"Tom, you needn't get me the horses. I don't want to go," she said.
"Why not, Miss Eva?"
"These things sink into my heart, Tom," said Eva,--"they sink into my heart," she repeated, earnestly. "I don't want to go;" and she turned from Tom, and went into the house.
A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue's place, to bring the rusks; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen.
"Lor!" said Dinah, "what's got Prue?"
"Prue isn't coming any more," said the woman, mysteriously.
"Why not?" said Dinah. "she an't dead, is she?"
"We doesn't exactly know. She's down cellar," said the woman, glancing at Miss Ophelia.
After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Dinah followed the woman to the door.
"What _has_ got Prue, any how?" she said.
The woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and answered, in low, mysterious tone.
"Well, you mustn't tell nobody, Prue, she got drunk agin,--and they had her down cellar,--and thar they left her all day,--and I hearn 'em saying that the _flies had got to her_,--and _she's dead_!"
Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her side the spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic eyes dilated1 with horror, and every drop of blood driven from her lips and cheeks.
"Lor bless us! Miss Eva's gwine to faint away! What go us all, to let her har such talk? Her pa'll be rail mad."
"I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child, firmly; "and why shouldn't I hear it? It an't so much for me to hear it, as for poor Prue to suffer it."
"_Lor sakes_! it isn't for sweet, delicate young ladies, like you,--these yer stories isn't; it's enough to kill 'em!"
Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow and melancholy2 step.
Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman's story. Dinah gave a very garrulous3 version of it, to which Tom added the particulars which he had drawn4 from her that morning.
"An abominable5 business,--perfectly6 horrible!" she exclaimed, as she entered the room where St. Clare lay reading his paper.
"Pray, what iniquity7 has turned up now?" said he.
"What now? why, those folks have whipped Prue to death!" said Miss Ophelia, going on, with great strength of detail, into the story, and enlarging on its most shocking particulars.
"I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. Clare, going on with his paper.
"Thought so!--an't you going to _do_ anything about it?" said Miss Ophelia. "Haven't you got any _selectmen_, or anybody, to interfere8 and look after such matters?"
"It's commonly supposed that the _property_ interest is a sufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin their own possessions, I don't know what's to be done. It seems the poor creature was a thief and a drunkard; and so there won't be much hope to get up sympathy for her."
"It is perfectly outrageous,--it is horrid9, Augustine! It will certainly bring down vengeance10 upon you."
"My dear cousin, I didn't do it, and I can't help it; I would, if I could. If low-minded, brutal11 people will act like themselves, what am I to do? they have absolute control; they are irresponsible despots. There would be no use in interfering12; there is no law that amounts to anything practically, for such a case. The best we can do is to shut our eyes and ears, and let it alone. It's the only resource left us."
"How can you shut your eyes and ears? How can you let such things alone?"
"My dear child, what do you expect? Here is a whole class,--debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking,--put, without any sort of terms or conditions, entirely13 into the hands of such people as the majority in our world are; people who have neither consideration nor self-control, who haven't even an enlightened regard to their own interest,--for that's the case with the largest half of mankind. Of course, in a community so organized, what can a man of honorable and humane14 feelings do, but shut his eyes all he can, and harden his heart? I can't buy every poor wretch15 I see. I can't turn knight-errant, and undertake to redress16 every individual case of wrong in such a city as this. The most I can do is to try and keep out of the way of it."
St. Clare's fine countenance17 was for a moment overcast18; he said,
"Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the Fates; you've only seen a peep through the curtain,--a specimen19 of what is going on, the world over, in some shape or other. If we are to be prying20 and spying into all the dismals of life, we should have no heart to anything. 'T is like looking too close into the details of Dinah's kitchen;" and St. Clare lay back on the sofa, and busied himself with his paper.
Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work, and sat there grim with indignation. She knit and knit, but while she mused21 the fire burned; at last she broke out--"I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you can. It's a perfect abomination for you to defend such a system,--that's _my_ mind!"
"What now?" said St. Clare, looking up. "At it again, hey?"
"I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a system!" said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth.
"_I_ defend it, my dear lady? Who ever said I did defend it?" said St. Clare.
"Of course, you defend it,--you all do,--all you Southerners. What do you have slaves for, if you don't?"
"Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in this world ever does what they don't think is right? Don't you, or didn't you ever, do anything that you did not think quite right?"
"If I do, I repent22 of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rattling23 her needles with energy.
"So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange; "I'm repenting24 of it all the time."
"What do you keep on doing it for?"
"Didn't you ever keep on doing wrong, after you'd repented25, my good cousin?"
"Well, only when I've been very much tempted," said Miss Ophelia.
"Well, I'm very much tempted," said St. Clare; "that's just my difficulty."
"But I always resolve I won't and I try to break off."
"Well, I have been resolving I won't, off and on, these ten years," said St. Clare; "but I haven't, some how, got clear. Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin?"
"Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and laying down her knitting-work, "I suppose I deserve that you should reprove my short-comings. I know all you say is true enough; nobody else feels them more than I do; but it does seem to me, after all, there is some difference between me and you. It seems to me I would cut off my right hand sooner than keep on, from day to day, doing what I thought was wrong. But, then, my conduct is so inconsistent with my profession, I don't wonder you reprove me."
"O, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the floor, and laying his head back in her lap, "don't take on so awfully26 serious! You know what a good-for-nothing, saucy27 boy I always was. I love to poke28 you up,--that's all,--just to see you get earnest. I do think you are desperately29, distressingly32 good; it tires me to death to think of it."
"But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said Miss Ophelia, laying her hand on his forehead.
"Dismally33 so," said he; "and I--well, I never want to talk seriously in hot weather. What with mosquitos and all, a fellow can't get himself up to any very sublime34 moral flights; and I believe," said St. Clare, suddenly rousing himself up, "there's a theory, now! I understand now why northern nations are always more virtuous35 than southern ones,--I see into that whole subject."
"O, Augustine, you are a sad rattle-brain!"
"Am I? Well, so I am, I suppose; but for once I will be serious, now; but you must hand me that basket of oranges;--you see, you'll have to `stay me with flagons and comfort me with apples,' if I'm going to make this effort. Now," said Augustine, drawing the basket up, "I'll begin: When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a fellow to hold two or three dozen of his fellow-worms in captivity36, a decent regard to the opinions of society requires--"
"I don't see that you are growing more serious," said Miss Ophelia.
"Wait,--I'm coming on,--you'll hear. The short of the matter is, cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly settling into an earnest and serious expression, "on this abstract question of slavery there can, as I think, be but one opinion. Planters, who have money to make by it,--clergymen, who have planters to please,--politicians, who want to rule by it,--may warp37 and bend language and ethics38 to a degree that shall astonish the world at their ingenuity39; they can press nature and the Bible, and nobody knows what else, into the service; but, after all, neither they nor the world believe in it one particle the more. It comes from the devil, that's the short of it;--and, to my mind, it's a pretty respectable specimen of what he can do in his own line."
Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised, and St. Clare, apparently40 enjoying her astonishment41, went on.
"You seem to wonder; but if you will get me fairly at it, I'll make a clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed of God and man, what is it? Strip it of all its ornament42, run it down to the root and nucleus43 of the whole, and what is it? Why, because my brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, and I am intelligent and strong,--because I know how, and _can_ do it,--therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give him only such and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is too hard, too dirty, too disagreeable, for me, I may set Quashy to doing. Because I don't like work, Quashy shall work. Because the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay in the sun. Quashy shall earn the money, and I will spend it. Quashy shall lie down in every puddle44, that I may walk over dry-shod. Quashy shall do my will, and not his, all the days of his mortal life, and have such chance of getting to heaven, at last, as I find convenient. This I take to be about what slavery _is_. I defy anybody on earth to read our slave-code, as it stands in our law-books, and make anything else of it. Talk of the _abuses_ of slavery! Humbug45! The _thing itself_ is the essence of all abuse! And the only reason why the land don't sink under it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is because it is _used_ in a way infinitely46 better than it is. For pity's sake, for shame's sake, because we are men born of women, and not savage47 beasts, many of us do not, and dare not,--we would _scorn_ to use the full power which our savage laws put into our hands. And he who goes the furthest, and does the worst, only uses within limits the power that the law gives him."
St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when excited, was walking, with hurried steps, up and down the floor. His fine face, classic as that of a Greek statue, seemed actually to burn with the fervor48 of his feelings. His large blue eyes flashed, and he gestured with an unconscious eagerness. Miss Ophelia had never seen him in this mood before, and she sat perfectly silent.
"I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping before his cousin "(It's no sort of use to talk or to feel on this subject), but I declare to you, there have been times when I have thought, if the whole country would sink, and hide all this injustice49 and misery50 from the light, I would willingly sink with it. When I have been travelling up and down on our boats, or about on my collecting tours, and reflected that every brutal, disgusting, mean, low-lived fellow I met, was allowed by our laws to become absolute despot of as many men, women and children, as he could cheat, steal, or gamble money enough to buy,--when I have seen such men in actual ownership of helpless children, of young girls and women,--I have been ready to curse my country, to curse the human race!"
"Augustine! Augustine!" said Miss Ophelia, "I'm sure you've said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like this, even at the North."
"At the North!" said St. Clare, with a sudden change of expression, and resuming something of his habitual51 careless tone. "Pooh! your northern folks are cold-blooded; you are cool in everything! You can't begin to curse up hill and down as we can, when we get fairly at it."
"Well, but the question is," said Miss Ophelia.
"O, yes, to be sure, the _question is_,--and a deuce of a question it is! How came _you_ in this state of sin and misery? Well, I shall answer in the good old words you used to teach me, Sundays. I came so by ordinary generation. My servants were my father's, and, what is more, my mother's; and now they are mine, they and their increase, which bids fair to be a pretty considerable item. My father, you know, came first from New England; and he was just such another man as your father,--a regular old Roman,--upright, energetic, noble-minded, with an iron will. Your father settled down in New England, to rule over rocks and stones, and to force an existence out of Nature; and mine settled in Louisiana, to rule over men and women, and force existence out of them. My mother," said St. Clare, getting up and walking to a picture at the end of the room, and gazing upward with a face fervent52 with veneration53, "_she was divine!_ Don't look at me so!--you know what I mean! She probably was of mortal birth; but, as far as ever I could observe, there was no trace of any human weakness or error about her; and everybody that lives to remember her, whether bond or free, servant, acquaintance, relation, all say the same. Why, cousin, that mother has been all that has stood between me and utter unbelief for years. She was a direct embodiment and personification of the New Testament,--a living fact, to be accounted for, and to be accounted for in no other way than by its truth. O, mother! mother!" said St. Clare, clasping his hands, in a sort of transport; and then suddenly checking himself, he came back, and seating himself on an ottoman, he went on:
"My brother and I were twins; and they say, you know, that twins ought to resemble each other; but we were in all points a contrast. He had black, fiery54 eyes, coal-black hair, a strong, fine Roman profile, and a rich brown complexion55. I had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline, and fair complexion. He was active and observing, I dreamy and inactive. He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, dominant56, overbearing, to inferiors, and utterly57 unmerciful to whatever set itself up against him. Truthful58 we both were; he from pride and courage, I from a sort of abstract ideality. We loved each other about as boys generally do,--off and on, and in general;--he was my father's pet, and I my mother's.
"There was a morbid59 sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling in me on all possible subjects, of which he and my father had no kind of understanding, and with which they could have no possible sympathy. But mother did; and so, when I had quarreled with Alfred, and father looked sternly on me, I used to go off to mother's room, and sit by her. I remember just how she used to look, with her pale cheeks, her deep, soft, serious eyes, her white dress,--she always wore white; and I used to think of her whenever I read in Revelations about the saints that were arrayed in fine linen60, clean and white. She had a great deal of genius of one sort and another, particularly in music; and she used to sit at her organ, playing fine old majestic61 music of the Catholic church, and singing with a voice more like an angel than a mortal woman; and I would lay my head down on her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel,--oh, immeasurably!--things that I had no language to say!
"In those days, this matter of slavery had never been canvassed62 as it has now; nobody dreamed of any harm in it.
"My father was a born aristocrat63. I think, in some preexistent state, he must have been in the higher circles of spirits, and brought all his old court pride along with him; for it was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was originally of poor and not in any way of noble family. My brother was begotten64 in his image.
"Now, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no human sympathies, beyond a certain line in society. In England the line is in one place, in Burmah in another, and in America in another; but the aristocrat of all these countries never goes over it. What would be hardship and distress31 and injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of course in another one. My father's dividing line was that of color. _Among his equals_, never was a man more just and generous; but he considered the negro, through all possible gradations of color, as an intermediate link between man and animals, and graded all his ideas of justice or generosity65 on this hypothesis. I suppose, to be sure, if anybody had asked him, plump and fair, whether they had human immortal66 souls, he might have hemmed67 and hawed, and said yes. But my father was not a man much troubled with spiritualism; religious sentiment he had none, beyond a veneration for God, as decidedly the head of the upper classes.
"Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes; he was an inflexible69, driving, punctilious70 business man; everything was to move by system,--to be sustained with unfailing accuracy and precision. Now, if you take into account that all this was to be worked out by a set of lazy, twaddling, shiftless laborers72, who had grown up, all their lives, in the absence of every possible motive74 to learn how to do anything but `shirk,' as you Vermonters say, and you'll see that there might naturally be, on his plantation75, a great many things that looked horrible and distressing30 to a sensitive child, like me.
"Besides all, he had an overseer,--great, tall, slab-sided, two-fisted renegade son of Vermont--(begging your pardon),--who had gone through a regular apprenticeship77 in hardness and brutality78 and taken his degree to be admitted to practice. My mother never could endure him, nor I; but he obtained an entire ascendency over my father; and this man was the absolute despot of the estate.
"I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love that I have now for all kinds of human things,--a kind of passion for the study of humanity, come in what shape it would. I was found in the cabins and among the field-hands a great deal, and, of course, was a great favorite; and all sorts of complaints and grievances79 were breathed in my ear; and I told them to mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of committee for a redress of grievances. We hindered and repressed a great deal of cruelty, and congratulated ourselves on doing a vast deal of good, till, as often happens, my zeal80 overacted. Stubbs complained to my father that he couldn't manage the hands, and must resign his position. Father was a fond, indulgent husband, but a man that never flinched81 from anything that he thought necessary; and so he put down his foot, like a rock, between us and the field-hands. He told my mother, in language perfectly respectful and deferential82, but quite explicit83, that over the house-servants she should be entire mistress, but that with the field-hands he could allow no interference. He revered84 and respected her above all living beings; but he would have said it all the same to the virgin85 Mary herself, if she had come in the way of his system.
"I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases with him,--endeavoring to excite his sympathies. He would listen to the most pathetic appeals with the most discouraging politeness and equanimity86. `It all resolves itself into this,' he would say; `must I part with Stubbs, or keep him? Stubbs is the soul of punctuality, honesty, and efficiency,--a thorough business hand, and as humane as the general run. We can't have perfection; and if I keep him, I must sustain his administration as a _whole_, even if there are, now and then, things that are exceptionable. All government includes some necessary hardness. General rules will bear hard on particular cases.' This last maxim87 my father seemed to consider a settler in most alleged88 cases of cruelty. After he had said _that_, he commonly drew up his feet on the sofa, like a man that has disposed of a business, and betook himself to a nap, or the newspaper, as the case might be.
"The fact is my father showed the exact sort of talent for a statesman. He could have divided Poland as easily as an orange, or trod on Ireland as quietly and systematically89 as any man living. At last my mother gave up, in despair. It never will be known, till the last account, what noble and sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, into what seems to them an abyss of injustice and cruelty, and which seems so to nobody about them. It has been an age of long sorrow of such natures, in such a hell-begotten sort of world as ours. What remained for her, but to train her children in her own views and sentiments? Well, after all you say about training, children will grow up substantially what they _are_ by nature, and only that. From the cradle, Alfred was an aristocrat; and as he grew up, instinctively90, all his sympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, and all mother's exhortations91 went to the winds. As to me, they sunk deep into me. She never contradicted, in form, anything my father said, or seemed directly to differ from him; but she impressed, burnt into my very soul, with all the force of her deep, earnest nature, an idea of the dignity and worth of the meanest human soul. I have looked in her face with solemn awe68, when she would point up to the stars in the evening, and say to me, `See there, Auguste! the poorest, meanest soul on our place will be living, when all these stars are gone forever,--will live as long as God lives!'
"She had some fine old paintings; one, in particular, of Jesus healing a blind man. They were very fine, and used to impress me strongly. `See there, Auguste,' she would say; `the blind man was a beggar, poor and loathsome92; therefore, he would not heal him _afar off!_ He called him to him, and put _his hands on him!_ Remember this, my boy.' If I had lived to grow up under her care, she might have stimulated93 me to I know not what of enthusiasm. I might have been a saint, reformer, martyr,--but, alas94! alas! I went from her when I was only thirteen, and I never saw her again!"
St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak for some minutes. After a while, he looked up, and went on:
"What poor, mean trash this whole business of human virtue95 is! A mere96 matter, for the most part, of latitude97 and longitude98, and geographical99 position, acting100 with natural temperament101. The greater part is nothing but an accident! Your father, for example, settles in Vermont, in a town where all are, in fact, free and equal; becomes a regular church member and deacon, and in due time joins an Abolition102 society, and thinks us all little better than heathens. Yet he is, for all the world, in constitution and habit, a duplicate of my father. I can see it leaking out in fifty different ways,--just the same strong, overbearing, dominant spirit. You know very well how impossible it is to persuade some of the folks in your village that Squire103 Sinclair does not feel above them. The fact is, though he has fallen on democratic times, and embraced a democratic theory, he is to the heart an aristocrat, as much as my father, who ruled over five or six hundred slaves."
Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil105 at this picture, and was laying down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare stopped her.
"Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do not say they _were_ alike, in fact. One fell into a condition where everything acted against the natural tendency, and the other where everything acted for it; and so one turned out a pretty wilful106, stout107, overbearing old democrat104, and the other a wilful, stout old despot. If both had owned plantations108 in Louisiana, they would have been as like as two old bullets cast in the same mould."
"What an undutiful boy you are!" said Miss Ophelia.
"I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. "You know reverence109 is not my forte110. But, to go back to my history:
"When father died, he left the whole property to us twin boys, to be divided as we should agree. There does not breathe on God's earth a nobler-souled, more generous fellow, than Alfred, in all that concerns his equals; and we got on admirably with this property question, without a single unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work the plantation together; and Alfred, whose outward life and capabilities111 had double the strength of mine, became an enthusiastic planter, and a wonderfully successful one.
"But two years' trial satisfied me that I could not be a partner in that matter. To have a great gang of seven hundred, whom I could not know personally, or feel any individual interest in, bought and driven, housed, fed, worked like so many horned cattle, strained up to military precision,--the question of how little of life's commonest enjoyments112 would keep them in working order being a constantly recurring113 problem,--the necessity of drivers and overseers,--the ever-necessary whip, first, last, and only argument,--the whole thing was insufferably disgusting and loathsome to me; and when I thought of my mothcr's estimate of one poor human soul, it became even frightful114!
"It's all nonsense to talk to me about slaves _enjoying_ all this! To this day, I have no patience with the unutterable trash that some of your patronizing Northerners have made up, as in their zeal to apologize for our sins. We all know better. Tell me that any man living wants to work all his days, from day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a master, without the power of putting forth115 one irresponsible volition116, on the same dreary117, monotonous118, unchanging toil119, and all for two pairs of pantaloons and a pair of shoes a year, with enough food and shelter to keep him in working order! Any man who thinks that human beings can, as a general thing, be made about as comfortable that way as any other, I wish he might try it. I'd buy the dog, and work him, with a clear conscience!"
"I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, "that you, all of you, approved of these things, and thought them _right_--according to Scripture120."
"Humbug! We are not quite reduced to that yet. Alfred who is as determined121 a despot as ever walked, does not pretend to this kind of defence;--no, he stands, high and haughty122, on that good old respectable ground, _the right of the strongest_; and he says, and I think quite sensibly, that the American planter is `only doing, in another form, what the English aristocracy and capitalists are doing by the lower classes;' that is, I take it, _appropriating_ them, body and bone, soul and spirit, to their use and convenience. He defends both,--and I think, at least, _consistently_. He says that there can be no high civilization without enslavement of the masses, either nominal123 or real. There must, he says, be a lower class, given up to physical toil and confined to an animal nature; and a higher one thereby124 acquires leisure and wealth for a more expanded intelligence and improvement, and becomes the directing soul of the lower. So he reasons, because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat;--so I don't believe, because I was born a democrat."
"How in the world can the two things be compared?" said Miss Ophelia. "The English laborer73 is not sold, traded, parted from his family, whipped."
"He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were sold to him. The slave-owner can whip his refractory125 slave to death,--the capitalist can starve him to death. As to family security, it is hard to say which is the worst,--to have one's children sold, or see them starve to death at home."
"But it's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it isn't worse than some other bad thing."
"I didn't give it for one,--nay, I'll say, besides, that ours is the more bold and palpable infringement126 of human rights; actually buying a man up, like a horse,--looking at his teeth, cracking his joints127, and trying his paces and then paying down for him,--having speculators, breeders, traders, and brokers128 in human bodies and souls,--sets the thing before the eyes of the civilized129 world in a more tangible130 form, though the thing done be, after all, in its nature, the same; that is, appropriating one set of human beings to the use and improvement of another without any regard to their own."
"I never thought of the matter in this light," said Miss Ophelia.
"Well, I've travelled in England some, and I've looked over a good many documents as to the state of their lower classes; and I really think there is no denying Alfred, when he says that his slaves are better off than a large class of the population of England. You see, you must not infer, from what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard master; for he isn't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to insubordination; he would shoot a fellow down with as little remorse131 as he would shoot a buck132, if he opposed him. But, in general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slaves comfortably fed and accommodated.
"When I was with him, I insisted that he should do something for their instruction; and, to please me, he did get a chaplain, and used to have them catechized Sunday, though, I believe, in his heart, that he thought it would do about as much good to set a chaplain over his dogs and horses. And the fact is, that a mind stupefied and animalized by every bad influence from the hour of birth, spending the whole of every week-day in unreflecting toil, cannot be done much with by a few hours on Sunday. The teachers of Sunday-schools among the manufacturing population of England, and among plantation-hands in our country, could perhaps testify to the same result, _there and here_. Yet some striking exceptions there are among us, from the fact that the negro is naturally more impressible to religious sentiment than the white."
"Well," said Miss Ophelia, "how came you to give up your plantation life?"
"Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw plainly that I was no planter. He thought it absurd, after he had reformed, and altered, and improved everywhere, to suit my notions, that I still remained unsatisfied. The fact was, it was, after all, the THING that I hated--the using these men and women, the perpetuation133 of all this ignorance, brutality and vice,--just to make money for me!
"Besides, I was always interfering in the details. Being myself one of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too much fellow-feeling for the lazy; and when poor, shiftless dogs put stones at the bottom of their cotton-baskets to make them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt, with cotton at the top, it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I were they, I couldn't and wouldn't have them flogged for it. Well, of course, there was an end of plantation discipline; and Alf and I came to about the same point that I and my respected father did, years before. So he told me that I was a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do for business life; and advised me to take the bank-stock and the New Orleans family mansion134, and go to writing poetry, and let him manage the plantation. So we parted, and I came here."
"But why didn't you free your slaves?"
"Well, I wasn't up to that. To hold them as tools for money-making, I could not;--have them to help spend money, you know, didn't look quite so ugly to me. Some of them were old house-servants, to whom I was much attached; and the younger ones were children to the old. All were well satisfied to be as they were." He paused, and walked reflectively up and down the room.
"There was," said St. Clare, "a time in my life when I had plans and hopes of doing something in this world, more than to float and drift. I had vague, indistinct yearnings to be a sort of emancipator,--to free my native land from this spot and stain. All young men have had such fever-fits, I suppose, some time,-but then--"
"Why didn't you?" said Miss Ophelia;--"you ought not to put your hand to the plough, and look back."
"O, well, things didn't go with me as I expected, and I got the despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was a necessary incident to wisdom in us both; but, some how or other, instead of being actor and regenerator135 in society, I became a piece of driftwood, and have been floating and eddying136 about, ever since. Alfred scolds me, every time we meet; and he has the better of me, I grant,--for he really does something; his life is a logical result of his opinions and mine is a contemptible137 _non sequitur_."
"My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of spending your probation138?"
"Satisfied! Was I not just telling you I despised it? But, then, to come back to this point,--we were on this liberation business. I don't think my feelings about slavery are peculiar139. I find many men who, in their hearts, think of it just as I do. The land groans140 under it; and, bad as it is for the slave, it is worse, if anything, for the master. It takes no spectacles to see that a great class of vicious, improvident141, degraded people, among us, are an evil to us, as well as to themselves. The capitalist and aristocrat of England cannot feel that as we do, because they do not mingle142 with the class they degrade as we do. They are in our homes; they are the associates of our children, and they form their minds faster than we can; for they are a race that children always will cling to and assimilate with. If Eva, now, was not more angel than ordinary, she would be ruined. We might as well allow the small-pox to run among them, and think our children would not take it, as to let them be uninstructed and vicious, and think our children will not be affected143 by that. Yet our laws positively144 and utterly forbid any efficient general educational system, and they do it wisely, too; for, just begin and thoroughly145 educate one generation, and the whole thing would be blown sky high. If we did not give them liberty, they would take it."
"And what do you think will be the end of this?" said Miss Ophelia.
"I don't know. One thing is certain,--that there is a mustering146 among the masses, the world over; and there is a _dies irae_ coming on, sooner or later. The same thing is working in Europe, in England, and in this country. My mother used to tell me of a millennium147 that was coming, when Christ should reign148, and all men should be free and happy. And she taught me, when I was a boy, to pray, `thy kingdom come.' Sometimes I think all this sighing, and groaning149, and stirring among the dry bones foretells150 what she used to tell me was coming. But who may abide151 the day of His appearing?"
"Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the kingdom," said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and looking anxiously at her cousin.
"Thank you for your good opinion, but it's up and down with me,--up to heaven's gate in theory, down in earth's dust in practice. But there's the teabell,--do let's go,--and don't say, now, I haven't had one downright serious talk, for once in my life."
At table, Marie alluded152 to the incident of Prue. "I suppose you'll think, cousin," she said, "that we are all barbarians153."
"I think that's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, "but I don't think you are all barbarians."
"Well, now," said Marie, "I know it's impossible to get along with some of these creatures. They are so bad they ought not to live. I don't feel a particle of sympathy for such cases. If they'd only behave themselves, it would not happen."
"But, mamma," said Eva, "the poor creature was unhappy; that's what made her drink."
"O, fiddlestick! as if that were any excuse! I'm unhappy, very often. I presume," she said, pensively154, "that I've had greater trials than ever she had. It's just because they are so bad. There's some of them that you cannot break in by any kind of severity. I remember father had a man that was so lazy he would run away just to get rid of work, and lie round in the swamps, stealing and doing all sorts of horrid things. That man was caught and whipped, time and again, and it never did him any good; and the last time he crawled off, though he couldn't but just go, and died in the swamp. There was no sort of reason for it, for father's hands were always treated kindly155."
"I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, "that all the overseers and masters had tried their hands on in vain."
"You!" said Marie; "well, I'd be glad to know when _you_ ever did anything of the sort."
"Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow,--a native-born African; and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom in him to an uncommon156 degree. He was a regular African lion. They called him Scipio. Nobody could do anything with him; and he was sold round from overseer to overseer, till at last Alfred bought him, because he thought he could manage him. Well, one day he knocked down the overseer, and was fairly off into the swamps. I was on a visit to Alf's plantation, for it was after we had dissolved partnership157. Alfred was greatly exasperated158; but I told him that it was his own fault, and laid him any wager159 that I could break the man; and finally it was agreed that, if I caught him, I should have him to experiment on. So they mustered160 out a party of some six or seven, with guns and dogs, for the hunt. People, you know, can get up as much enthusiasm in hunting a man as a deer, if it is only customary; in fact, I got a little excited myself, though I had only put in as a sort of mediator161, in case he was caught.
"Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and scampered162, and finally we started him. He ran and bounded like a buck, and kept us well in the rear for some time; but at last he got caught in an impenetrable thicket163 of cane164; then he turned to bay, and I tell you he fought the dogs right gallantly165. He dashed them to right and left, and actually killed three of them with only his naked fists, when a shot from a gun brought him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, almost at my feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with manhood and despair both in his eye. I kept back the dogs and the party, as they came pressing up, and claimed him as my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them from shooting him, in the flush of success; but I persisted in my bargain, and Alfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, and in one fortnight I had him tamed down as submissive and tractable166 as heart could desire."
"What in the world did you do to him?" said Marie.
"Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my own room, had a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, and tended him myself, until he got fairly on his feet again. And, in process of time, I had free papers made out for him, and told him he might go where he liked."
"And did he go?" said Miss Ophelia.
"No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and absolutely refused to leave me. I never had a braver, better fellow,--trusty and true as steel. He embraced Christianity afterwards, and became as gentle as a child. He used to oversee76 my place on the lake, and did it capitally, too. I lost him the first cholera167 season. In fact, he laid down his life for me. For I was sick, almost to death; and when, through the panic, everybody else fled, Scipio worked for me like a giant, and actually brought me back into life again. But, poor fellow! he was taken, right after, and there was no saving him. I never felt anybody's loss more."
Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, as he told the story,--her small lips apart, her eyes wide and earnest with absorbing interest.
As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck, burst into tears, and sobbed168 convulsively.
"Eva, dear child! what is the matter?" said St. Clare, as the child's small frame trembled and shook with the violence of her feelings. "This child," he added, "ought not to hear any of this kind of thing,--she's nervous."
"No, papa, I'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling herself, suddenly, with a strength of resolution singular in such a child. "I'm not nervous, but these things _sink into my heart_."
"What do you mean, Eva?"
"I can't tell you, papa, I think a great many thoughts. Perhaps some day I shall tell you."
"Well, think away, dear,--only don't cry and worry your papa," said St. Clare, "Look here,--see what a beautiful peach I have got for you."
Eva took it and smiled, though there was still a nervous twiching about the corners of her mouth.
"Come, look at the gold-fish," said St. Clare, taking her hand and stepping on to the verandah. A few moments, and merry laughs were heard through the silken curtains, as Eva and St. Clare were pelting169 each other with roses, and chasing each other among the alleys170 of the court.
There is danger that our humble171 friend Tom be neglected amid the adventures of the higher born; but, if our readers will accompany us up to a little loft172 over the stable, they may, perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. It was a decent room, containing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, where lay Tom's Bible and hymn-book; and where he sits, at present, with his slate173 before him, intent on something that seems to cost him a great deal of anxious thought.
The fact was, that Tom's home-yearnings had become so strong that he had begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva, and, mustering up all his small stock of literary attainment174 acquired by Mas'r George's instructions, he conceived the bold idea of writing a letter; and he was busy now, on his slate, getting out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of trouble, for the forms of some of the letters he had forgotten entirely; and of what he did remember, he did not know exactly which to use. And while he was working, and breathing very hard, in his earnestness, Eva alighted, like a bird, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped over his shoulder.
"O, Uncle Tom! what funny things you _are_ making, there!"
"I'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, and my little chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his hand over his eyes; "but, some how, I'm feard I shan't make it out."
"I wish I could help you, Tom! I've learnt to write some. Last year I could make all the letters, but I'm afraid I've forgotten."
So Eva put her golden head close to his, and the two commenced a grave and anxious discussion, each one equally earnest, and about equally ignorant; and, with a deal of consulting and advising over every word, the composition began, as they both felt very sanguine175, to look quite like writing.
"Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful," said Eva, gazing delightedly on it. "How pleased your wife'll be, and the poor little children! O, it's a shame you ever had to go away from them! I mean to ask papa to let you go back, some time."
"Missis said that she would send down money for me, as soon as they could get it together," said Tom. "I'm 'spectin, she will. Young Mas'r George, he said he'd come for me; and he gave me this yer dollar as a sign;" and Tom drew from under his clothes the precious dollar.
"O, he'll certainly come, then!" said Eva. "I'm so glad!"
"And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em know whar I was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off,--cause she felt so drefful, poor soul!"
"I say Tom!" said St. Clare's voice, coming in the door at this moment.
Tom and Eva both started.
"What's here?" said St. Clare, coming up and looking at the slate.
"O, it's Tom's letter. I'm helping176 him to write it," said Eva; "isn't it nice?"
"I wouldn't discourage either of you," said St. Clare, "but I rather think, Tom, you'd better get me to write your letter for you. I'll do it, when I come home from my ride."
"It's very important he should write," said Eva, "because his mistress is going to send down money to redeem177 him, you know, papa; he told me they told him so."
St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably only one of those things which good-natured owners say to their servants, to alleviate178 their horror of being sold, without any intention of fulfilling the expectation thus excited. But he did not make any audible comment upon it,--only ordered Tom to get the horses out for a ride.
Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening, and safely lodged179 in the post-office.
Miss Ophelia still persevered180 in her labors181 in the housekeeping line. It was universally agreed, among all the household, from Dinah down to the youngest urchin182, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly "curis,"--a term by which a southern servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly suit them.
The higher circle in the family--to wit, Adolph, Jane and Rosa--agreed that she was no lady; ladies never keep working about as she did,--that she had no _air_ at all; and they were surprised that she should be any relation of the St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it was absolutely fatiguing183 to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact, Miss Ophelia's industry was so incessant184 as to lay some foundation for the complaint. She sewed and stitched away, from daylight till dark, with the energy of one who is pressed on by some immediate185 urgency; and then, when the light faded, and the work was folded away, with one turn out came the ever-ready knitting-work, and there she was again, going on as briskly as ever. It really was a labor71 to see her.
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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54
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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62
canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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64
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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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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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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73
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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74
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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75
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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76
oversee
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| vt.监督，管理 | |
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77
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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78
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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79
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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80
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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81
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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83
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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84
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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86
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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87
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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88
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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89
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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90
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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91
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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92
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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93
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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94
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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95
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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96
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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97
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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98
longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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99
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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100
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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101
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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102
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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103
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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104
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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105
cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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106
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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108
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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109
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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110
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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111
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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112
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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113
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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114
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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115
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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116
volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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117
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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118
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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119
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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120
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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121
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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122
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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123
nominal
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| adj.名义上的；(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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124
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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125
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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126
infringement
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| n.违反；侵权 | |
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127
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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128
brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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129
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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130
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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131
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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132
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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133
perpetuation
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| n.永存，不朽 | |
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134
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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135
regenerator
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| n.收革者，交流换热器，再生器；蓄热器 | |
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136
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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137
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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138
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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139
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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140
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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141
improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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142
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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143
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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144
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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145
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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146
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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147
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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148
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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149
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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150
foretells
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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152
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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154
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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155
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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156
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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157
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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158
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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159
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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160
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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161
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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162
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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164
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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165
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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166
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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167
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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168
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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169
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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170
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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171
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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172
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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173
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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174
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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175
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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176
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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177
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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178
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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179
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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180
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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182
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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183
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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184
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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185
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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