenge, which the writer proposed to remove for that purpose. Subjoined were several grotesque303 drawings of engines designed to remove those massive blocks, and in a corner of the page was a note, — ‘I would have drawn108 these more accurately304, 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 Christians305. Of course the writer reckoned on their embracing the easier alternative, but even this was to be clogged306 with a heavy condition, — namely, that they must be bound before a magistrate307 to convert twenty mussulmans a day, on their return to Turkey. The rest of the pamphlet was reasoned very much in the conclusive308 style of Captain Bobadil, — these twenty will convert twenty more a piece, 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 coup309 d’eclat, — one fine morning, every minaret310 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 ingenuity311 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 thereby312 much edify313 the Turkish folk, who do altogether hold in a vain gabble of their own.’ But this (to use his own language) he ‘evites,’ by judiciously314 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 monks315, advanced to meet King Ethelbert singing litanies, (in a language his majesty316 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 exquisitely317 in paper the likenesses of some of these Turkish ambassadors; the hair of the beards, in particular, was feathered with a delicacy318 of touch that seemed the work of fairy fingers, — but the pages ended with a complaint of the operator, that his scissars had been taken from him. However, he consoled himself and the reader with the assurance, that he would that night catch a moon-beam as it entered through the grating, and, when he had whetted319 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 prostrated320 intellect. It contained some insane lines, ascribed to Lee the dramatic poet, commencing,
‘O that my lungs could bleat321 like buttered pease,’ &c.
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 mad-house, 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 discordant322, 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 doze323, 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 qualified324 for an inmate325 of that dreadful mansion. He felt his way to the door, shook it with desperate strength, and uttered the most frightful154 cries, mixed with expostulations and commands. His cries were in a moment echoed by a hundred voices. In maniacs326 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 misery327 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 savage32 appearance stood at the entrance, — two more were seen indistinctly in the passage. — ‘Release me, villain328!’ ‘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 horse-whip 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, brandishing329 the horse-whip 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 fetters330 in their hands, (strait waistcoats being then little known or used), and shewed, by their frightful countenances331 and gestures, no unwillingness332 to apply them. Their harsh rattle333 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 supplicate334 the forbearance of the ruthless keeper, and promise complete submission335 to his orders. This pacified336 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 tranquillity337, hoping that thus he might in time either propitiate338 the wretches339 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 shuddered341 to think might be the cunning of incipient342 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 lodged126 two most uncongenial neighbours. One of them was a puritanical343 weaver344, who had been driven mad by a single sermon from the celebrated345 Hugh Peters, and was sent to the mad-house as full of election and reprobation346 as he could hold, — and fuller. He regularly repeated over the five points while day-light lasted, and imagined himself preaching in a conventicle with distinguished success; towards twilight347 his visions were more gloomy, and at midnight his blasphemies348 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 reign of Anne, tailors were employed by females even to make and fit on their stays), — who had run mad with drink and loyalty349 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 songs, scraps350 from Cowley’s ‘Cutter of Coleman street,’ and some curious specimens351 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 banished352 cavaliers by the way. — ‘Tabitha, Tabitha,’ cried a voice half in exultation353 and half in derision; thou shalt go with thy hair curled, and thy breasts naked;’ — and then added in an affected voice, — ‘I could dance the Canaries once, spouse354.’ This never failed to rouse the feelings, or rather operate on the instincts of the puritanic weaver, who immediately answered, ‘Colonel Harrison shall come out of the west, riding on a sky-coloured mule, which signifies instruction.’1 ‘Ye lie, ye round-head son of a b — -h,’ roared the cavalier tailor, ‘Colonel Harrison will be damned before he ever mounts a sky-coloured mule;’ and he concluded this pithy355 sentence with fragments of anti-Oliverian songs.
‘And may I live to see
Old Noll upon a tree,
And many such as he;
Confound him, confound him,
Diseases all around him.’
1 Vide Cutter of Coleman street.
‘Ye are honest gentlemen, I can play many tunes,’ squeaked356 a poor mad loyalist fiddler, who had been accustomed to play in the taverns357 to the cavalier party, and just remembered the words of a similar minstrel playing for Colonel Blunt in the committee. ‘Then play me the air to Rebellion is breaking up house,’ exclaimed the tailor, dancing wildly about his cell (as far as his chains allowed him) to an imaginary measure. The weaver could contain no longer. ‘How long, Lord, how long,’ he exclaimed, ‘shall thine enemies insult thy sanctuary358, in which I have been placed an anointed teacher? even here, where I am placed to preach to the souls in prison? — Open the flood-gates of thy power, and though thy waves and storms go over me, let me testify in the midst of them, even as he who spreadeth forth359 his hands to swim may raise one of them to warn his companion that he is about to sink. — Sister Ruth, why dost thou uncover thy bosom226 to discover my frailty360? — Lord, let thine arm of power be with us as it was when thou brakest the shield, the sword, and the battle. — when thy foot was dipped in the blood of thine enemies, and the tongue of thy dogs was red through the same. — Dip all thy garments in blood, and let me weave thee fresh when thou art stained. — When shall thy saints tread the winepress of thy wrath361? Blood! blood! the saints call for it, earth gapes362 to swallow it, hell thirsts for it! — Sister Ruth, I pray thee, conceal thy bosom, and be not as the vain women of this generation. — Oh for a day like that, a day of the Lord of hosts, when the towers fell! — Spare me in the battle, for I am not a mighty363 man of war; leave me in the rear of the host, to curse, with the curse of Meroz, those who come not to the help of the Lord against the mighty, — even to curse this malignant tailor, — yea, curse him bitterly. — Lord, I am in the tents of Kedar, my feet stumble on the dark mountains, — I fall, — I fall!’ — And the poor wretch, exhausted by his delirious364 agonies, fell, and grovelled365 for some time in his straw. ‘Oh! I have had a grievous fall, — Sister Ruth, — Oh Sister Ruth! — Rejoice not against me, Oh mine enemy! though I fall, I shall rise again.’ Whatever satisfaction Sister Ruth might have derived366 from this assurance, if she could have heard it, was enjoyed tenfold by the weaver, whose amorous reminiscences were in a moment exchanged for war-like ones, borrowed from a wretched and disarranged mass of intellectual rubbish. ‘The Lord is a man of war,’ he shouted. — ‘Look to Marston Moor23! — Look to the city, the proud city, full of pride and sin! — Look to the waves of the Severn, as red with blood as the waves of the Red Sea! — There were the hoofs367 broken by means of the prancings, the prancings of the mighty ones. — Then, Lord, was thy triumph, and the triumph of thy saints, to bind368 their kings in chains, and their nobles in links of iron.’ The malignant tailor burst out in his turn: ‘Thank the false Scots, and their solemn league and covenant369, and Carisbrook Castle, for that, ye crop-eared Puritan,’ he yelled. ‘If it had not been for them, I would have taken measure of the king for a velvet370 cloak as high as the Tower of London, and one flirt371 of its folds would have knocked the ‘copper nose’ into the Thames, and sent it a-drift to Hell.’ ‘Ye lie, in your teeth,’ echoed the weaver; ‘and I will prove it unarmed, with my shuttle against your needle, and smite372 you to the earth thereafter, as David smote373 Goliah. It was the man’s (such was the indecent language in which Charles the First was Spoken of by the Puritans) — it was the man’s carnal, self-seeking, World-loving, prelatical hierarchy374, that drove the godly to seek the sweet word in season from their own pastors375, who righteously abominated376 the Popish garniture of lawn-sleeves, lewd377 organs, and steeple houses. Sister Ruth, tempt51 me not with that calf’s head, it is all streaming with blood; — drop it, I beseech thee, sister, it is unmeet in a woman’s hand, though the brethren drink of it. — Woe378 be unto thee, gainsayer379, dost thou not see how flames envelope the accursed city under his Arminian and Popish son? — London is on fire! — on fire!’ he yelled; ‘and the brands are lit by the half-papist, whole-arminian, all-damned people thereof. — Fire! — fire!’ The voice in which he shrieked380 out the last words was powerfully horrible, but it was like the moan of an infant, compared to the voice which took up and re-echoed 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 hideous381 fidelity382, that Stanton’s resolution was far more in danger from her than from the battle between his neighbours Testimony383 and Hothead. She began exclaiming she was suffocated384 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 heeded385 him; she appeared to be scrambling386 up a stair-case to her children’s room. She exclaimed she was scorched387, singed388, 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 hisses389! — 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 stair-case on which she stood. — ‘The roof has fallen on my head!’ she exclaimed. ‘The earth is weak, and all the inhabitants thereof,’ chaunted 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 scorching390 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 dwellings391 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 rave3, 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 perverted392 passion; and terrifying as the outbreak of her frenzy393 always was, Stanton used to await it as a kind of relief from the dissonant394, 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 callous396 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 incessantly398 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 linen399, and, when the sun shone into his cell, turned from it on his straw with a sigh of heart-broken despondency. Formerly400, 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 inhale401 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 sullen402 and horrible pleasure to the cries of his miserable companions. He became squalid, listless, torpid403, and disgusting in his appearance.
It was one of those dismal404 nights, that, as he tossed on his loathsome405 bed, — more loathsome from the impossibility to quit it without feeling more ‘unrest,’ — he perceived the miserable light that burned in the hearth83 was obscured by the intervention406 of some dark object. He turned feebly towards the light, without curiosity, without excitement, but with a wish to diversify407 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, stony408, and rigid409; the eyes, with their infernal and dazzling lustre, were still the same.
Stanton’s ruling passion rushed on his soul; he felt this apparition410 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 melodious411 smoothness of his voice made a frightful contrast to the stony rigour of his features, and the fiend-like brilliancy of his eyes. ‘Who are you, and whence come you?’ said Stanton, in a tone that was meant to be interrogatory and imperative412, but which, from his habits of squalid debility, was at once feeble and querulous. His intellects 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 Albinos. — ‘His skin was bleached413, 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 corporeal414 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 succour 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 thunderclouds, you must hear me! Stanton, think of your misery. These bare walls — what do they present to the intellect or to the senses? — White-wash, diversified415 with the scrawls416 of charcoal417 or red chalk, that your happy predecessors418 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 squints419 on you like a step-dame, and the breeze blows, as if it meant to tantalize420 you with a sigh from that sweet mouth, whose kiss you must never enjoy. And where’s your library, — intellectual man, — travelled man?’ he repeated in a tone of bitter derision; ‘where be your companions, your peaked men of countries, as your favourite 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 Bastile to feed them for companions, — why don’t you begin your task? I have known a spider to descend231 at the tap of a finger, and a rat to come forth when the daily meal was brought, to share it with his fellow-prisoner! — How delightful421 to have vermin for your guests! Aye, and when the feast fails them, they make a meal of their entertainer! — You shudder340 — Are you, then, the first prisoner who has been devoured422 alive by the vermin that infested423 his cell? — Delightful banquet, not ‘where you eat, but where you are eaten!’ Your guests, however, will give you one token of repentance424 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 progeny425 has probably contributed to the hell-broth) why not? — Then your hours of solitude426, deliciously diversified by the yell of famine, the howl of madness, the crash of whips, and the broken-hearted sob245 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 delirious wretch that harbours near you; then you will pause, clasp your hands on your throbbing427 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 vacancy428 of your hours, you will feel as anxious to hear those shrieks429, as you were at first terrified to hear them, — when you will watch for the ravings of your next neighbour, 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 grimaces430 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 brutal431 keeper, writhing with all the impotent agony of an incarcerated432 mind without communication and without sympathy, unable to exchange ideas but with those whose ideas are only the hideous spectres 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 desecrated433 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 precipice434, have at last felt a desire to plunge283 below, to relieve the intolerable temptation of their giddiness,1 you will hear them laugh amid their wildest paroxysms; you will say, ‘Doubtless those wretches have some consolation435, but I have none; my sanity is my greatest curse in this abode436 of horrors. They greedily devour208 their miserable meals, while I loathe437 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, soothing438 them with the hope of escaping, baffling or tormenting439 their keeper; my sanity precludes440 all such hope. I know I never can escape, and the preservation441 of my faculties442 is only an aggravation443 of my sufferings. I have all their miseries444, — I have none of their consolations445. 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 for ever.
1 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 vitality446 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 exalted447 faculties, and all the clouds which obscured them be dispelled448 by the Sun of Righteousness, in whose beams you hope to bask449 for ever and ever. Now, without going into any metaphysical subtleties450 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 precipitate451 themselves; mischief452 is their occupation, malice453 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 immortality455. — Listen,’ said the tempter, pausing, ‘listen to the wretch who is raving395 near you, and whose blasphemies might make a demon start. — He was once an eminent456 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 foams457, he writhes458, he gnashes his teeth; you would imagine him in the hell he was painting, and that the fire and brimstone he is so lavish459 of, were actually exhaling460 from his jaws461. At night his creed retaliates462 on him; he believes himself one of the reprobates463 he has been all day denouncing, and curses God for the very decree he has all day been glorifying464 Him for.
‘He, whom he has for twelve hours been vociferating ‘is the loveliest among ten thousand,’ becomes the object of demoniac hostility465 and execration466. 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 eloquent467, his nightly blasphemies are outrageous468 and horrible — Hark! Now he believes himself a demon; listen to his diabolical469 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 immortal454 interests, perhaps, depend on the choice of this moment. — There is the door, and the key is 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 mouldy and crumbling470 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 ?neis in Virgil’s own autograph, or at least some unutterable abomination of Petronius or Martial471, happily elucidatory472 of the mysteries of the Spintri?, or the orgies of the Phallic worshippers, 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 assuage473 that feverish474 thirst of curiosity which was consuming his inmost soul. The manuscript told no more of Melmoth, but mentioned that Stanton was finally liberated475 from his confinement476, — that his pursuit of Melmoth was incessant397 and indefatigable477, — 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-torment of his life. He again visited the Continent, returned to England, — pursued, inquired, traced, bribed478, but in vain. The being whom he had met thrice, under circumstances so extraordinary, he was fated never to encounter again in his life-time. At length, discovering that he had been born in Ireland, he resolved to go there, — went, and found his pursuit again fruitless, and his inquiries479 unanswered. The family knew nothing of him, or at least what they knew or imagined, they prudently480 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 mad-house; and the slightest allusion481 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 indifference482 to their relative, or their obvious inacquaintance with reading of any kind, manuscript or books, his deposit would be safe. He seems, in fact, to have acted like men, who, in distress483 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 sufficiently extraordinary.
‘I have sought him every where. — 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 stupor484 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 proximity485 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 subsided486 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 mouldering canvas appeared to assist him in the effort. He tore it from the frame with a cry half terrific, half triumphant487; — 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 resuscitation488 of the figure. He caught it up, rushed into the next room, tore, cut, and hacked489 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 slumber490 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 illuminating491, 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 day-light. 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.
点击收听单词发音
1 obliterated | |
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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2 scrutinizing | |
v.仔细检查,详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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3 rave | |
vi.胡言乱语;热衷谈论;n.热情赞扬 | |
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4 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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5 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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6 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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7 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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8 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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9 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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10 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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11 antagonists | |
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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12 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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13 forte | |
n.长处,擅长;adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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14 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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15 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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16 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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17 mule | |
n.骡子,杂种,执拗的人 | |
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18 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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19 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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20 softened | |
(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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21 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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22 moorish | |
adj.沼地的,荒野的,生[住]在沼地的 | |
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23 moor | |
n.荒野,沼泽;vt.(使)停泊;vi.停泊 | |
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24 fortresses | |
堡垒,要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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25 fortress | |
n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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26 shroud | |
n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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27 shrouds | |
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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28 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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29 awed | |
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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30 fortified | |
adj. 加强的 | |
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31 subjugation | |
n.镇压,平息,征服 | |
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32 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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33 savages | |
未开化的人,野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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34 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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35 colonnades | |
n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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36 commingling | |
v.混合,掺和,合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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37 impermeable | |
adj.不能透过的,不渗透的 | |
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38 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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39 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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40 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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41 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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42 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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43 moors | |
v.停泊,系泊(船只)( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44 contemplating | |
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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45 hovered | |
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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46 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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47 sublimity | |
崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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48 appalled | |
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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49 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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50 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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51 tempt | |
vt.引诱,勾引,吸引,引起…的兴趣 | |
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52 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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53 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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54 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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55 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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56 perishable | |
adj.(尤指食物)易腐的,易坏的 | |
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57 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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58 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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59 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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60 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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61 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62 subdued | |
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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63 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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64 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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65 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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66 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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67 illegible | |
adj.难以辨认的,字迹模糊的 | |
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68 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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69 applicant | |
n.申请人,求职者,请求者 | |
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70 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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71 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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72 casement | |
n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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73 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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74 aperture | |
n.孔,隙,窄的缺口 | |
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75 repel | |
v.击退,抵制,拒绝,排斥 | |
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76 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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77 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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78 bigotry | |
n.偏见,偏执,持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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79 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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80 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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81 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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82 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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83 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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84 hearths | |
壁炉前的地板,炉床,壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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85 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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86 tenant | |
n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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87 mansion | |
n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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88 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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89 peals | |
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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90 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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91 murmurs | |
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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92 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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93 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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94 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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95 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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96 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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97 hoof | |
n.(马,牛等的)蹄 | |
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98 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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99 puff | |
n.一口(气);一阵(风);v.喷气,喘气 | |
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100 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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101 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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102 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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103 tapestry | |
n.挂毯,丰富多采的画面 | |
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104 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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105 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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106 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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107 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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108 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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109 nuptials | |
n.婚礼;婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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110 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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111 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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112 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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113 mingled | |
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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114 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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115 reverted | |
恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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116 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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117 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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118 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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119 piqued | |
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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120 contumacious | |
adj.拒不服从的,违抗的 | |
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121 recollected | |
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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122 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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123 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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124 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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125 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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126 lodged | |
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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127 glutinous | |
adj.粘的,胶状的 | |
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128 cinders | |
n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 );炭渣;煤渣路;煤渣跑道 | |
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129 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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130 benediction | |
n.祝福;恩赐 | |
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131 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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132 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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133 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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134 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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135 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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136 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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137 adjuration | |
n.祈求,命令 | |
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138 protruded | |
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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139 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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140 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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141 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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142 postures | |
姿势( posture的名词复数 ); 看法; 态度; 立场 | |
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143 disclaimed | |
v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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145 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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146 joints | |
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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147 viperous | |
adj.有毒的,阴险的 | |
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148 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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149 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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150 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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151 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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152 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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153 maniac | |
n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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154 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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155 interred | |
v.埋,葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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157 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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158 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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159 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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160 expatiated | |
v.详述,细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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162 vicissitudes | |
n.变迁,世事变化;变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 );盛衰兴废 | |
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163 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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164 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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165 inveighed | |
v.猛烈抨击,痛骂,谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166 tyrants | |
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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167 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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168 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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169 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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170 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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171 contriving | |
(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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172 amorous | |
adj.多情的;有关爱情的 | |
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173 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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174 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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175 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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176 enumerating | |
v.列举,枚举,数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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177 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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178 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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179 approbation | |
n.称赞;认可 | |
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180 commotion | |
n.骚动,动乱 | |
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181 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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182 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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183 exhortation | |
n.劝告,规劝 | |
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184 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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185 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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186 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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187 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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188 ecclesiastic | |
n.教士,基督教会;adj.神职者的,牧师的,教会的 | |
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189 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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190 beseech | |
v.祈求,恳求 | |
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191 martyrs | |
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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192 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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193 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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194 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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195 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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196 condemned | |
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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197 abominable | |
adj.可厌的,令人憎恶的 | |
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198 inflict | |
vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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199 infliction | |
n.(强加于人身的)痛苦,刑罚 | |
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200 gasping | |
adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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201 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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202 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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203 blotted | |
涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 ); (用吸墨纸)吸干 | |
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204 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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205 inflamed | |
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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206 perusal | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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207 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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208 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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209 devouring | |
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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210 dependence | |
n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
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211 deterioration | |
n.退化;恶化;变坏 | |
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212 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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213 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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214 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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215 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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216 obtrusive | |
adj.显眼的;冒失的 | |
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217 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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218 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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219 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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220 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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221 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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222 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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223 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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224 sham | |
n./adj.假冒(的),虚伪(的) | |
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225 bosoms | |
胸部( bosom的名词复数 ); 胸怀; 女衣胸部(或胸襟); 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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226 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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227 vituperative | |
adj.谩骂的;斥责的 | |
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228 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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229 cravats | |
n.(系在衬衫衣领里面的)男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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230 wigs | |
n.假发,法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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231 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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232 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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233 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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234 obsequious | |
adj.谄媚的,奉承的,顺从的 | |
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235 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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236 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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237 assailed | |
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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238 accosted | |
v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 );跟…搭讪;(乞丐等)上前向…乞讨;(妓女等)勾搭 | |
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239 piazzas | |
n.广场,市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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240 peruse | |
v.细读,精读 | |
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241 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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242 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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243 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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244 loquacious | |
adj.多嘴的,饶舌的 | |
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245 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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246 doffing | |
n.下筒,落纱v.脱去,(尤指)脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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247 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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248 seduced | |
诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 ); 勾引; 诱使堕落; 使入迷 | |
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249 prologue | |
n.开场白,序言;开端,序幕 | |
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250 boundless | |
adj.无限的;无边无际的;巨大的 | |
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251 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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252 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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253 licentiousness | |
n.放肆,无法无天 | |
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254 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
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255 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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256 absurdities | |
n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 );荒谬;谬论;荒谬的行为 | |
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257 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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258 gushing | |
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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259 ascending | |
adj.上升的,向上的 | |
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260 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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261 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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262 incarnate | |
adj.化身的,人体化的,肉色的 | |
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263 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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264 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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265 tangible | |
adj.有形的,可触摸的,确凿的,实际的 | |
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266 wrestled | |
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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267 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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268 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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269 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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270 eccentricities | |
n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 );反常;怪癖 | |
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271 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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272 velocity | |
n.速度,速率 | |
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273 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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274 subduing | |
征服( subdue的现在分词 ); 克制; 制服; 色变暗 | |
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275 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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276 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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277 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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278 rattling | |
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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279 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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280 animate | |
v.赋于生命,鼓励;adj.有生命的,有生气的 | |
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281 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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282 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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283 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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284 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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285 aggravated | |
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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286 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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287 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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288 deranged | |
adj.疯狂的 | |
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289 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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290 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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291 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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292 needy | |
adj.贫穷的,贫困的,生活艰苦的 | |
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293 snares | |
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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294 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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295 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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296 kinsman | |
n.男亲属 | |
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297 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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298 dweller | |
n.居住者,住客 | |
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299 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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300 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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301 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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302 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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303 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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304 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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305 Christians | |
n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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306 clogged | |
(使)阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 ); 淤滞 | |
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307 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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308 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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309 coup | |
n.政变;突然而成功的行动 | |
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310 minaret | |
n.(回教寺院的)尖塔 | |
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311 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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312 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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313 edify | |
v.陶冶;教化;启发 | |
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314 judiciously | |
adv.明断地,明智而审慎地 | |
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315 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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316 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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317 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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318 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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319 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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320 prostrated | |
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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321 bleat | |
v.咩咩叫,(讲)废话,哭诉;n.咩咩叫,废话,哭诉 | |
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322 discordant | |
adj.不调和的 | |
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323 doze | |
v.打瞌睡;n.打盹,假寐 | |
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324 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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325 inmate | |
n.被收容者;(房屋等的)居住人;住院人 | |
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326 maniacs | |
n.疯子(maniac的复数形式) | |
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327 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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328 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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329 brandishing | |
v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 );炫耀 | |
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330 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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331 countenances | |
n.面容( countenance的名词复数 );表情;镇静;道义支持 | |
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332 unwillingness | |
n. 不愿意,不情愿 | |
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333 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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334 supplicate | |
v.恳求;adv.祈求地,哀求地,恳求地 | |
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335 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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336 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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337 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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338 propitiate | |
v.慰解,劝解 | |
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339 wretches | |
n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 );可怜的人;恶棍;坏蛋 | |
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340 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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341 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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342 incipient | |
adj.起初的,发端的,初期的 | |
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343 puritanical | |
adj.极端拘谨的;道德严格的 | |
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344 weaver | |
n.织布工;编织者 | |
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345 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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346 reprobation | |
n.斥责 | |
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347 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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348 blasphemies | |
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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349 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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350 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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351 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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352 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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353 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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354 spouse | |
n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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355 pithy | |
adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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356 squeaked | |
v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 );吱吱叫;告密;充当告密者 | |
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357 taverns | |
n.小旅馆,客栈,酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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358 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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359 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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360 frailty | |
n.脆弱;意志薄弱 | |
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361 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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362 gapes | |
v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 );张开,张大 | |
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363 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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364 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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365 grovelled | |
v.卑躬屈节,奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 );趴 | |
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366 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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367 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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368 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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369 covenant | |
n.盟约,契约;v.订盟约 | |
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370 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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371 flirt | |
v.调情,挑逗,调戏;n.调情者,卖俏者 | |
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372 smite | |
v.重击;彻底击败;n.打;尝试;一点儿 | |
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373 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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374 hierarchy | |
n.等级制度;统治集团,领导层 | |
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375 pastors | |
n.(基督教的)牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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376 abominated | |
v.憎恶,厌恶,不喜欢( abominate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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377 lewd | |
adj.淫荡的 | |
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378 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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379 gainsayer | |
否认的 | |
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380 shrieked | |
v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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381 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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382 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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383 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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384 suffocated | |
(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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385 heeded | |
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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386 scrambling | |
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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387 scorched | |
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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388 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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389 hisses | |
嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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390 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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391 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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392 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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393 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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394 dissonant | |
adj.不和谐的;不悦耳的 | |
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395 raving | |
adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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396 callous | |
adj.无情的,冷淡的,硬结的,起老茧的 | |
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397 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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398 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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399 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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400 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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401 inhale | |
v.吸入(气体等),吸(烟) | |
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402 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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403 torpid | |
adj.麻痹的,麻木的,迟钝的 | |
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404 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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405 loathsome | |
adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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406 intervention | |
n.介入,干涉,干预 | |
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407 diversify | |
v.(使)不同,(使)变得多样化 | |
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408 stony | |
adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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409 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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410 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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411 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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412 imperative | |
n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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413 bleached | |
漂白的,晒白的,颜色变浅的 | |
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414 corporeal | |
adj.肉体的,身体的;物质的 | |
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415 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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416 scrawls | |
潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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417 charcoal | |
n.炭,木炭,生物炭 | |
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418 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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419 squints | |
斜视症( squint的名词复数 ); 瞥 | |
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420 tantalize | |
vt.使干着急,逗弄 | |
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421 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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422 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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423 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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424 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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425 progeny | |
n.后代,子孙;结果 | |
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426 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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427 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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428 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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429 shrieks | |
n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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430 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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431 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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432 incarcerated | |
钳闭的 | |
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433 desecrated | |
毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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434 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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435 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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436 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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437 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
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438 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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439 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
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440 precludes | |
v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 );排除;妨碍;使…行不通 | |
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441 preservation | |
n.保护,维护,保存,保留,保持 | |
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442 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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443 aggravation | |
n.烦恼,恼火 | |
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444 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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445 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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446 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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447 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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448 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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449 bask | |
vt.取暖,晒太阳,沐浴于 | |
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450 subtleties | |
细微( subtlety的名词复数 ); 精细; 巧妙; 细微的差别等 | |
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451 precipitate | |
adj.突如其来的;vt.使突然发生;n.沉淀物 | |
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452 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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453 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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454 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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455 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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456 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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457 foams | |
n.泡沫,泡沫材料( foam的名词复数 ) | |
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458 writhes | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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459 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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460 exhaling | |
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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461 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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462 retaliates | |
v.报复,反击( retaliate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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463 reprobates | |
n.道德败坏的人,恶棍( reprobate的名词复数 ) | |
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464 glorifying | |
赞美( glorify的现在分词 ); 颂扬; 美化; 使光荣 | |
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465 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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466 execration | |
n.诅咒,念咒,憎恶 | |
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467 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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468 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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469 diabolical | |
adj.恶魔似的,凶暴的 | |
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470 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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471 martial | |
adj.战争的,军事的,尚武的,威武的 | |
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472 elucidatory | |
adj.阐释的,阐明的 | |
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473 assuage | |
v.缓和,减轻,镇定 | |
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474 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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475 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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476 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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477 indefatigable | |
adj.不知疲倦的,不屈不挠的 | |
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478 bribed | |
v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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479 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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480 prudently | |
adv. 谨慎地,慎重地 | |
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481 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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482 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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483 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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484 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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485 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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486 subsided | |
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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487 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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488 resuscitation | |
n.复活 | |
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489 hacked | |
生气 | |
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490 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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491 illuminating | |
a.富于启发性的,有助阐明的 | |
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