With him what fortune could in life allot1?
Lose I not hope, life’s cordial?
. . . . . . . . . . . . ..
In fact, the lessons he from prudence2 took
Were written in his mind as in a book;
There what to do he read, and what to shun3,
And all commanded was with promptness done.
He seemed without a passion to proceed,
. . . . . . . . . . . . ..
Yet some believed those passions only slept!
CRABBE.
Relics4 of love, and life’s enchanted5 spring!
A. WATTS6: On burning a Packet of Letters.
Many and sad and deep
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast!
Thou, too, could’st watch and weep!
MRS. HEMANS.
While Sir William Brandon was pursuing his ambitious schemes, and, notwithstanding Lucy’s firm and steady refusal of Lord Mauleverer, was still determined7 on that ill-assorted marriage; while Mauleverer himself day after day attended at the judge’s house, and, though he spoke8 not of love, looked it with all his might — it became obvious to every one but the lover and the guardian9, that Lucy herself was rapidly declining in appearance and health. Ever since the day she had last seen Clifford, her spirits, before greatly shattered, had refused to regain10 even a likeness11 to their naturally cheerful and happy tone. She became silent and abstracted; even her gentleness of temper altered at times into a moody12 and fretful humour. Neither to books nor music, nor any art by which time is beguiled13, she recurred14 for a momentary15 alleviation16 of the bitter feelings at her heart, or for a transient forgetfulness of their sting. The whole world of her mind had been shaken. Her pride was wounded, her love galled17; her faith in Clifford gave way at length to gloomy and dark suspicion. Nothing, she now felt, but a name as well as fortunes utterly18 abandoned, could have justified19 him for the stubbornness of heart in which he had fled and deserted20 her. Her own self-acquittal no longer consoled her in affliction. She condemned21 herself for her weakness, from the birth of her ill-starred affection to the crisis it had now acquired. “Why did I not wrestle22 with it at first?” she said bitterly. “Why did I allow myself so easily to love one unknown to me, and equivocal in station, despite the cautions of my uncle and the whispers of the world?” Alas23! Lucy did not remember that at the time she was guilty of this weakness, she had not learned to reason as she since reasoned. Her faculties25 were but imperfectly awakened27; her experience of the world was utter ignorance. She scarcely knew that she loved, and she knew not at all that the delicious and excited sentiment which filled her being could ever become as productive of evil and peril28 as it had done now; and even had her reason been more developed, and her resolutions more strong, does the exertion29 of reason and resolution always avail against the master passion? Love, it is true, is not unconquerable; but how few have ever, mind and soul, coveted31 the conquest! Disappointment makes a vow32, but the heart records it not. Or in the noble image of one who has so tenderly and so truly portrayed33 the feelings of her own sex —
“We make
A ladder of our thoughts where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot!”
[The History of the Lyre, by L. E. L.]
Before Clifford had last seen her, we have observed that Lucy had (and it was a consolation34) clung to the belief that, despite of appearances and his own confession35, his past life had not been such as to place him without the pale of her just affections; and there were frequent moments when, remembering that the death of her father had removed the only being who could assert an unanswerable claim to the dictation of her actions, she thought that Clifford, hearing her hand was utterly at her own disposal, might again appear, and again urge a suit which he felt so few circumstances could induce her to deny. All this half-acknowledged yet earnest train of reasoning and hope vanished from the moment he had quitted her uncle’s house. His words bore no misinterpretation. He had not yielded even to her own condescension36, and her cheek burned as she recalled it. Yet he loved her. She saw, she knew it in his every word and look! Bitter, then, and dark must be that remorse37 which could have conquered every argument but that which urged him to leave her, when he might have claimed her forever. True, that when his letter formally bade her farewell, the same self-accusing language was recurred to, the same dark hints and allusions38 to infamy39 or guilt24; yet never till now had she interpreted them rigidly40, and never till now had she dreamed how far their meaning could extend. Still, what crimes could he have committed? The true ones never occurred to Lucy. She shuddered41 to ask herself, and hushed her doubts in a gloomy and torpid42 silence. But through all her accusations44 against herself, and through all her awakened suspicions against Clifford, she could not but acknowledge that something noble and not unworthy of her mingled46 in his conduct, and occasioned his resistance to her and to himself; and this belief, perhaps, irritated even while it touched her, and kept her feelings in a perpetual struggle and conflict which her delicate frame and soft mind were little able to endure. When the nerves once break, how breaks the character with them! How many ascetics47, withered48 and soured, do we meet in the world, who but for one shock to the heart and form might have erred49 on the side of meekness51! Whether it come from woe52 or disease, the stroke which mars a single fibre plays strange havoc53 with the mind. Slaves we are to our muscles, and puppets to the spring of the capricious blood; and the great soul, with all its capacities, its solemn attributes, and sounding claims, is, while on earth, but a jest to this mountebank54 — the body — from the dream which toys with it for an hour, to the lunacy which shivers it into a driveller, laughing as it plays with its own fragments, and reeling benighted55 and blinded to the grave!
We have before said that Lucy was fond both of her uncle and his society; and still, whenever the subject of Lord Mauleverer and his suit was left untouched, there was that in the conversation of Sir William Brandon which aroused an interest in her mind, engrossed56 and self-consuming as it had become. Sorrow, indeed, and sorrow’s companion, reflection, made her more and more capable of comprehending a very subtle and intricate character. There is no secret for discovering the human heart like affliction, especially the affliction which springs from passion. Does a writer startle you with his insight into your nature, be sure that he has mourned; such lore57 is the alchemy of tears. Hence the insensible and almost universal confusion of idea which confounds melancholy58 with depth, and finds but hollow inanity59 in the symbol of a laugh. Pitiable error! Reflection first leads us to gloom, but its next stage is to brightness. The Laughing Philosopher had reached the goal of Wisdom; Heraclitus whimpered at the starting-post. But enough for Lucy to gain even the vestibule of philosophy.
Notwithstanding the soreness we naturally experience towards all who pertinaciously60 arouse an unpleasant subject, and in spite therefore of Brandon’s furtherance of Mauleverer’s courtship, Lucy felt herself inclined strangely, and with something of a daughter’s affection, towards this enigmatical being; in spite, too, of all the cold and measured vice61 of his character — the hard and wintry grayness of heart with which he regarded the welfare of others, or the substances of Truth, Honour, and Virtue62 — the callousness64 of his fossilized affections, which no human being softened65 but for a moment, and no warm and healthful impulse struck, save into an evanescent and idle flash; — in spite of this consummate66 obduracy67 and worldliness of temperament68, it is not paradoxical to say that there was something in the man which Lucy found at times analogous70 to her own vivid and generous self. This was, however, only noticeable when she led him to talk over earlier days, and when by degrees the sarcastic71 lawyer forgot the present, and grew eloquent72, not over the actions, but the feelings of the past. He would speak to her for hours of his youthful dreams, his occupations, or his projects, as a boy. Above all, he loved to converse73 with her upon Warlock, its remains74 of ancient magnificence, the green banks of the placid75 river that enriched its domains76, and the summer pomp of wood and heath-land, amidst which his noonday visions had been nursed.
When he spoke of these scenes and days, his countenance77 softened, and something in its expression, recalling to Lucy the image of one still dearer, made her yearn78 to him the more. An ice seemed broken from his mind, and streams of released and gentle feelings, mingled with kindly79 and generous sentiment, flowed forth80. Suddenly a thought, a word, brought him back to the present — his features withered abruptly81 into their cold placidity82 or latent sneer83; the seal closed suddenly on the broken spell, and, like the victim of a fairy-tale, condemned at a stated hour to assume another shape, the very being you had listened to seemed vanished, and replaced by one whom you startled to behold84. But there was one epoch85 of his life on which he was always silent, and that was his first onset86 into the actual world — the period of his early struggle into wealth and fame. All that space of time seemed as a dark gulf87, over which he had passed, and become changed at once — as a traveller landing in a strange climate may adopt, the moment he touches its shore, its costume and its language.
All men — the most modest — have a common failing; but it is one which often assumes the domino and mask — pride! Brandon was, however, proud to a degree very rare in men who have risen and flourished in the world. Out of the wrecks88 of all other feelings this imperial survivor89 made one great palace for its residence, and called the fabric90 “Disdain91.” Scorn was the real essence of Brandon’s nature; even in the blandest92 disguises, the smoothness of his voice, the insinuation of his smile, the popular and supple93 graces of his manners, an oily derision floated, rarely discernible, it is true, but proportioning its strength and quantum to the calm it produced.
In the interim94, while his character thus displayed and contradicted itself in private life, his fame was rapidly rising in public estimation. Unlike many of his brethren, the brilliant lawyer had exceeded expectation, and shone even yet more conspicuously95 in the less adventitiously96 aided duties of the judge. Envy itself — and Brandon’s political virulence98 had, despite his personal affability, made him many foes99 — was driven into acknowledging the profundity100 of his legal knowledge, and in admiring the manner in which the peculiar101 functions of his novel dignity were discharged. No juvenile102 lawyer browbeat103, no hackneyed casuist puzzled, him; even his attention never wandered from the dullest case subjected to his tribunal. A painter, desirous of stamping on his canvas the portrait of an upright judge, could scarcely have found a finer realization104 for his beau-ideal than the austere105, collected, keen, yet majestic106 countenance of Sir William Brandon, such as it seemed in the trappings of office and from the seat of justice.
The newspapers were not slow in recording107 the singular capture of the notorious Lovett. The boldness with which he had planned and executed the rescue of his comrades, joined to the suspense108 in which his wound for some time kept the public, as to his escape from one death by the postern gate of another, caused a very considerable ferment109 and excitation in the popular mind; and, to feed the impulse, the journalists were little slothful in retailing110 every anecdote111, true or false, which they could collect touching112 the past adventures of the daring highwayman. Many a good story then came to light, which partook as much of the comic as the tragic113 — for not a single one of the robber’s adventures was noted114 for cruelty or bloodshed; many of them betokened115 rather an hilarious116 and jovial117 spirit of mirthful enterprise. It seemed as if he had thought the highway a capital arena118 for jokes, and only robbed for the sake of venting119 a redundant120 affection for jesting. Persons felt it rather a sin to be severe with a man of so merry a disposition121; and it was especially observable that not one of the ladies who had been despoiled122 by the robber could be prevailed on to prosecute123; on the contrary, they always talked of the event as one of the most agreeable remembrances in their lives, and seemed to bear a provoking gratitude124 to the comely125 offender126, rather than resentment127. All the gentlemen were not, however, of so placable a temper; and two sturdy farmers, with a grazier to boot, were ready to swear, “through thick and thin,” to the identity of the prisoner with a horseman who had civilly borne each of them company for an hour in their several homeward rides from certain fairs, and had carried the pleasure of his society, they very gravely asserted, considerably128 beyond a joke; so that the state of the prisoner’s affairs took a very sombre aspect, and the counsel — an old hand — intrusted with his cause declared confidentially129 that there was not a chance. But a yet more weighty accusation43, because it came from a much nobler quarter, awaited Clifford. In the robbers’ cavern130 were found several articles answering exactly to the description of those valuables feloniously abstracted from the person of Lord Mauleverer. That nobleman attended to inspect the articles, and to view the prisoner. The former he found himself able to swear to, with a very tranquillized conscience; the latter he beheld133 feverish134, attenuated135, and in a moment of delirium136, on the sick-bed to which his wound had brought him. He was at no loss, however, to recognize in the imprisoned137 felon131 the gay and conquering Clifford, whom he had once even honoured with his envy. Although his former dim and vague suspicions of Clifford were thus confirmed, the good-natured peer felt some slight compunction at appearing as his prosecutor138. This compunction, however, vanished the moment he left the sick man’s apartment; and after a little patriotic139 conversation with the magistrates140 about the necessity of public duty — a theme which brought virtuous141 tears into the eyes of those respectable functionaries142 — he re-entered his carriage, returned to town, and after a lively dinner tete-a-tete with an old chere amie, who, of all her charms, had preserved only the attraction of conversation and the capacity of relishing143 a salami, Mauleverer, the very evening of his return, betook himself to the house of Sir William Brandon.
When he entered the hall, Barlow, the judge’s favourite servant, met him, with rather a confused and mysterious air, and arresting him as he was sauntering into Brandon’s library, informed him that Sir William was particularly engaged, but would join his lordship in the drawing-room. While Barlow was yet speaking, and Mauleverer was bending his right ear (with which he heard the best) towards him, the library door opened, and a man in a very coarse and ruffianly garb144 awkwardly bowed himself out.
“So this is the particular engagement,” thought Mauleverer — “a strange Sir Pandarus; but those old fellows have droll145 tastes.”
“I may go in now, my good fellow, I suppose?” said his lordship to Barlow; and without waiting an answer, he entered the library. He found Brandon alone, and bending earnestly over some letters which strewed146 his table. Mauleverer carelessly approached, and threw himself into an opposite chair. Sir William lifted his head, as he heard the movement; and Mauleverer, reckless as was that personage, was chilled and almost awed147 by the expression of his friend’s countenance. Brandon’s face was one which, however pliant148, nearly always wore one pervading149 character — calmness; whether in the smoothness of social courtesy, or the austerity of his official station, or the bitter sarcasm150 which escaped him at no unfrequent intervals151, still a certain hard and inflexible152 dryness stamped both his features and his air. But at this time a variety of feelings not ordinarily eloquent in the outward man struggled in his dark face, expressive153 of all the energy and passion of his powerful and masculine nature; there seemed to speak from his features and eyes something of shame and anger and triumph and regret and scorn. All these various emotions, which it appears almost a paradox69 to assert met in the same expression, nevertheless were so individually and almost fearfully stamped as to convey at once their signification to the mind of Mauleverer. He glanced towards the letters, in which the writing seemed faint and discoloured by time or damp; and then once more regarding the face of Brandon, said in rather an anxious and subdued154 tone —
“Heavens, Brandon! are you ill; or has anything happened? You alarm me!”
“Do you recognize these locks?” said Brandon, in a hollow voice; and from under the letters he drew some ringlets of an auburn hue155, and pushed them with an averted156 face towards Mauleverer.
The earl took them up, regarded them for a few moments, changed colour, but shook his head with a negative gesture, as he laid them once more on the table.
“This handwriting, then?” renewed the judge, in a yet more impressive and painful voice; and he pointed157 to the letters.
Mauleverer raised one of them, and held it between his face and the lamp, so that whatever his features might have betrayed was hidden from his companion. At length he dropped the letter with an affected158 nonchalance159, and said —
“Ah, I know the writing even at this distance of time; this letter is directed to you!”
“It is; so are all these,” said Brandon, with the same voice of preternatural and strained composure. “They have come back to me after an absence of nearly twenty-five years; they are the letters she wrote to me in the days of our courtship” (here Brandon laughed scornfully) — “she carried them away with her, you know when; and (a pretty clod of consistency160 is woman!) she kept them, it seems, to her dying day.”
The subject in discussion, whatever it might be, appeared a sore one to Mauleverer; he turned uneasily on his chair, and said at length —
“Well, poor creature! these are painful remembrances, since it turned out so unhappily; but it was not our fault, dear Brandon. We were men of the world; we knew the value of — of women, and treated them accordingly!”
“Right! right! right!” cried Brandon, vehemently161, laughing in a wild and loud disdain, the intense force of which it would be in vain to attempt expressing. “Right! and, faith, my lord, I repine not, nor repent163.”
“So, so, that’s well!” said Mauleverer, still not at his ease, and hastening to change the conversation. “But, my dear Brandon, I have strange news for you! You remember that fellow Clifford, who had the insolence164 to address himself to your adorable niece? I told you I suspected that long friend of his of having made my acquaintance somewhat unpleasantly, and I therefore doubted of Clifford himself. Well, my dear friend, this Clifford is — whom do you think? — no other than Mr. Lovett of Newgate celebrity165!”
“You do not say so!” rejoined Brandon, apathetically166, as he slowly gathered his papers together and deposited them in a drawer.
“Indeed it is true; and what is more, Brandon, this fellow is one of the very identical highwaymen who robbed me on my road from Bath. No doubt he did me the same kind office on my road to Mauleverer Park.”
“Possibly,” said Brandon, who appeared absorbed in a revery.
“Ay!” answered Mauleverer, piqued167 at this indifference168. “But do you not see the consequences to your niece?”
“My niece!” repeated Brandon, rousing himself.
“Certainly. I grieve to say it, my dear friend — but she was young, very young, when at Bath. She suffered this fellow to address her too openly. Nay169 — for I will be frank — she was suspected of being in love with him!”
“She was in love with him,” said Brandon, dryly, and fixing the malignant170 coldness of his eye upon the suitor. “And, for aught I know,” added he, “she is so at this moment.”
“You are cruel!” said Mauleverer, disconcerted. “I trust not, for the sake of my continued addresses.”
“My dear lord,” said Brandon, urbanely171 taking the courtier’s hand, while the anguis in herba of his sneer played around his compressed lips — “my dear lord, we are old friends, and need not deceive each other. You wish to marry my niece because she is an heiress of great fortune, and you suppose that my wealth will in all probability swell172 her own. Moreover, she is more beautiful than any other young lady of your acquaintance, and, polished by your example, may do honour to your taste as well as your prudence. Under these circumstances, you will, I am quite sure, look with lenity on her girlish errors, and not love her the less because her foolish fancy persuades her that she is in love with another.”
“Ahem!” said Mauleverer, “you view the matter with more sense than sentiment; but look you, Brandon, we must try, for both our sakes, if possible, to keep the identity of Lovett with Clifford from being known. I do not see why it should be. No doubt he was on his guard while playing the gallant173, and committed no atrocity174 at Bath. The name of Clifford is hitherto perfectly26 unsullied. No fraud, no violence are attached to the appellation175; and if the rogue176 will but keep his own counsel, we may hang him out of the way without the secret transpiring177.”
“But if I remember right,” said Brandon, “the newspapers say that this Lovett will be tried some seventy or eighty miles only from Bath, and that gives a chance of recognition.”
“Ay, but he will be devilishly altered, I imagine; for his wound has already been but a bad beautifier to his face. Moreover, if the dog has any delicacy178, he will naturally dislike to be known as the gallant of that gay city where he shone so successfully, and will disguise himself as well as he is able. I hear wonders of his powers of self-transformation.”
“But he may commit himself on the point between this and his trial,” said Brandon.
“I think of ascertaining179 how far that is likely, by sending my valet down to him (you know one treats these gentlemen highwaymen with a certain consideration, and hangs them with all due respect to their feelings), to hint that it will be doubtless very unpleasant to him, under his ‘present unfortunate circumstances’ (is not that the phrase?), to be known as the gentleman who enjoyed so deserved a popularity at Bath, and that, though ‘the laws of my country compel me’ to prosecute him, yet, should he desire it, he may be certain that I will preserve his secret. Come, Brandon, what say you to that manoeuvre180? It will answer my purpose, and make the gentleman — for doubtless he is all sensibility — shed tears at my generous forbearance!”
“It is no bad idea,” said Brandon. “I commend you for it. At all events, it is necessary that my niece should not know the situation of her lover. She is a girl of a singular turn of mind, and fortune has made her independent. Who knows but that she might commit some folly181 or another, write petitions to the king, and beg me to present them, or go — for she has a world of romance in her — to prison, to console him; or, at all events, she would beg my kind offices on his behalf — a request peculiarly awkward, as in all probability I shall have the honour of trying him.”
“Ay, by the by, so you will. And I fancy the poor rogue’s audacity182 will not cause you to be less severe than you usually are. They say you promise to make more human pendulums183 than any of your brethren.”
“They do say that, do they?” said Brandon. “Well, I own I have a bile against my species; I loathe184 their folly and their half vices185. ‘Ridet et odit’—[“He laughs and hates”]— is my motto; and I allow that it is not the philosophy that makes men merciful!”
“Well, Juvenal’s wisdom be yours, mine be Horace’s!” rejoined Mauleverer, as he picked his teeth; “but I am glad you see the absolute necessity of keeping this secret from Lucy’s suspicion. She never reads the papers, I suppose? Girls never do!”
“No! and I will take care not to have them thrown in her way; and as, in consequence of my poor brother’s recent death, she sees nobody but us, there is little chance, should Lovett’s right to the name of Clifford be discovered, that it should reach her ears.”
“But those confounded servants?”
“True enough! But consider that before they know it, the newspapers will; so that, should it be needful, we shall have our own time to caution them. I need only say to Lucy’s woman, ‘A poor gentleman, a friend of the late squire186, whom your mistress used to dance with, and you must have seen — Captain Clifford — is to be tried for his life. It will shock her, poor thing! in her present state of health, to tell her of so sad an event to her father’s friend; therefore be silent, as you value your place and ten guineas,’— and I may be tolerably sure of caution!”
“You ought to be chairman to the Ways and Means Committee!” cried Mauleverer. “My mind is now easy; and when once poor Clifford is gone — fallen from a high estate — we may break the matter gently to her; and as I intend thereon to be very respectful, very delicate, etc., she cannot but be sensible of my kindness and real affection!”
“And if a live dog be better than a dead lion,” added Brandon, “surely a lord in existence will be better than a highwayman hanged!”
“According to ordinary logic,” rejoined Mauleverer, “that syllogism187 is clear enough; and though I believe a girl may cling now and then to the memory of a departed lover, I do not think she will when the memory is allied188 with shame. Love is nothing more than vanity pleased; wound the vanity, and you destroy the love! Lucy will be forced, after having made so bad a choice of a lover, to make a good one in a husband, in order to recover her self-esteem189!”
“And therefore you are certain of her!” said Brandon, ironically.
“Thanks to my star — my garter — my ancestor, the first baron190, and myself, the first earl — I hope I am,” said Mauleverer; and the conversation turned. Mauleverer did not stay much longer with the judge; and Brandon, left alone, recurred once more to the perusal191 of his letters.
We scarcely know what sensations it would have occasioned in one who had known Brandon only in his later years, could he have read those letters referring to so much earlier a date. There was in the keen and arid192 character of the man so little that recalled any idea of courtship or youthful gallantry that a correspondence of that nature would have appeared almost as unnatural193 as the loves of plants, or the amatory softenings of a mineral. The correspondence now before Brandon was descriptive of various feelings, but all appertaining to the same class; most of them were apparent answers to letters from him. One while they replied tenderly to expressions of tenderness, but intimated a doubt whether the writer would be able to constitute his future happiness, and atone194 for certain sacrifices of birth and fortune and ambitious prospects195, to which she alluded196: at other times, a vein197 of latent coquetry seemed to pervade198 the style — an indescribable air of coolness and reserve contrasted former passages in the correspondence, and was calculated to convey to the reader an impression that the feelings of the lover were not altogether adequately returned. Frequently the writer, as if Brandon had expressed himself sensible of this conviction, reproached him for unjust jealousy199 and unworthy suspicion. And the tone of the reproach varied200 in each letter; sometimes it was gay and satirizing201; at others soft and expostulatory; at others gravely reasoning, and often haughtily202 indignant. Still, throughout the whole correspondence, on the part of the mistress, there was a sufficient stamp of individuality to give a shrewd examiner some probable guess at the writer’s character. He would have judged her, perhaps, capable of strong and ardent203 feeling, but ordinarily of a light and capricious turn, and seemingly prope to imagine and to resent offence. With these letters were mingled others in Brandon’s writing — of how different, of how impassioned a description! All that a deep, proud, meditative204, exacting205 character could dream of love given, or require of love returned, was poured burningly over the pages; yet they were full of reproach, of jealousy, of a nice and torturing observation, as calculated to wound as the ardour might be fitted to charm; and often the bitter tendency to disdain that distinguished206 his temperament broke through the fondest enthusiasm of courtship or the softest outpourings of love.
“You saw me not yesterday,” he wrote in one letter, “but I saw you; all day I was by you: you gave not a look which passed me unnoticed; you made not a movement which I did not chronicle in my memory. Julia, do you tremble when I tell you this? Yes, if you have a heart, I know these words would stab it to the core! You may affect to answer me indignantly! Wise dissembler! it is very skilful207, very, to assume anger when you have no reply. I repeat during the whole of that party of pleasure (pleasure! well, your tastes, it must be acknowledged, are exquisite208!) which you enjoyed yesterday, and which you so faintly asked me to share, my eye was on you. You did not know that I was in the wood when you took the grin of the incomparable Digby, with so pretty a semblance209 of alarm at the moment the snake which my foot disturbed glided210 across your path. You did not know I was within hearing of the tent where you made so agreeable a repast, and from which your laughter sent peals211 so many and so numerous. Laughter! O Julia, can you tell me that you love, and yet be happy, even to mirth, when I am away! Love! O God, how different a sensation is mine! Mine makes my whole principle of life! Yours! I tell you that I think at moments I would rather have your hate than the lukewarm sentiment you bear to me, and honour by the name of affection.’ Pretty phrase! I have no affection for you! Give me not that sickly word; but try with me, Julia, to invent some expression that has never filtered a paltry212 meaning through the lips of another! Affection! why, that is a sister’s word, a girl’s word to her pet squirrel! Never was it made for that ruby213 and most ripe mouth! Shall I come to your house this evening? Your mother has asked me, and you — you heard her, and said nothing. Oh! but that was maiden215 reserve, was it? and maiden reserve caused you to take up a book the moment I left you, as if my company made but an ordinary amusement instantly to be replaced by another! When I have seen you, society, books, food, all are hateful to me; but you, sweet Julia, you can read, can you? Why, when I left you, I lingered by the parlour window for hours, till dusk, and you never once lifted your eyes, nor saw me pass and repass. At least I thought you would have watched my steps when I left the house; but I err50, charming moralist! According to you, that vigilance would have been meanness.”
In another part of the correspondence a more grave if not a deeper gush216 of feeling struggled for expression.
“You say, Julia, that were you to marry one who thinks so much of what he surrenders for you, and who requires from yourself so vast a return of love, you should tremble for the future happiness of both of us. Julia, the triteness217 of that fear proves that you love not at all. I do not tremble for our future happiness; on the contrary, the intensity218 of my passion for you makes me know that we never can be happy, never beyond the first rapture219 of our union. Happiness is a quiet and tranquil132 feeling. No feeling that I can possibly bear to you will ever receive those epithets220 — I know that I shall be wretched and accursed when I am united to you. Start not! I will presently tell you why. But I do not dream of happiness, neither (could you fathom221 one drop of the dark and limitless ocean of my emotions) would you name to me that word. It is not the mercantile and callous63 calculation of chances for ‘future felicity’ (what homily supplied you with so choice a term?) that enters into the heart that cherishes an all-pervading love. Passion looks only to one object, to nothing beyond; I thirst, I consume, not for happiness, but you. Were your possession inevitably222 to lead me to a gulf of anguish223 and shame, think you I should covet30 it one jot224 the less! If you carry one thought, one hope, one dim fancy, beyond the event that makes you mine, you may be more worthy45 of the esteem of others, but you are utterly undeserving of my love.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“I will tell you now why I know we cannot be happy. In the first place, when you say that I am proud of birth, that I am morbidly225 ambitious, that I am anxious to shine in the great world, and that after the first intoxication226 of love has passed away I shall feel bitterness against one who has so humbled227 my pride and darkened my prospects, I am not sure that you wholly err. But I am sure that the instant remedy is in your power. Have you patience, Julia, to listen to a kind Of history of myself, or rather of my feelings? If so, perhaps it may be the best method of explaining all that I would convey. You will see, then, that my family pride and my worldly ambition are not founded altogether on those basements which move my laughter in another; if my feelings thereon are really, however, as you would insinuate228, equal matter for derision, behold, my Julia, I can laugh equally at them! So pleasant a thing to me is scorn, that I would rather despise myself than have no one to despise! But to my narrative229! You must know that there are but two of us, sons of a country squire, of old family, which once possessed230 large possessions and something of historical renown231. We lived in an old country-place; my father was a convivial232 dog, a fox-hunter, a drunkard, yet in his way a fine gentleman — and a very disreputable member of society. The first feelings towards him that I can remember were those of shame. Not much matter of family pride here, you will say! True, and that is exactly the reason which made me cherish family pride elsewhere. My father’s house was filled with guests — some high and some low; they all united in ridicule233 of the host. I soon detected the laughter, and you may imagine that it did not please me. Meanwhile the old huntsman, whose family was about as ancient as ours, and whose ancestors had officiated in his capacity for the ancestors of his master time out of mind, told me story after story about the Brandons of yore. I turned from the stories to more legitimate234 history, and found the legends were tolerably true. I learned to glow at this discovery; the pride, humbled when I remembered my sire, revived when I remembered my ancestors. I became resolved to emulate235 them, to restore a sunken name, and vowed236 a world of nonsense on the subject. The habit of brooding over these ideas grew on me. I never heard a jest broken on my paternal237 guardian, I never caught the maudlin238 look of his reeling eyes, nor listened to some exquisite inanity from his besotted lips, but that my thoughts flew instantly back to the Sir Charleses and the Sir Roberts of my race, and I comforted myself with the hope that the present degeneracy should pass away. Hence, Julia, my family pride; hence, too, another feeling you dislike in me — disdain! I first learned to despise my father, the host, and I then despised my acquaintances, his guests; for I saw, while they laughed at him, that they flattered, and that their merriment was not the only thing suffered to feed at his expense. Thus contempt grew up with me, and I had nothing to check it; for when I looked around I saw not one living thing that I could respect. This father of mine had the sense to think I was no idiot. He was proud (poor man!) of ‘my talents,’ namely, of prizes won at school, and congratulatory letters from my masters. He sent me to college. My mind took a leap there; I will tell you, prettiest, what it was! Before I went thither239 I had some fine vague visions about virtue. I thought to revive my ancestral honours by being good; in short, I was an embryo240 King Pepin. I awoke from this dream at the University. There, for the first time, I perceived the real consequence of rank.
“At school, you know, Julia, boys care nothing for a lord. A good cricketer, an excellent fellow, is worth all the earls in the peerage. But at college all that ceases; bats and balls sink into the nothingness in which corals and bells had sunk before. One grows manly241, and worships coronets and carriages. I saw it was a fine thing to get a prize, but it was ten times a finer thing to get drunk with a peer. So, when I had done the first, my resolve to be worthy of my sires made me do the second — not, indeed, exactly; I never got drunk: my father disgusted me with that vice betimes. To his gluttony I owe my vegetable diet, and to his inebriety242 my addiction243 to water. No, I did not get drunk with peers; but I was just as agreeable to them as if I had been equally embruted. I knew intimately all the ‘Hats’ in the University, and I was henceforth looked up to by the ‘Caps,’ as if my head had gained the height of every hat that I knew.
[At Cambridge the sons of noblemen and the eldest244 sons of baronets are allowed to wear hats instead of the academical cap.]
But I did not do this immediately. I must tell you two little anecdotes245 that first initiated246 me into the secret of real greatness.
“The first was this: I was sitting at dinner with some fellows of a college, grave men and clever. Two of them, not knowing me, were conversing247 about me; they heard, they said, that I should never be so good a fellow as my father — have such a cellar or keep such a house. ‘I have met six earls there and a marquess,’ quoth the other senior. ‘And his son,’ returned the first don, ‘only keeps company with sizars, I believe.’ ‘So then,’ said I to myself, ‘to deserve the praise even of clever men, one must have good wines, know plenty of earls, and for swear sizars.’ Nothing could be truer than my conclusion.
“Anecdote the second is this: On the day I gained a high university prize I invited my friends to dine with me. Four of them refused because they were engaged (they had been asked since I asked them), — to whom? the richest man at the University. These occurrences, happening at the same time, threw me into a profound revery. I awoke, and became a man of the world. I no longer resolved to be virtuous, and to hunt after the glory of your Romans and your Athenians — I resolved to become rich, powerful, and of worldly repute.
“I abjured248 my honest sizars, and as I said before, I courted some rich ‘Hats.’ Behold my first grand step in the world! I became the parasite249 and the flatterer. What! would my pride suffer this? Verily, yes, my pride delighted in it; for it soothed250 my spirit of contempt to put these fine fellows to my use! It soothed me to see how easily I could cajole them, and to what a variety of purposes I could apply even the wearisome disgust of their acquaintance. Nothing is so foolish as to say the idle great are of no use; they can be put to any use whatsoever252 that a wise man is inclined to make of them. Well, Julia, lo! my character already formed; the family pride, disdain, and worldly ambition — there it is for you. After circumstances only strengthened the impression already made. I desired, on leaving college, to go abroad; my father had no money to give me. What signified that? I looked carelessly around for some wealthier convenience than the paternal board; I found it in a Lord Mauleverer. He had been at college with me, and I endured him easily as a companion — for he had accomplishments253, wit, and good-nature. I made him wish to go abroad, and I made him think he should die of ennui254 if I did not accompany him. To his request to that effect I reluctantly agreed, and saw everything in Europe, which he neglected to see, at his expense. What amused me the most was the perception that I, the parasite, was respected by him; and he, the patron, was ridiculed255 by me! It would not have been so if I had depended on ‘my virtue.’ Well, sweetest Julia, the world, as I have said, gave to my college experience a sacred authority. I returned to England; and my father died, leaving to me not a sixpence, and to my brother an estate so mortgaged that he could not enjoy it, and so restricted that he could not sell it. It was now the time for me to profit by the experience I boasted of. I saw that it was necessary I should take some profession. Professions are the masks to your pauper-rogue; they give respectability to cheating, and a diploma to feed upon others. I analyzed256 my talents, and looked to the customs of my country; the result was my resolution to take to the Bar. I had an inexhaustible power of application; I was keen, shrewd, and audacious. All these qualities ‘tell’ at the courts of justice. I kept my legitimate number of terms; I was called; I went the circuit; I obtained not a brief — not a brief, Julia! My health, never robust257, gave way beneath study and irritation258. I was ordered to betake myself to the country. I came to this village, as one both salubrious and obscure. I lodged259 in the house of your aunt; you came hither daily — I saw you — you know the rest. But where, all this time, were my noble friends? you will say. ‘Sdeath, since we had left college, they had learned a little of the wisdom I had then possessed; they were not disposed to give something for nothing; they had younger brothers, and cousins, and mistresses, and, for aught I know, children to provide for. Besides, they had their own expenses; the richer a man is, the less he has to give. One of them would have bestowed261 on me a living, if I had gone into the Church; another, a commission if I had joined his regiment262. But I knew the day was past both for priest and soldier; and it was not merely to live, no, nor to live comfortably, but to enjoy power, that I desired; so I declined these offers. Others of my friends would have been delighted to have kept me in their house, feasted me, joked with me, rode with me, nothing more! But I had already the sense to see that if a man dances himself into distinction, it is never by the steps of attendance. One must receive favours and court patronage263, but it must be with the air of an independent man. My old friends thus rendered useless, my legal studies forbade me to make new, nay, they even estranged264 me from the old; for people may say what they please about a similarity of opinions being necessary to friendship — a similarity of habits is much more so. It is the man you dine, breakfast, and lodge260 with, walk, ride, gamble, or thieve with, that is your friend; not the man who likes Virgil as well as you do, and agrees with you in an admiration265 of Handel. Meanwhile my chief prey266, Lord Mauleverer, was gone; he had taken another man’s Dulcinea, and sought out a bower267 in Italy. From that time to this I have never heard of him nor seen him; I know not even his address. With the exception of a few stray gleanings from my brother, who, good easy man! I could plunder268 more, were I not resolved not to ruin the family stock, I have been thrown on myself; the result is that, though as clever as my fellows, I have narrowly shunned269 starvation — had my wants been less simple, there would have been no shunning270 in the case; but a man is not easily starved who drinks water, and eats by the ounce. A more effectual fate might have befallen me. Disappointment, wrath271, baffled hope, mortified272 pride, all these, which gnawed273 at my heart, might have consumed it long ago; I might have fretted274 away as a garment which the moth214 eateth, had it not been for that fund of obstinate275 and iron hardness which nature — I beg pardon, there is no nature — circumstance bestowed upon me. This has borne me up, and will bear me yet through time and shame and bodily weakness and mental fever, until my ambition has won a certain height, and my disdain of human pettiness rioted in the external sources of fortune, as well as an inward fountain of bitter and self-fed consolation. Yet, oh, Julia! I know not if even this would have supported me, if at that epoch of life, when I was most wounded, most stricken in body, most soured in mind, my heart had not met and fastened itself to yours. I saw you, loved you; and life became to me a new object. Even now, as I write to you, all my bitterness, my pride, vanish; everything I have longed for disappears; my very ambition is gone. I have no hope but for you, Julia; beautiful, adored Julia! when I love you, I love even my kind. Oh, you know not the power you possess over me! Do not betray it; you can yet make me all that my boyhood once dreamed, or you can harden every thought, feeling, sensation, into stone.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“I was to tell you why I look not for happiness in our union. You have now seen my nature. You have traced the history of my life, by tracing the history of my character. You see what I surrender in gaining you. I do not deny the sacrifice. I surrender the very essentials of my present mind and soul. I cease to be worldly. I cannot raise myself, I cannot revive my ancestral name; nay, I shall relinquish276 it forever. I shall adopt a disguised appellation. I shall sink into another grade of life. In some remote village, by means of some humbler profession than that I now follow, we must earn our subsistence, and smile at ambition. I tell you frankly277, Julia, when I close the eyes of my heart, when I shut you from my gaze, this sacrifice appalls278 me. But even then you force yourself before me, and I feel that one glance from your eye is more to me than all. If you could bear with me — if you could soothe251 me — if when a cloud is on me you could suffer it to pass away unnoticed, and smile on me the moment it is gone — O Julia! there would be then no extreme of poverty, no abasement279 of fortune, no abandonment of early dreams which would not seem to me rapture if coupled with the bliss280 of knowing that you are mine. Never should my lip, never should my eye tell you that there is that thing on earth for which I repine or which I could desire. No, Julia, could I flatter my heart with this hope, you would not find me dream of unhappiness and you united. But I tremble, Julia, when I think of your temper and my own; you will conceive a gloomy look from one never mirthful is an insult, and you will feel every vent97 of passion on Fortune or on others as a reproach to you. Then, too, you cannot enter into my nature; you cannot descend281 into its caverns282; you cannot behold, much less can you deign283 to lull284, the exacting and lynx-eyed jealousy that dwells there. Sweetest Julia! every breath of yours, every touch of yours, every look of yours, I yearn for beyond all a mother’s longing285 for the child that has been torn from her for years. Your head leaned upon an old tree (do you remember it, near ———?), and I went every day, after seeing you, to kiss it. Do you wonder that I am jealous? How can I love you as I do and be otherwise! My whole being is intoxicated286 with you!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“This then, your pride and mine, your pleasure in the admiration of others, your lightness, Julia, make me foresee an eternal and gushing287 source of torture to my mind. I care not; I care for nothing so that you are mine, if but for one hour.”
It seems that, despite the strange, sometimes the unloverlike and fiercely selfish nature of these letters from Brandon, something of a genuine tone of passion — perhaps their originality288 — aided, no doubt, by some uttered eloquence289 of the writer and some treacherous290 inclination291 on the part of the mistress, ultimately conquered; and that a union so little likely to receive the smile of a prosperous star was at length concluded. The letter which terminated the correspondence was from Brandon: it was written on the evening before the marriage, which, it appeared by the same letter, was to be private and concealed292. After a rapturous burst of hope and joy, it continued thus:—
“Yes, Julia, I recant my words; I have no belief that you or I shall ever have cause hereafter for unhappiness. Those eyes that dwelt so tenderly on mine; that hand whose pressure lingers yet in every nerve of my frame; those lips turned so coyly, yet, shall I say, reluctantly from me — all tell me that you love me; and my fears are banished293. Love, which conquered my nature, will conquer the only thing I would desire to see altered in yours. Nothing could ever make me adore you less, though you affect to dread294 it — nothing but a knowledge that you are unworthy of me, that you have a thought for another; then I should not hate you. No; the privilege of my past existence would revive; I should revel295 in a luxury of contempt, I should despise you, I should mock you, and I should be once more what I was before I knew you. But why do I talk thus? My bride, my blessing296, forgive me!”
In concluding our extracts from this correspondence, we wish the reader to note, first, that the love professed297 by Brandon seems of that vehement162 and corporeal298 nature which, while it is often the least durable299, is often the most susceptible300 of the fiercest extremes of hatred301 or even of disgust; secondly302, that the character opened by this sarcastic candour evidently required in a mistress either an utter devotion or a skilful address; and thirdly, that we have hinted at such qualities in the fair correspondent as did not seem sanguinely303 to promise either of these essentials.
While with a curled yet often with a quivering lip the austere and sarcastic Brandon slowly compelled himself to the task of proceeding304 through these monuments of former folly and youthful emotion, the further elucidation305 of those events, now rapidly urging on a fatal and dread catastrophe306, spreads before us a narrative occurring many years prior to the time at which we are at present arrived.
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allot
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| v.分配；拨给；n.部分；小块菜地 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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spoke
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| 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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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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shuddered
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| 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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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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48
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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52
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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53
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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mountebank
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| n.江湖郎中；骗子 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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56
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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57
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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58
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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59
inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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60
pertinaciously
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| adv.坚持地；固执地；坚决地；执拗地 | |
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61
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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62
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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63
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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64
callousness
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65
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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66
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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67
obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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68
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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69
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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70
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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71
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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72
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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73
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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74
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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75
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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76
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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77
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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78
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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79
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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80
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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81
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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82
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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83
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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84
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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85
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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86
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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87
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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88
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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89
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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90
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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91
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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92
blandest
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的最高级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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93
supple
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|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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94
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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95
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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96
adventitiously
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| adj.偶然的；外来的；偶生的；后天的 | |
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97
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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98
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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99
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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100
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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101
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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102
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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103
browbeat
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| v.欺侮；吓唬 | |
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104
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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105
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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106
majestic
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|
| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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107
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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108
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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109
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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110
retailing
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|
| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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111
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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112
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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113
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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114
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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115
betokened
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|
| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
hilarious
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|
| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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117
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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118
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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119
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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120
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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121
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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122
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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124
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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125
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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126
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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127
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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128
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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129
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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130
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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131
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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132
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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133
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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134
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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135
attenuated
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|
| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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136
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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137
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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139
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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140
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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141
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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142
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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143
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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144
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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145
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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146
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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147
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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149
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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150
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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151
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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152
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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153
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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154
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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155
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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156
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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157
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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158
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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159
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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160
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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161
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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162
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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163
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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164
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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165
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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166
apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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167
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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168
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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169
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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170
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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171
urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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172
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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173
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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174
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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175
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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176
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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177
transpiring
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的现在分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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178
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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179
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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180
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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181
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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182
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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183
pendulums
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| n.摆，钟摆( pendulum的名词复数 )；摇摆不定的事态（或局面） | |
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184
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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185
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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186
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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187
syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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188
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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189
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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190
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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191
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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192
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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193
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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194
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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195
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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196
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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198
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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199
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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200
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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201
satirizing
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| v.讽刺，讥讽( satirize的现在分词 ) | |
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202
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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203
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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204
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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205
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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206
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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207
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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208
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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209
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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210
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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211
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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212
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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213
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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214
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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215
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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216
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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217
triteness
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| n.平凡，陈腐 | |
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218
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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219
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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220
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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221
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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222
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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223
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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224
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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225
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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226
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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227
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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228
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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229
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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230
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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231
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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232
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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233
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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234
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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235
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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236
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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237
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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238
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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239
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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240
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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241
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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242
inebriety
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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243
addiction
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| n.上瘾入迷，嗜好 | |
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244
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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245
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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246
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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247
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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248
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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249
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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250
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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251
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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252
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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253
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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254
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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255
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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257
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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258
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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259
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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260
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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261
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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262
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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263
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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264
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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265
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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266
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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267
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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268
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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269
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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270
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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271
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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272
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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273
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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274
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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275
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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276
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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277
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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278
appalls
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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279
abasement
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| n.滥用 | |
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280
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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281
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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282
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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283
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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284
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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285
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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286
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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287
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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288
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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289
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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290
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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291
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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292
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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293
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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294
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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295
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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296
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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297
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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298
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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299
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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300
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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301
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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302
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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303
sanguinely
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| 乐观的，充满希望的； 面色红润的； 血红色的 | |
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304
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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305
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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306
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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