The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally distributed by our pious20 forefathers21; the popular antipathy22, so strong that it endured nearly a hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and reward, would have been for the worldly minded. Every European vessel24 brought new cargoes25 of the sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped to share; and when shipmasters were restrained by heavy fines from affording them passage, they made long and circuitous26 journeys through the Indian country, and appeared in the province as if conveyed by a supernatural power. Their enthusiasm, heightened almost to madness by the treatment which they received, produced actions contrary to the rules of decency27, as well as of rational religion, and presented a singular contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their sectarian successors of the present day. The command of the spirit, inaudible except to the soul, and not to be controverted28 on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most indecorous exhibitions, which, abstractedly considered, well deserved the moderate chastisement29 of the rod. These extravagances, and the persecution which was at once their cause and consequence, continued to increase, till, in the year 1659, the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two members of the Quaker sect with a crown of martyrdom.
An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented to this act, but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest upon the person then at the head of the government. He was a man of narrow mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising bigotry31 was made hot and mischievous32 by violent and hasty passions; he exerted his influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death of the enthusiasts; and his whole conduct, in respect to them, was marked by brutal33 cruelty. The Quakers, whose revengeful feelings were not less deep because they were inactive, remembered this man and his associates in after times. The historian of the sect affirms that, by the wrath34 of Heaven, a blight35 fell upon the land in the vicinity of the “bloody36 town” of Boston, so that no wheat would grow there; and he takes his stand, as it were, among the graves of the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly37 recounts the judgments39 that overtook them, in old age or at the parting hour. He tells us that they died suddenly and violently and in madness; but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the loathsome41 disease, and “death by rottenness,” of the fierce and cruel governor.
. . . . . . . . .
On the evening of the autumn day that had witnessed the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker persuasion42, a Puritan settler was returning from the metropolis43 to the neighboring country town in which he resided. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight44 was made brighter by the rays of a young moon, which had now nearly reached the verge45 of the horizon. The traveller, a man of middle age, wrapped in a gray frieze46 cloak, quickened his pace when he had reached the outskirts47 of the town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between him and his home. The low, straw-thatched houses were scattered48 at considerable intervals49 along the road, and the country having been settled but about thirty years, the tracts50 of original forest still bore no small proportion to the cultivated ground. The autumn wind wandered among the branches, whirling away the leaves from all except the pine-trees, and moaning as if it lamented51 the desolation of which it was the instrument. The road had penetrated53 the mass of woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just emerging into an open space, when the traveller’s ears were saluted54 by a sound more mournful than even that of the wind. It was like the wailing55 of someone in distress56, and it seemed to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a cleared but uninclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could not but remember that this was the very spot which had been made accursed a few hours before by the execution of the Quakers whose bodies had been thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they suffered. He struggled however, against the superstitious57 fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen.
“The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if it be otherwise,” thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight. “Methinks it is like the wailing of a child; some infant, it may be, which has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this place of death. For the ease of mine own conscience I must search this matter out.”
He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fearfully across the field. Though now so desolate59, its soil was pressed down and trampled60 by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle of that day, all of whom had now retired61, leaving the dead to their loneliness. The traveller, at length reached the fir-tree, which from the middle upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold had been erected63 beneath, and other preparations made for the work of death. Under this unhappy tree, which in after times was believed to drop poison with its dew, sat the one solitary64 mourner for innocent blood. It was a slender and light clad little boy, who leaned his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth, and wailed65 bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the punishment of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child’s shoulder, and addressed him compassionately67.
“You have chosen a dreary69 lodging70, my poor boy, and no wonder that you weep,” said he. “But dry your eyes, and tell me where your mother dwells. I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will leave you in her arms to-night.”
The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance72, certainly not more than six years old, but sorrow, fear, and want had destroyed much of its infantile expression. The Puritan seeing the boy’s frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored to reassure73 him.
“Nay74, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were to leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows75 on a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend’s touch. Take heart, child, and tell me what is your name and where is your home?”
“Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet though faltering76 voice, “they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.”
The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle77 with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and the outlandish name, almost made the Puritan believe that the boy was in truth a being which had sprung up out of the grave on which he sat. But perceiving that the apparition78 stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm which he had touched was lifelike, he adopted a more rational supposition. “The poor child is stricken in his intellect,” thought he, “but verily his words are fearful in a place like this.” He then spoke79 soothingly80, intending to humor the boy’s fantasy.
“Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn night, and I fear you are ill-provided with food. I am hastening to a warm supper and bed, and if you will go with me you shall share them!”
“I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry, and shivering with cold, thou wilt81 not give me food nor lodging,” replied the boy, in the quiet tone which despair had taught him, even so young. “My father was of the people whom all men hate. They have laid him under this heap of earth, and here is my home.”
The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, relinquished82 it as if he were touching83 a loathsome reptile84. But he possessed85 a compassionate66 heart, which not even religious prejudice could harden into stone.
“God forbid that I should leave this child to perish, though he comes of the accursed sect,” said he to himself. “Do we not all spring from an evil root? Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine upon us? He shall not perish, neither in body, nor, if prayer and instruction may avail for him, in soul.” He then spoke aloud and kindly86 to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave. “Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed spot?”
“They drove me forth87 from the prison when they took my father thence,” said the boy, “and I stood afar off watching the crowd of people, and when they were gone I came hither, and found only his grave. I knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said this shall be my home.”
“No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my head, or a morsel88 to share with you!” exclaimed the Puritan, whose sympathies were now fully58 excited. “Rise up and come with me, and fear not any harm.”
The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth as if the cold heart beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast. The traveller, however, continued to entreat89 him tenderly, and seeming to acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose. But his slender limbs tottered90 with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of death for support.
“My poor boy, are you so feeble?” said the Puritan. “When did you taste food last?”
“I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison,” replied Ilbrahim, “but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day, saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey’s end. Trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked food many times ere now.”
The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the gratuitous92 cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. In the awakened93 warmth of his feelings he resolved that, at whatever risk, he would not forsake94 the poor little defenceless being whom Heaven had confided95 to his care. With this determination he left the accursed field, and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the boy had called him. The light and motionless burden scarcely impeded96 his progress, and he soon beheld98 the fire rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the western wilderness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of cultivated ground, and the dwelling99 was situated100 in the nook of a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection.
“Look up, child,” said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, “there is our home.”
At the word “home,” a thrill passed through the child’s frame, but he continued silent. A few moments brought them to a cottage door, at which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when savages102 were wandering everywhere among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. The summons was answered by a bond-servant, a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of humanity, who, after ascertaining103 that his master was the applicant104, undid105 the door, and held a flaring106 pineknot torch to light him in. Farther back in the passage-way, the red blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet their father’s return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust aside his cloak, and displayed Ilbrahim’s face to the female.
“Dorothy, here is a little outcast, whom Providence107 hath put into our hands,” observed he. “Be kind to him, even as if he were of those dear ones who have departed from us.”
“What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias?” she inquired. “Is he one whom the wilderness folk have ravished from some Christian108 mother?”
“No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from the wilderness,” he replied. “The heathen savage101 would have given him to eat of his scanty109 morsel, and to drink of his birchen cup; but Christian men, alas110, had cast him out to die.”
Then he told her how he had found him beneath the gallows, upon his father’s grave; and how his heart had prompted him, like the speaking of an inward voice, to take the little outcast home, and be kind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe him, as if he were his own child, and to afford him the instruction which should counteract111 the pernicious errors hitherto instilled112 into his infant mind. Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness than her husband, and she approved of all his doings and intentions.
“Have you a mother, dear child?” she inquired.
The tears burst forth from his full heart as he attempted to reply; but Dorothy at length understood that he had a mother, who, like the rest of her sect, was a persecuted113 wanderer. She had been taken from the prison a short time before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger or wild beasts. This was no uncommon114 method of disposing of the Quakers, and they were accustomed to boast that the inhabitants of the desert were more hospitable115 to them than civilized116 man.
“Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, and a kind one,” said Dorothy, when she had gathered this information. “Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I will be your mother.”
The good woman prepared the little bed, from which her own children had successively been borne to another resting-place. Before Ilbrahim would consent to occupy it, he knelt down, and as Dorothy listened to his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled117 how the parents that had taught it to him could have been judged worthy118 of death. When the boy had fallen asleep, she bent119 over his pale and spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, drew the bedclothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive120 gladness in her heart.
Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants121 from the old country. He had remained in England during the first years of the civil war, in which he had borne some share as a cornet of dragoons, under Cromwell. But when the ambitious designs of his leader began to develop themselves, he quitted the army of the Parliament, and sought a refuge from the strife122, which was no longer holy, among the people of his persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts. A more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence in drawing him thither123; for New England offered advantages to men of unprosperous fortunes, as well as to dissatisfied religionists, and Pearson had hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife and increasing family. To this supposed impurity124 of motive125 the more bigoted126 Puritans were inclined to impute127 the removal by death of all the children, for whose earthly good the father had been over-thoughtful. They had left their native country blooming like roses, and like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those expounders of the ways of Providence, who had thus judged their brother, and attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin, were not more charitable when they saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void in their hearts by the adoption128 of an infant of the accursed sect. Nor did they fail to communicate their disapprobation to Tobias; but the latter, in reply, merely pointed130 at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. Even his beauty, however, and his winning manners, sometimes produced an effect ultimately unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been softened131 and again grew hard, affirmed that no merely natural cause could have so worked upon them.
Their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by the ill success of divers132 theological discussions, in which it was attempted to convince him of the errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful133 controversialist; but the feeling of his religion was strong as instinct in him, and he could neither be enticed134 nor driven from the faith which his father had died for. The odium of this stubbornness was shared in a great measure by the child’s protectors, insomuch that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to experience a most bitter species of persecution, in the cold regards of many a friend whom they had valued. The common people manifested their opinions more openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration, being a representative to the General Court and an approved lieutenant135 in the trainbands, yet within a week after his adoption of Ilbrahim he had been both hissed136 and hooted137. Once, also, when walking through a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some invisible speaker; and it cried, “What shall be done to the backslider? Lo! the scourge138 is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and every cord three knots!” These insults irritated Pearson’s temper for the moment; they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible but powerful workers towards an end which his most secret thought had not yet whispered.
. . . . . . . . .
On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a member of their family, Pearson and his wife deemed it proper that he should appear with them at public worship. They had anticipated some opposition139 to this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed hour was clad in the new mourning suit which Dorothy had wrought140 for him. As the parish was then, and during many subsequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum. At the first sound of that martial141 call to the place of holy and quiet thoughts, Tobias and Dorothy set forth, each holding a hand of little Ilbrahim, like two parents linked together by the infant of their love. On their path through the leafless woods they were overtaken by many persons of their acquaintance, all of whom avoided them, and passed by on the other side; but a severer trial awaited their constancy when they had descended142 the hill, and drew near the pine-built and undecorated house of prayer. Around the door, from which the drummer still sent forth his thundering summons, was drawn143 up a formidable phalanx, including several of the oldest members of the congregation, many of the middle aged144, and nearly all the younger males. Pearson found it difficult to sustain their united and disapproving145 gaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was differently circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and faltered146 not in her approach. As they entered the door, they overheard the muttered sentiments of the assemblage, and when the reviling147 voices of the little children smote148 Ilbrahim’s ear, he wept.
The interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. The low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked wood work, and the undraperied pulpit, offered nothing to excite the devotion, which, without such external aids, often remains149 latent in the heart. The floor of the building was occupied by rows of long, cushionless benches, supplying the place of pews, and the broad aisle150 formed a sexual division, impassable except by children beneath a certain age.
Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the meeting-house, and Ilbrahim, being within the years of infancy151, was retained under the care of the latter. The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in their rusty152 cloaks as he passed by; even the mild-featured maidens153 seemed to dread154 contamination; and many a stern old man arose, and turned his repulsive155 and unheavenly countenance upon the gentle boy, as if the sanctuary156 were polluted by his presence. He was a sweet infant of the skies that had strayed away from his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable157 world closed up their impure158 hearts against him, drew back their earthsoiled garments from his touch, and said, “We are holier than thou.”
Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, and retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave and decorous demeanor159, such as might befit a person of matured taste and understanding, who should find him self in a temple dedicated160 to some worship which he did not recognize, but felt himself bound to respect. The exercises had not yet commenced, however, when the boy’s attention was arrested by an event, apparently161 of trifling162 interest. A woman, having her face muffled163 in a hood164, and a cloak drawn completely about her form, advanced slowly up the broad aisle and took a place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim’s faint color varied165, his nerves fluttered, he was unable to turn his eyes from the muffled female.
When the preliminary prayer and hymn166 were over, the minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass which stood by the great Bible, commenced his discourse167. He was now well stricken in years, a man of pale, thin countenance, and his gray hairs were closely covered by a black velvet168 skullcap. In his younger days he had practically learned the meaning of persecution from Archbishop Laud169, and he was not now disposed to forget the lesson against which he had murmured then. Introducing the often discussed subject of the Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and a description of their tenets, in which error predominated, and prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. He adverted171 to the recent measures in the province, and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against calling in question the just severity which God-fearing magistrates172 had at length been compelled to exercise. He spoke of the danger of pity, in some cases a commendable173 and Christian virtue174, but inapplicable to this pernicious sect. He observed that such was their devilish obstinacy175 in error, that even the little children, the sucking babes, were hardened and desperate heretics. He affirmed that no man, without Heaven’s especial warrants should attempt their conversion176, lest while he lent his hand to draw them from the slough177, he should himself be precipitated178 into its lowest depths.
The sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half of the glass when the sermon concluded. An approving murmur170 followed, and the clergyman, having given out a hymn, took his seat with much self-congratulation, and endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence179 in the visages of the people. But while voices from all parts of the house were tuning180 themselves to sing, a scene occurred, which, though not very unusual at that period in the province, happened to be without precedent181 in this parish.
The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with slow, stately, and unwavering step, ascended182 the pulpit stairs. The quiverings of incipient183 harmony were hushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost terrified astonishment184, while she undid the door, and stood up in the sacred desk from which his maledictions had just been thundered. She then divested185 herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about her waist with a knotted cord; her raven186 hair fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness was defiled187 by pale streaks188 of ashes, which she had strown upon her head. Her eyebrows189, dark and strongly defined, added to the deathly whiteness of a countenance, which, emaciated190 with want, and wild with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained no trace of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing earnestly on the audience, and there was no sound, nor any movement, except a faint shuddering192 which every man observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious of in himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration came, she spoke, for the first few moments, in a low voice, and not invariably distinct utterance193. Her discourse gave evidence of an imagination hopelessly entangled194 with her reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, however, seemed to spread its own atmosphere round the hearer’s soul, and to move his feelings by some influence unconnected with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful but shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like bright things moving in a turbid195 river; or a strong and singularly-shaped idea leaped forth, and seized at once on the understanding or the heart. But the course of her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step was short to her own peculiar196 sorrows. She was naturally a woman of mighty197 passions, and hatred198 and revenge now wrapped themselves in the garb199 of piety200; the character of her speech was changed, her images became distinct though wild, and her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness.
“The Governor and his mighty men,” she said, “have gathered together, taking counsel among themselves and saying, ‘What shall we do unto this people even unto the people that have come into this land to put our iniquity201 to the blush?’ And lo! the devil entereth into the council chamber202, like a lame52 man of low stature203 and gravely apparelled, with a dark and twisted countenance, and a bright, downcast eye. And he standeth up among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, for his word is ‘Slay204, slay!’ But I say unto ye, Woe205 to them that slay! Woe to them that shed the blood of saints! Woe to them that have slain206 the husband, and cast forth the child, the tender infant, to wander homeless and hungry and cold, till he die; and have saved the mother alive, in the cruelty of their tender mercies! Woe to them in their lifetime! cursed are they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts! Woe to them in their death hour, whether it come swiftly with blood and violence, or after long and lingering pain! Woe, in the dark house, in the rottenness of the grave, when the children’s children shall revile207 the ashes of the fathers! Woe, woe, woe, at the judgment40, when all the persecuted and all the slain in this bloody land, and the father, the mother, and the child, shall await them in a day that they cannot escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose hearts are moving with a power that ye know not, arise, wash your hands of this innocent blood! Lift your voices, chosen ones; cry aloud, and call down a woe and a judgment with me!”
Having thus given vent4 to the flood of malignity208 which she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was silent. Her voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks209 of several women, but the feelings of the audience generally had not been drawn onward211 in the current with her own. They remained stupefied, stranded212 as it were, in the midst of a torrent213, which deafened214 them by its roaring, but might not move them by its violence. The clergyman, who could not hitherto have ejected the usurper215 of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, now addressed her in the tone of just indignation and legitimate216 authority.
“Get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane,” he said. “Is it to the Lord’s house that you come to pour forth the foulness217 of your heart and the inspiration of the devil? Get you down, and remember that the sentence of death is on you; yea, and shall be executed, were it but for this day’s work!”
“I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance,” replied she, in a depressed218 and even mild tone. “I have done my mission unto thee and to thy people. Reward me with stripes, imprisonment19, or death, as ye shall be permitted.”
The weakness of exhausted219 passion caused her steps to totter91 as she descended the pulpit stairs. The people, in the mean while, were stirring to and fro on the floor of the house, whispering among themselves, and glancing towards the intruder. Many of them now recognized her as the woman who had assaulted the Governor with frightful220 language as he passed by the window of her prison; they knew, also, that she was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved only by an involuntary banishment221 into the wilderness. The new outrage222, by which she had provoked her fate, seemed to render further lenity impossible; and a gentleman in military dress, with a stout223 man of inferior rank, drew towards the door of the meeting-house, and awaited her approach.
Scarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. In that moment of her peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy pressed forth, and threw his arms round his mother.
“I am here, mother; it is I, and I will go with thee to prison,” he exclaimed.
She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression, for she knew that the boy had been cast out to perish, and she had not hoped to see his face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was but one of the happy visions with which her excited fancy had often deceived her, in the solitude224 of the desert or in prison. But when she felt his hand warm within her own, and heard his little eloquence of childish love, she began to know that she was yet a mother.
“Blessed art thou, my son,” she sobbed225. “My heart was withered226; yea, dead with thee and with thy father; and now it leaps as in the first moment when I pressed thee to my bosom228.”
She knelt down and embraced him again and again, while the joy that could find no words expressed itself in broken accents, like the bubbles gushing229 up to vanish at the surface of a deep fountain. The sorrows of past years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast not a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting230 moment. Soon, however, the spectators saw a change upon her face, as the consciousness of her sad estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which joy had opened. By the words she uttered, it would seem that the indulgence of natural love had given her mind a momentary231 sense of its errors, and made her know how far she had strayed from duty in following the dictates232 of a wild fanaticism233.
“In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy,” she said, “for thy mother’s path has gone darkening onward, till now the end is death. Son, son, I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were tottering234, and I have fed thee with the food that I was fainting for; yet I have ill performed a mother’s part by thee in life, and now I leave thee no inheritance but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking through the world, and find all hearts closed against thee and their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. My child, my child, how many a pang235 awaits thy gentle spirit, and I the cause of all!”
She hid her face on Ilbrahim’s head, and her long, raven hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell down about him like a veil. A low and interrupted moan was the voice of her heart’s anguish236, and it did not fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs237 were audible in the female section of the house, and every man who was a father drew his hand across his eyes. Tobias Pearson was agitated238 and uneasy, but a certain feeling like the consciousness of guilt239 oppressed him, so that he could not go forth and offer himself as the protector of the child. Dorothy, however, had watched her husband’s eye. Her mind was free from the influence that had begun to work on his, and she drew near the Quaker woman, and addressed her in the hearing of all the congregation.
“Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his mother,” she said, taking Ilbrahim’s hand. “Providence has signally marked out my husband to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged240 under our roof now many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. Leave the tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his welfare.”
The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in Dorothy’s face. Her mild but saddened features, and neat matronly attire241, harmonized together, and were like a verse of fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far as mortal could be so, in respect to God and man; while the enthusiast15, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted cord, had as evidently violated the duties of the present life and the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. The two females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, formed a practical allegory; it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a young heart.
“Thou art not of our people,” said the Quaker, mournfully.
“No, we are not of your people,” replied Dorothy, with mildness, “but we are Christians242, looking upward to the same heaven with you. Doubt not that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing243 on our tender and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, I trust, my own children have gone before me, for I also have been a mother; I am no longer so,” she added, in a faltering tone, “and your son will have all my care.”
“But will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?” demanded the Quaker. “Can ye teach him the enlightened faith which his father has died for, and for which I, even I, am soon to become an unworthy martyr30? The boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?”
“I will not deceive you,” answered Dorothy. “If your child become our child, we must breed him up in the instruction which Heaven has imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our own faith; we must do towards him according to the dictates of our own consciences, and not of yours. Were we to act otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even in complying with your wishes.”
The mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance, and then turned her eyes upward to heaven. She seemed to pray internally, and the contention244 of her soul was evident.
“Friend,” she said at length to Dorothy, “I doubt not that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. Nay, I will believe that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world, for surely thou art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken of a husband. Doth he stand here among this multitude of people? Let him come forth, for I must know to whom I commit this most precious trust.”
She turned her face upon the male auditors245, and after a momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth from among them. The Quaker saw the dress which marked his military rank, and shook her head; but then she noted247 the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled with her own, and were vanquished248; the color that went and came, and could find no resting place. As she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over her features, like sunshine that grows melancholy249 in some desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake.
“I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within me and saith, ‘Leave thy child, Catharine, for his place is here, and go hence, for I have other work for thee. Break the bonds of natural affection, martyr thy love, and know that in all these things eternal wisdom hath its ends.’ I go, friends; I go. Take ye my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence, trusting that all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands there is a labor250 in the vineyard.”
She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at first struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and tears, but remained passive when she had kissed his cheek and arisen from the ground. Having held her hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready to depart.
“Farewell, friends in mine extremity,” she said to Pearson and his wife; “the good deed ye have done me is a treasure laid up in heaven, to be returned a thousand-fold hereafter. And farewell ye, mine enemies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as a hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for a moment. The day is coming when ye shall call upon me to witness for ye to this one sin uncommitted, and I will rise up and answer.”
She turned her steps towards the door, and the men, who had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, and suffered her to pass. A general sentiment of pity overcame the virulence251 of religious hatred. Sanctified by her love and her affliction, she went forth, and all the people gazed after her till she had journeyed up the hill, and was lost behind its brow. She went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to renew the wanderings of past years. For her voice had been already heard in many lands of Christendom; and she had pined in the cells of a Catholic Inquisition before she felt the lash252 and lay in the dungeons254 of the Puritans. Her mission had extended also to the followers255 of the Prophet, and from them she had received the courtesy and kindness which all the contending sects256 of our purer religion united to deny her. Her husband and herself had resided many months in Turkey, where even the Sultan’s countenance was gracious to them; in that pagan land, too, was Ilbrahim’s birthplace, and his oriental name was a mark of gratitude257 for the good deeds of an unbeliever.
. . . . . . . . .
When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over Ilbrahim that could be delegated, their affection for him became like the memory of their native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of the immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after a week or two of mental disquiet258, began to gratify his protectors by many inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents, and their house as home. Before the winter snows were melted, the persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and heathen country, seemed native in the New England cottage, and inseparable from the warmth and security of its hearth259. Under the influence of kind treatment, and in the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim’s demeanor lost a premature260 manliness261, which had resulted from his earlier situation; he became more childlike, and his natural character displayed itself with freedom. It was in many respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered imaginations of both his father and mother had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in the mind of the boy. In his general state, Ilbrahim would derive262 enjoyment263 from the most trifling events, and from every object about him; he seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, by a faculty264 analogous265 to that of the witch hazel, which points to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. His airy gayety, coming to him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the family, and Ilbrahim was like a domesticated266 sunbeam, brightening moody267 countenances268, and chasing away the gloom from the dark corners of the cottage.
On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of pain, the exuberant269 cheerfulness of the boy’s prevailing270 temper sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. His sorrows could not always be followed up to their original source, but most frequently they appeared to flow, though Ilbrahim was young to be sad for such a cause, from wounded love. The flightiness of his mirth rendered him often guilty of offences against the decorum of a Puritan household, and on these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke271. But the slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguishing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and poison all his enjoyments272, till he became sensible that he was entirely forgiven. Of the malice273, which generally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness, Ilbrahim was altogether destitute274: when trodden upon, he would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. His mind was wanting in the stamina275 for self-support; it was a plant that would twine276 beautifully round something stronger than itself, but if repulsed277, or torn away, it had no choice but to wither227 on the ground. Dorothy’s acuteness taught her that severity would crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured279 him with the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. Her husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew daily less productive of familiar caresses280.
The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to the Quaker infant and his protectors, had not undergone a favorable change, in spite of the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which he was the object, were very grievous to Ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance made him sensible that the children, his equals in age, partook of the enmity of their parents. His tender and social nature had already overflowed281 in attachments282 to everything about him, and still there was a residue283 of unappropriated love, which he yearned284 to bestow285 upon the little ones who were taught to hate him. As the warm days of spring came on, Ilbrahim was accustomed to remain for hours, silent and inactive, within hearing of the children’s voices at their play; yet, with his usual delicacy286 of feeling, he avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from the smallest individual among them. Chance, however, at length seemed to open a medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it was by means of a boy about two years older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a tree in the vicinity of Pearson’s habitation. As the sufferer’s own home was at some distance, Dorothy willingly received him under her roof, and became his tender and careful nurse.
Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy, and it would have deterred287 him, in other circumstances, from attempting to make a friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter immediately impressed a beholder288 disagreeably, but it required some examination to discover that the cause was a very slight distortion of the mouth, and the irregular, broken line, and near approach of the eyebrows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities, was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint290, and the uneven291 prominence292 of the breast; forming a body, regular in its general outline, but faulty in almost all its details. The disposition293 of the boy was sullen294 and reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatized295 him as obtuse296 in intellect; although, at a later period of life, he evinced ambition and very peculiar talents. But whatever might be his personal or moral irregularities, Ilbrahim’s heart seized upon, and clung to him, from the moment that he was brought wounded into the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that of the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had created a sort of relationship between them. Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he languished297, were neglected; he nestled continually by the bedside of the little stranger, and, with a fond jealousy298, endeavored to be the medium of all the cares that were bestowed299 upon him. As the boy became convalescent, Ilbrahim contrived300 games suitable to his situation, or amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric birthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary adventures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in inexhaustible succession. His tales were of course monstrous301, disjointed, and without aim; but they were curious on account of a vein302 of human tenderness which ran through them all, and was like a sweet, familiar face, encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly scenery. The auditor246 paid much attention to these romances, and sometimes interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled303 with a moral obliquity304 which grated very harshly against Ilbrahim’s instinctive305 rectitude. Nothing, however, could arrest the progress of the latter’s affection, and there were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark and stubborn nature on which it was lavished306. The boy’s parents at length removed him, to complete his cure under their own roof.
Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure; but he made anxious and continual inquiries307 respecting him, and informed himself of the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleasant summer afternoon, the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the recovering invalid308 was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a score of untainted bosoms309 was heard in light and airy voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men of this weary world, as they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why life, beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom; and their hearts, or their imaginations, answered them and said, that the bliss310 of childhood gushes311 from its innocence312. But it happened that an unexpected addition was made to the heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim, who came towards the children with a look of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to fear a repulse278 from their society. A hush71 came over their mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood whispering to each other while he drew nigh; but, all at once, the devil of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics313, and sending up a fierce, shrill314 cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In an instant, he was the centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted315 him with stones, and displayed an instinct of destruction far more loathsome than the bloodthirstiness of manhood.
The invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the tumult316, crying out with a loud voice, “Fear not, Ilbrahim, come hither and take my hand;” and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watching the victim’s struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the foulhearted little villain317 lifted his staff and struck Ilbrahim on the mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child’s arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm of blows; but now he dropped them at once. His persecutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged him by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven. The uproar318, however, attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and of conveying him to Pearson’s door.
Ilbrahim’s bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing accomplished319 his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was more serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had previously320 known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, even, and unvaried by the sudden bursts of sprightlier321 motion, which had once corresponded to his overflowing322 gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its former play of expression, the dance of sunshine reflected from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him than at a happier period. A stranger, founding his judgment upon these circumstances, would have said that the dulness of the child’s intellect widely contradicted the promise of his features, but the secret was in the direction of Ilbrahim’s thoughts, which were brooding within him when they should naturally have been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he burst into passionate68 weeping, and ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so miserably323 sore that even the hand of kindness tortured it like fire. Sometimes, at night and probably in his dreams, he was heard to cry “Mother! Mother!” as if her place, which a stranger had supplied while Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his extreme affliction. Perhaps, among the many life-weary wretches324 then upon the earth, there was not one who combined innocence and misery325 like this poor, broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his own heavenly nature.
While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of an earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection in his adopted father. The incident with which this tale commences found Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted326, and longing327 for a more fervid328 faith than he possessed. The first effect of his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, and incipient love for the child’s whole sect; but joined to this, and resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious contempt of all their tenets and practical extravagances. In the course of much thought, however, for the subject struggled irresistibly329 into his mind, the foolishness of the doctrine330 began to be less evident, and the points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another aspect, or vanished entirely away. The work within him appeared to go on even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when he lay down to rest, would often hold the place of a truth, confirmed by some forgotten demonstration331, when he recalled his thoughts in the morning. But while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his contempt, in nowise decreasing towards them, grew very fierce against himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance wore a sneer332, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe333. Such was his state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim’s misfortune; and the emotions consequent upon that event completed the change, of which the child had been the original instrument.
In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors, nor the infatuation of their victims, had decreased. The dungeons were never empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with the lash; the life of a woman, whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty could embitter334, had been sacrificed; and more innocent blood was yet to pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. Early after the Restoration, the English Quakers represented to Charles II that a “vein of blood was open in his dominions;” but though the displeasure of the voluptuous335 king was roused, his interference was not prompt. And now the tale must stride forward over many months, leaving Pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife to a firm endurance of a thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop336 like a cankered rosebud337; his mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman.
. . . . . . . . .
A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson’s habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from his broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a ruddy light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, lay ready to be cast upon the embers. But the apartment was saddened in its aspect by the absence of much of the homely338 wealth which had once adorned339 it; for the exaction340 of repeated fines, and his own neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished341 the owner. And with the furniture of peace, the implements342 of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away forever; the soldier had done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard his head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it rested was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages.
He who listened, while the other read, was the master of the house, now emaciated in form, and altered as to the expression and healthiness of his countenance; for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The hale and weather-beaten old man who sat beside him had sustained less injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he was tall and dignified343, and, which alone would have made him hateful to the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat, and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page the snow drifted against the windows, or eddied344 in at the crevices345 of the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at a certain angle, and swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the Past were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed each a whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages were breathed in that one lamenting346 sound.
The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining however his hand between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked steadfastly347 at Pearson. The attitude and features of the latter might have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed, and his frame was tremulous at intervals with a nervous agitation348.
“Friend Tobias,” inquired the old man, compassionately, “hast thou found no comfort in these many blessed passages of Scripture349?”
“Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct,” replied Pearson without lifting his eyes. “Yea, and when I have hearkened carefully the words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended for another and a lesser350 grief than mine. Remove the book,” he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. “I have no part in its consolations351, and they do but fret352 my sorrow the more.”
“Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never known the light,” said the elder Quaker earnestly, but with mildness. “Art thou he that wouldst be content to give all, and endure all, for conscience’ sake; desiring even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink beneath an affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here below, and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, for thy burden is yet light.”
“It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!” exclaimed Pearson, with the impatience353 of a variable spirit. “From my youth upward I have been a man marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day after day, I have endured sorrows such as others know not in their lifetime. And now I speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to ignominy, the ease and plentifulness354 of all things to danger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have borne, and counted myself blessed. But when my heart was desolate with many losses I fixed355 it upon the child of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and now he too must die as if my love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed man, and I will lay me down in the dust and lift up my head no more.”
“Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee; for I also have had my hours of darkness, wherein I have murmured against the cross,” said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of distracting his companion’s thoughts from his own sorrows. “Even of late was the light obscured within me, when the men of blood had banished356 me on pain of death, and the constables357 led me onward from village to village towards the wilderness. A strong and cruel hand was wielding358 the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that followed. As we went on —”
“Have I not borne all this; and have I murmured?” interrupted Pearson impatiently.
“Nay, friend but hear me,” continued the other. “As we journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the rage of the persecutors or the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven forbid that I should glory therein. The lights began to glimmer359 in the cottage windows, and I could discern the inmates360 as they gathered in comfort and security every man with his wife and children by their own evening hearth. At length we came to a tract23 of fertile land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible around it; and behold289! there was a straw-thatched dwelling which bore the very aspect of my home, far over the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul. The happiness of my early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my manhood, the altered faith of my declining years. I remembered how I had been moved to go forth a wanderer when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my flock, lay on her dying bed, and —”
“Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?” exclaimed Pearson, shuddering.
“Yea, yea,” replied the old man hurriedly. “I was kneeling by her bedside when the voice spoke loud within me; but immediately I rose, and took my staff, and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted me to forget her woful look when I thus withdrew my arm, and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! for her soul was faint, and she had leaned upon my prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed361 by the thought that I had been an erring362 Christian and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her pale, dying features, seemed to stand by me and whisper, ‘Father, you are deceived; go home and shelter your gray head.’ O Thou, to whom I have looked in my farthest wanderings,” continued the Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, “inflict not upon the bloodiest363 of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of my soul, when I believed that all I had done and suffered for Thee was at the instigation of a mocking fiend! But I yielded not; I knelt down and wrestled364 with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went on in peace and joy towards the wilderness.”
The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale; and his unwonted emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. They sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its red embers new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious365 chimney and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both Quakers to the door which led thither. When a fierce and riotous366 gust367 of wind had led his thoughts, by a natural association, to homeless travellers on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation.
“I have well-nigh sunk under my own share of this trial,” observed he, sighing heavily; “yet I would that it might be doubled to me, if so the child’s mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and many, but this will be the sorest of all.”
“Fear not for Catharine,” replied the old Quaker, “for I know that valiant368 woman, and have seen how she can bear the cross. A mother’s heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily369 with her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath done his work, and she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. Blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can enter into peace!”
The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous370 sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. Pearson’s wan14 countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect62, and his glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy.
“The men of blood have come to seek me,” he observed with calmness. “They have heard how I was moved to return from banishment; and now am I to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end I have long looked for. I will open unto them, lest they say, ‘Lo, he feareth!’ ”
“Nay, I will present myself before them,” said Pearson, with recovered fortitude371. “It may be that they seek me alone, and know not that thou abidest with me.”
“Let us go boldly, both one and the other,” rejoined his companion. “It is not fitting that thou or I should shrink.”
They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they opened, bidding the applicant “Come in, in God’s name!” A furious blast of wind drove the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp; they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from head to foot with the drifted snow that it seemed like Winter’s self, come in human shape, to seek refuge from its own desolation.
“Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may,” said Pearson. “It must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter night.”
“Peace be with this household,” said the stranger, when they stood on the floor of the inner apartment.
Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering373 embers of the fire till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze; it was a female voice that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry, in that comfortable light.
“Catharine, blessed woman!” exclaimed the old man, “art thou come to this darkened land again? art thou come to bear a valiant testimony374 as in former years? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from the dungeon253 hast thou come forth triumphant38; but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Catharine, for Heaven will prove thee yet this once, ere thou go to thy reward.”
“Rejoice, friends!” she replied. “Thou who hast long been of our people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! Lo! I come, the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast. The heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved in gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of blood. A ship’s company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, and I also sailed joyfully375 among them.”
As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about the room, in search of him for whose sake security was dear to her. Pearson made a silent appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the painful task assigned him.
“Sister,” he began, in a softened yet perfectly376 calm tone, “thou tellest us of His love, manifested in temporal good; and now must we speak to thee of that selfsame love, displayed in chastenings. Hitherto, Catharine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome and difficult path, and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child have drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede97 thine own no more.”
But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled; she shook like a leaf, she turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into her hair. The firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping his eye upon hers, as if to repress any outbreak of passion.
“I am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try me above my strength?” said Catharine very quickly, and almost in a whisper. “I have been wounded sore; I have suffered much; many things in the body; many in the mind; crucified in myself, and in them that were dearest to me. Surely,” added she, with a long shudder191, “He hath spared me in this one thing.” She broke forth with sudden and irrepressible violence. “Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God done to me? Hath He cast me down, never to rise again? Hath He crushed my very heart in his hand? And thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the boy, well, sound, alive, alive; or earth and Heaven shall avenge377 me!”
The agonized378 shriek210 of Catharine was answered by the faint, the very faint, voice of a child.
On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his aged guest, and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim’s brief and troubled pilgrimage drew near its close. The two former would willingly have remained by him, to make use of the prayers and pious discourses379 which they deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they be impotent as to the departing traveller’s reception in the world whither he goes, may at least sustain him in bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrahim uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked upon him; so that Dorothy’s entreaties380, and their own conviction that the child’s feet might tread heaven’s pavement and not soil it, had induced the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew calm, and, except for now and then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been thought to slumber372. As nightfall came on, however, and the storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose381 of the boy’s mind, and to render his sense of hearing active and acute. If a passing wind lingered to shake the casement382, he strove to turn his head towards it; if the door jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and anxiously thitherward; if the heavy voice of the old man, as he read the Scriptures383, rose but a little higher, the child almost held his dying breath to listen; if a snow-drift swept by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant should enter.
But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever secret hope had agitated him, and with one low, complaining whisper, turned his cheek upon the pillow. He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness, and besought384 her to draw near him; she did so, and Ilbrahim took her hand in both of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if to assure himself that he retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing the repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat cool wind had breathed upon him, and made him shiver. As the boy thus led her by the hand, in his quiet progress over the borders of eternity385, Dorothy almost imagined that she could discern the near, though dim, delightfulness386 of the home he was about to reach; she would not have enticed the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned387 herself that she must leave him and return. But just when Ilbrahim’s feet were pressing on the soil of Paradise he heard a voice behind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path which he had travelled. As Dorothy looked upon his features, she perceived that their placid388 expression was again disturbed; her own thoughts had been so wrapped in him, that all sounds of the storm, and of human speech, were lost to her; but when Catharine’s shriek pierced through the room, the boy strove to raise himself.
“Friend, she is come! Open unto her!” cried he.
In a moment his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled there, with no violence of joy, but contentedly389, as if he were hushing himself to sleep. He looked into her face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnestness, “Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now.” And with these words the gentle boy was dead.
. . . . . . . . .
The king’s mandate390 to stay the New England persecutors was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms; but the colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability of the royal government, shortly renewed their severities in all other respects. Catharine’s fanaticism had become wilder by the sundering391 of all human ties; and wherever a scourge was lifted there was she to receive the blow, and whenever a dungeon was unbarred thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor. But in process of time a more Christian spirit — a spirit of forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation129 — began to pervade392 the land in regard to the persecuted sect. And then, when the rigid393 old Pilgrims eyed her rather in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with the fragments of their children’s food, and offered her a lodging on a hard and lowly bed; when no little crowd of schoolboys left their sports to cast stones after the roving enthusiast; then did Catharine return to Pearson’s dwelling and made that her home.
As if Ilbrahim’s sweetness yet lingered round his ashes; as if his gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true religion, her fierce and vindictive394 nature was softened by the same griefs which had once irritated it. When the course of years had made the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the settlement, she became a subject of not deep, but general, interest; a being on whom the otherwise superfluous395 sympathies of all might be bestowed. Every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is pleasant to experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses which are not costly396, yet manifest good will and when at last she died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors followed her, with decent sadness and tears that were not painful, to her place by Ilbrahim’s green and sunken grave.
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1
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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4
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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5
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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6
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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9
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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10
esteeming
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| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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12
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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13
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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15
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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17
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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18
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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19
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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20
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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21
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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22
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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23
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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24
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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25
cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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26
circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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27
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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28
controverted
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| v.争论，反驳，否定( controvert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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30
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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31
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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34
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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35
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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36
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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37
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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38
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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40
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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41
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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42
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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43
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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44
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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45
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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46
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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47
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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48
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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49
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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50
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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51
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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53
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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54
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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55
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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56
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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57
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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58
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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59
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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60
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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61
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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62
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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63
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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64
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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65
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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67
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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68
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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69
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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70
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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71
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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72
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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73
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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75
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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76
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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79
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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80
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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81
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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82
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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83
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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84
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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91
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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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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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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98
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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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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101
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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112
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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114
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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117
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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119
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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120
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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121
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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122
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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123
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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124
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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125
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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126
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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127
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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128
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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129
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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130
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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131
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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132
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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133
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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134
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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136
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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137
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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139
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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140
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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141
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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142
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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143
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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144
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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145
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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146
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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147
reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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148
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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149
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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150
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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151
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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152
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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153
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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154
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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155
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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156
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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157
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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158
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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159
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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160
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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161
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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162
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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163
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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164
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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165
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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166
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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167
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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168
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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169
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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170
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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171
adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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172
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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173
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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174
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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175
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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176
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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177
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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178
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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179
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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180
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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181
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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182
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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184
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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185
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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186
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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187
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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188
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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189
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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190
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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191
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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192
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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193
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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194
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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196
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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197
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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198
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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199
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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200
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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201
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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202
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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203
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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204
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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205
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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206
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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207
revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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208
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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209
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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210
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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211
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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212
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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213
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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214
deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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215
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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216
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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217
foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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218
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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219
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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220
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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221
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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222
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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224
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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225
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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226
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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227
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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228
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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229
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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230
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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231
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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232
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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233
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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234
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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235
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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236
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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237
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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238
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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239
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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240
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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241
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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242
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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243
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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244
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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245
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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246
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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247
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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248
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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249
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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250
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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251
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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252
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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253
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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254
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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255
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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256
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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257
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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258
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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259
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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260
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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261
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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262
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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263
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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264
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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265
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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266
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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267
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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268
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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269
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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270
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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271
rebuke
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|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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272
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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273
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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274
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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275
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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276
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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277
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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278
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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279
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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280
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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281
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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282
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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283
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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284
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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286
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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287
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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288
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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289
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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290
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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291
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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292
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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293
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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294
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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295
stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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297
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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298
jealousy
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|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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299
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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300
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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301
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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302
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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303
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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304
obliquity
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| n.倾斜度 | |
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305
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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306
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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307
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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308
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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309
bosoms
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|
| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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310
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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311
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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312
innocence
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|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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313
fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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314
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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315
pelted
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|
| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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316
tumult
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|
| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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317
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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318
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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319
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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320
previously
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|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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321
sprightlier
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|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活泼的( sprightly的比较级 ) | |
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322
overflowing
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|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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323
miserably
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|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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324
wretches
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|
| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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325
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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326
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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327
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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328
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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329
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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330
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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331
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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332
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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333
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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334
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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335
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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336
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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337
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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338
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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339
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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340
exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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341
impoverished
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|
| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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342
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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343
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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344
eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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345
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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346
lamenting
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|
| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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347
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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348
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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349
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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350
lesser
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|
| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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351
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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352
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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353
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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354
plentifulness
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| 大量，丰富 | |
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355
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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356
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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357
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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358
wielding
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|
| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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359
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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360
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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361
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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362
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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363
bloodiest
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|
| adj.血污的( bloody的最高级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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364
wrestled
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|
| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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365
spacious
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|
| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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366
riotous
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|
| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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367
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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368
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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369
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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370
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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371
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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372
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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373
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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374
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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375
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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376
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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377
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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378
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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379
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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380
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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381
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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382
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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383
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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384
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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385
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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386
delightfulness
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| n.delightful（令人高兴的，使人愉快的，给人快乐的，讨人喜欢的）的变形 | |
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387
bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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388
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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389
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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390
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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391
sundering
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的现在分词 ) | |
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392
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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393
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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394
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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395
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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396
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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