IT is night. King street seems in a melancholy1 mood, the blue arch of heaven is bespangled with twinkling stars, the moon has mounted her high throne, and her beams, like messengers of love, dance joyously2 over the calm waters of the bay, so serenely4 skirted with dark woodland. The dull tramp of the guardman's horse now breaks the stillness; then the measured tread of the heavily-armed patrol, with which the city swarms5 at night, echoes and reoches along the narrow streets. A theatre reeking6 with the fumes7 of whiskey and tobacco; a sombre-looking guard-house, bristling8 with armed men, who usher9 forth10 to guard the fears of tyranny, or drag in some wretched slave; a dilapidated "Court House," at the corner, at which lazy-looking men lounge; a castellated "Work House," so grand without, and so full of bleeding hearts within; a "Poor House" on crutches11, and in which infirm age and poverty die of treatment that makes the heart sicken-these are all the public buildings we can boast. Like ominous12 mounds13, they seem sleeping in the calm and serene3 night. Ah! we had almost forgotten the sympathetic old hospital, with its verandas14; the crabbed15 looking "City Hall," with its port holes; and the "Citadel," in which, when our youths have learned to fight duels16, we learn them how to fight their way out of the Union. Duelling is our high art; getting out of the Union is our low. And, too, we have, and make no small boast that we have, two or three buildings called "Halls." In these our own supper-eating men riot, our soldiers drill (soldiering is our presiding genius), and our mob-politicians waste their spleen against the North. Unlike Boston, towering all bright and vigorous in the atmosphere of freedom, we have no galleries of statuary; no conservatories17 of paintings; no massive edifices18 of marble, dedicated19 to art and science; no princely school-houses, radiating their light of learning over a peace and justice-loving community; no majestic20 exchange, of granite21 and polished marble, so emblematic22 of a thrifty23 commerce;--we have no regal "State House" on the lofty hill, no glittering colleges everywhere striking the eye. The god of slavery-the god we worship, has no use for such temples; public libraries are his prison; his civilization is like a dull dead march; he is the enemy of his own heart, vitiating and making drear whatever he touches. He wages war on art, science, civilization! he trembles at the sight of temples reared for the enlightening of the masses. Tyranny is his law, a cotton-bag his judgment-seat. But we pride ourselves that we are a respectable people-what more would you have us?
The night is chilly24 without, in the fire-place of the antiquary's back parlor25 there burns a scanty26 wood fire. Tor has eaten his supper and retired27 to a little closet-like room overhead, where, in bed, he muses28 over what fell from Maria's lips, in their interview. Did she really cherish a passion for him? had her solicitude29 in years past something more than friendship in it? what did she mean? He was not one of those whose place in a woman's heart could never be supplied. How would an alliance with Maria affect his mother's dignity? All these things Tom evolves over and over in his mind. In point of position, a mechanic's daughter was not far removed from the slave; a mechanic's daughter was viewed only as a good object of seduction for some nice young gentleman. Antiquarians might get a few bows of planter's sons, the legal gentry30, and cotton brokers31 (these make up our aristocracy), but practically no one would think of admitting them into decent society. They, of right, belong to that vulgar herd32 that live by labor33 at which the slave can be employed. To be anything in the eyes of good society, you must only live upon the earnings34 of slaves.
"Why," says Tom, "should I consult the dignity of a mother who discards me? The love of this lone35 daughter of the antiquary, this girl who strives to know my wants, and to promote my welfare, rises superior to all. I will away with such thoughts! I will be a man! Maria, with eager eye and thoughtful countenance36, sits at the little antique centre-table, reading Longfellow's Evangeline, by the pale light of a candle. A lurid37 glare is shed over the cavern-like place. The reflection plays curiously38 upon the corrugated39 features of the old man, who, his favorite cat at his side, reclines on a stubby little sofa, drawn40 well up to the fire. The poet would not select Maria as his ideal of female loveliness; and yet there is a touching41 modesty42 in her demeanor43, a sweet smile ever playing over her countenance, an artlessness in her conversation that more than makes up for the want of those charms novel writers are pleased to call transcendent. "Father!" she says, pausing, "some one knocks at the outer door." The old man starts and listens, then hastens to open it. There stands before him the figure of a strange female, veiled. "I am glad to find you, old man. Be not suspicious of my coming at this hour, for my mission is a strange one." The old man's crooked45 eyes flash, his deep curling lip quivers, his hand vibrates the candle he holds before him. "If on a mission to do nobody harm," he responds, "then you are welcome." "You will pardon me; I have seen you before. You have wished me well," she whispers in a musical voice. Gracefully46 she raises her veil over her Spanish hood47, and advances cautiously, as the old man closes the door behind her. Then she uncovers her head, nervously48. The white, jewelled fingers of her right hand, so delicate and tapering49, wander over and smooth her silky black hair, that falls in waves over her Ion-like brow. How exquisite50 those features just revealed; how full of soul those flashing black eyes; her dress, how chaste51! "They call me Anna Bonard," she speaks, timorously52, "you may know me?--"
"Oh, I know you well," interrupts the old man, "your beauty has made you known. What more would you have?"
"Something that will make me happy. Old man, I am unhappy. Tell me, if you have the power, who I am. Am I an orphan53, as has been told me; or have I parents yet living, affluent54, and high in society? Do they seek me and cannot find me? Oh! let the fates speak, old man, for this world has given me nothing but pain and shame. Am I--" she pauses, her eyes wander to the floor, her cheeks crimson55, she seizes the old man by the hand, and her bosom56 heaves as if a fierce passion had just been kindled57 within it.
The old man preserves his equanimity58, says he has a fortune to tell her. Fortunes are best told at midnight. The stars, too, let out their secrets more willingly when the night-king rules. He bids her follow him, and totters59 back to the little parlor. With a wise air, he bids her be seated on the sofa, saying he never mistakes maidens60 when they call at this hour.
Maria, who rose from the table at the entrance of the stranger, bows, shuts her book mechanically, and retires. Can there be another face so lovely? she questions within herself, as she pauses to contemplate61 the stranger ere she disappears. The antiquary draws a chair and seats himself beside Anna. "Thy life and destiny," he says, fretting62 his bony fingers over the crown of his wig63. "Blessed is the will of providence64 that permits us to know the secrets of destiny. Give me your hand, fair lady." Like a philosopher in deep study, he wipes and adjusts his spectacles, then takes her right hand and commences reading its lines. "Your history is an uncommon65 one--"
"Yes," interrupts the girl, "mine has been a chequered life."
"You have seen sorrow enough, but will see more. You come of good parents; but, ah!--there is a mystery shrouding66 your birth." ("And that mystery," interposes the girl, "I want to have explained.") "There will come a woman to reclaim67 you-a woman in high life; but she will come too late--" (The girl pales and trembles.) "Yes," pursues the old man, looking more studiously at her hand, "she will come too late." You will have admirers, and even suitors; but they will only betray you, and in the end you will die of trouble. Ah! there is a line that had escaped me. You may avert68 this dark destiny-yes, you may escape the end that fate has ordained69 for you. In neglect you came up, the companion of a man you think true to you. But he is not true to you. Watch him, follow him-you will yet find him out. Ha! ha! ha! these men are not to be trusted, my dear. There is but one man who really loves you. He is an old man, a man of station. He is your only true friend. I here see it marked." He crosses her hand, and says there can be no mistaking it. "With that man, fair girl, you may escape the dark destiny. But, above all things, do not treat him coldly. And here I see by the sign that Anna Bonard is not your name. The name was given you by a wizard."
"You are right, old man," speaks Anna, raising thoughtfully her great black eyes, as the antiquary pauses and watches each change of her countenance; "that name was given me by Hag Zogbaum, when I was a child in her den44, in New York, and when no one cared for me. What my right name was has now slipped my memory. I was indeed a wretched child, and know little of myself."
"Was it Munday?" inquires the old man. Scarce has he lisped the name before she catches it up and repeats it, incoherently, "Munday! Monday! Munday!" her eyes flash with anxiety. "Ah, I remember now. I was called Anna Munday by Mother Bridges. I lived with her before I got to the den of Hag Zogbaum. And Mother Bridges sold apples at a stand at the corner of a street, on West street. It seems like a dream to me now. I do not want to recall those dark days of my childhood. Have you not some revelation to make respecting my parents?" The old man says the signs will not aid him further. "On my arm," she pursues, baring her white, polished arm, "there is a mark. I know not who imprinted70 it there. See, old man." The old man sees high up on her right arm two hearts and a broken anchor, impressed with India ink blue and red. "Yes," repeats the antiquary, viewing it studiously, "but it gives out no history. If you could remember who put it there." Of that she has no recollection. The old man cannot relieve her anxiety, and arranging her hood she bids him good night, forces a piece of gold into his hand, and seeks her home, disappointed.
The antiquary's predictions were founded on what Mr. Soloman Snivel had told him, and that gentleman got what he knew of Anna's history from George Mullholland. To this, however, he added what suggestions his suspicions gave rise to. The similarity of likeness71 between Anna and Madame Montford was striking; Madame Montford's mysterious searches and inquiries72 for the woman Monday had something of deep import in them. Mag Munday's strange disappearance73 from Charleston, and her previous importuning74 for the old dress left in pawn75 with McArthur, were not to be overlooked. These things taken together, and Mr. Snivel saw a case there could be no mistaking. That case became stronger when his fashionable friend engaged his services to trace out what had become of the woman Mag Munday, and to further ascertain76 what the girl Anna Bonard knew of her own history.
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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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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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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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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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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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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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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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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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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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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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46
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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48
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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49
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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50
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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51
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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52
timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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53
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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54
affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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56
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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57
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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58
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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totters
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的第三人称单数 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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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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61
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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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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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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73
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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74
importuning
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的现在分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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