In recently turning over the pages of Mr. Brewster’s entertaining collection of Portsmouth sketches4, I have been struck by the number and variety of the odd men and women who appear incidentally on the scene. They are, in the author’s intention, secondary figures in the background of his landscape, but they stand very much in the foreground of one’s memory after the book is laid aside. One finds one’s self thinking quite as often of that squalid old hut-dweller up by Sagamore Creek5 as of General Washington, who visited the town in 1789. Conservatism and respectability have their values, certainly; but has not the unconventional its values also? If we render unto that old hut-dweller the things which are that old hut-dweller’s, we must concede him his picturesqueness6. He was dirty, and he was not respectable; but he is picturesque—now that he is dead.
If the reader has five or ten minutes to waste, I invite him to glance at a few old profiles of persons who, however substantial they once were, are now leading a life of mere7 outlines. I would like to give them a less faded expression, but the past is very chary8 of yielding up anything more than its shadows.
The first who presents himself is the ruminative9 hermit10 already mentioned—a species of uninspired Thoreau. His name was Benjamin Lear. So far as his craziness went, he might have been a lineal descendant of that ancient king of Britain who figures on Shakespeare’s page. Family dissensions made a recluse11 of King Lear; but in the case of Benjamin there were no mitigating12 circumstances. He had no family to trouble him, and his realm remained undivided. He owned an excellent farm on the south side of Sagamore Creek, a little to the west of the bridge, and might have lived at ease, if personal comfort had not been distasteful to him. Personal comfort entered into no part of Lear’s. To be alone filled the little pint-measure of his desire. He ensconced himself in a wretched shanty13, and barred the door, figuratively, against all the world. Wealth—what would have been wealth to him—lay within his reach, but he thrust it aside; he disdained14 luxury as he disdained idleness, and made no compromise with convention. When a man cuts himself absolutely adrift from custom, what an astonishingly light spar floats him! How few his wants are, after all! Lear was of a cheerful disposition15, and seems to have been wholly inoffensive—at a distance. He fabricated his own clothes, and subsisted16 chiefly on milk and potatoes, the product of his realm. He needed nothing but an island to be a Robinson Crusoe. At rare intervals17 he flitted like a frost-bitten apparition18 through the main street of Portsmouth, which he always designated as “the Bank,” a name that had become obsolete19 fifty or a hundred years before. Thus, for nearly a quarter of a century, Benjamin Lear stood aloof20 from human intercourse21. In his old age some of the neighbors offered him shelter during the tempestuous22 winter months; but he would have none of it—he defied wind and weather. There he lay in his dilapidated hovel in his last illness, refusing to allow any one to remain with him overnight—and the mercury four degrees below zero. Lear was born in 1720, and vegetated23 eighty-two years.
I take it that Timothy Winn, of whom we have only a glimpse, would like to have more, was a person better worth knowing. His name reads like the title of some old-fashioned novel—“Timothy Winn, or the Memoirs24 of a Bashful Gentleman.” He came to Portsmouth from Woburn at the close of the last century, and set up in the old museum-building on Mulberry Street what was called “a piece goods store.” He was the third Timothy in his monotonous25 family, and in order to differentiate26 himself he inscribed27 on the sign over his shop door, “Timothy Winn, 3d,” and was ever after called “Three-Penny Winn.” That he enjoyed the pleasantry, and clung to his sign, goes to show that he was a person who would ripen28 on further acquaintance, were further acquaintance now practicable. His next-door neighbor, Mr. Leonard Serat, who kept a modest tailoring establishment, also tantalizes30 us a little with a dim intimation of originality31. He plainly was without literary prejudices, for on one face of his swinging sign was painted the word Taylor, and on the other Tailor. This may have been a delicate concession32 to that part of the community—the greater part, probably—which would have spelled it with a y.
The building in which Messrs. Winn and Serat had their shops was the property of Nicholas Rousselet, a French gentleman of Demerara, the story of whose unconventional courtship of Miss Catherine Moffatt is pretty enough to bear retelling, and entitles him to a place in our limited collection of etchings. M. Rousselet had doubtless already mad excursions into the pays de tendre, and given Miss Catherine previous notice of the state of his heart, but it was not until one day during the hour of service at the Episcopal church that he brought matters to a crisis by handing to Miss Moffatt a small Bible, on the fly-leaf of which he had penciled the fifth verse of the Second Epistle of John—
wrote a new commandment unto thee, but that
which we had from the beginning, that we love one another.”
This was not to be resisted, at lease not by Miss Catherine, who demurely34 handed the volume back to him with a page turned down at the sixteenth verse in the first chapter of Ruth—
“Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I
God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be
buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but
death part thee and me.”
Aside from this quaint29 touch of romance, what attaches me to the happy pair—for the marriage was a fortunate one—is the fact that the Rousselets made their home in the old Atkinson mansion36, which stood directly opposite my grandfather’s house on Court Street and was torn down in my childhood, to my great consternation37. The building had been unoccupied for a quarter of a century, and was fast falling into decay with all its rich wood-carvings at cornice and lintel; but was it not full of ghosts, and if the old barracks were demolished38, would not these ghosts, or some of them at least, take refuge in my grandfather’s house just across the way? Where else could they bestow39 themselves so conveniently? While the ancient mansion was in process of destruction, I used to peep round the corner of our barn at the workmen, and watch the indignant phantoms40 go soaring upward in spiral clouds of colonial dust.
A lady differing in many ways from Catherine Moffatt was the Mary Atkinson (once an inmate41 of this same manor42 house) who fell to the lot of the Rev3. William Shurtleff, pastor43 of the South Church between 1733 and 1747. From the worldly standpoint, it was a fine match for the Newcastle clergyman—beauty, of the eagle-beaked kind; wealth, her share of the family plate; high birth, a sister to the Hon. Theodore Atkinson. But if the exemplary man had cast his eyes lower, peradventure he had found more happiness, though ill-bred persons without family plate are not necessarily amiable45. Like Socrates, this long-suffering divine had always with him an object on which to cultivate heavenly patience, and patience, says the Eastern proverb, is the key to content. The spirit of Xantippe seems to have taken possession of Mrs. Shurtleff immediately after her marriage. The freakish disrespect with which she used her meek46 consort47 was a heavy cross to bear at a period in New England when clerical dignity was at its highest sensitive point. Her devices for torturing the poor gentleman were inexhaustible. Now she lets his Sabbath ruffs go unstarched; now she scandalizes him by some unseemly and frivolous48 color in her attire49; now she leaves him to cook his own dinner at the kitchen coals; and now she locks him in his study, whither he has retired50 for a moment or two of prayer, previous to setting forth51 to perform the morning service. The congregation has assembled; the sexton has tolled52 the bell twice as long as is custom, and is beginning a third carillon, full of wonder that his reverence53 does not appear; and there sits Mistress Shurtleff in the family pew with a face as complacent54 as that of the cat that has eaten the canary. Presently the deacons appeal to her for information touching55 the good doctor. Mistress Shurtleff sweetly tells them that the good doctor was in his study when she left home. There he is found, indeed, and released from durance, begging the deacons to keep his mortification56 secret, to “give it an understanding, but no tongue.” Such was the discipline undergone by the worthy57 Dr. Shurtleff on his earthly pilgrimage. A portrait of this patient man—now a saint somewhere—hangs in the rooms of the New England Historical and Genealogical Society in Boston. There he can be seen in surplice and bands, with his lamblike, apostolic face looking down upon the heavy antiquarian labors58 of his busy descendants.
Whether or not a man is to be classed as eccentric who vanishes without rhyme or reason on his wedding-night is a query59 left to the reader’s decision. We seem to have struck a matrimonial vein60, and must work it out. In 1768, Mr. James McDonough was one of the wealthiest men in Portsmouth, and the fortunate suitor for the hand of a daughter of Jacob Sheafe, a town magnate. The home of the bride was decked and lighted for the nuptials61, the banquet-table was spread, and the guests were gathered. The minister in his robe stood by the carven mantelpiece, book in hand, and waited. Then followed an awkward interval—there was a hitch62 somewhere. A strange silence fell upon the laughing groups; the air grew tense with expectation; in the pantry, Amos Boggs, the butler, in his agitation63 split a bottle of port over his new cinnamon-colored small-clothes. Then a whisper—a whisper suppressed these twenty minutes—ran through the apartments,—“The bridegroom has not come!”. He never came. The mystery of that night remains64 a mystery after the lapse65 of a century and a quarter.
What had become of James McDonough? The assassination66 of so notable a person in a community where every strange face was challenged, where every man’s antecedents were known, could not have been accomplished67 without leaving some slight traces. Not a shadow of foul68 play was discovered. That McDonough had been murdered or had committed suicide were theories accepted at first by a few, and then by no one. On the other hand, he was in love with his fiancee, he had wealth, power, position—why had he fled? He was seen a moment on the public street, and then never seen again. It was as if he turned into air. Meanwhile the bewilderment of the bride was dramatically painful. If McDonough had been waylaid69 and killed, she could mourn for him. If he had deserted70 her, she could wrap herself in her pride. But neither course lay open to her, then or afterward71. In one of the Twice Told Tales Hawthorne deals with a man named Wakefield, who disappears with like suddenness, and lives unrecognized for twenty years in a street not far from his abandoned hearthside. Such expunging72 of one’s self was not possible in Portsmouth; but I never think of McDonough without recalling Wakefield. I have an inexplicable73 conviction that for many a year James McDonough, in some snug74 ambush75, studied and analyzed76 the effect of his own startling disappearance77.
Some time in the year 1758, there dawned upon Portsmouth a personage bearing the ponderous78 title of King’s Attorney, and carrying much gold lace about him. This gilded79 gentleman was Mr. Wyseman Clagett, of Bristol, England, where his father dwelt on the manor of Broad Oaks, in a mansion with twelve chimneys, and kept a coach and eight or ten servants. Up to the moment of his advent44 in the colonies, Mr. Wyseman Clagett had evidently not been able to keep anything but himself. His wealth consisted of his personal decorations, the golden frogs on his lapels, and the tinsel at his throat; other charms he had none. Yet with these he contrived80 to dazzle the eyes of Lettice Mitchel, one of the young beauties of the province, and to cause her to forget that she had plighted81 troth with a Mr. Warner, then in Europe, and destined82 to return home with a disturbed heart. Mr. Clagett was a man of violent temper and ingenious vindictiveness83, and proved more than a sufficient punishment for Lettice’s infidelity. The trifling84 fact that Warner was dead—he died shortly after his return—did not interfere85 with the course of Mr. Clagett’s jealousy86; he was haunted by the suspicion that Lettice regretted her first love, having left nothing undone87 to make her do so. “This is to pay Warner’s debts,” remarked Mr. Clagett, as he twitched88 off the table-cloth and wrecked89 the tea-things.
In his official capacity he was a relentless90 prosecutor91. The noun Clagett speedily turned itself into a verb; “to Clagett” meant “to prosecute;” they were convertible92 terms. In spite of his industrious93 severity, and his royal emoluments94, if such existed, the exchequer95 of the King’s Attorney showed a perpetual deficit96. The stratagems97 to which he resorted from time to time in order to raise unimportant sums reminded one of certain scenes in Moliere’s comedies.
Mr. Clagett had for his ame damnee a constable98 of the town. They were made for each other; they were two flowers with but a single stem, and this was their method of procedure: Mr. Clagett dispatched one of his servants to pick a quarrel with some countryman on the street, or some sailor drinking at an inn: the constable arrested the sailor or the countryman, as the case might be, and hauled the culprit before Mr. Clagett; Mr. Clagett read the culprit a moral lesson, and fined him five dollars and costs. The plunder99 was then divided between the conspirators—two hearts that beat as one—Clagett, of course, getting the lion’s share. Justice was never administered in a simpler manner in any country. This eminent100 legal light was extinguished in 1784, and the wick laid away in the little churchyard in Litchfield, New Hampshire. It is a satisfaction, even after such a lapse of time, to know that Lettice survived the King’s Attorney sufficiently101 long to be very happy with somebody else. Lettice Mitchel was scarcely eighteen when she married Wyseman Clagett.
About eighty years ago, a witless fellow named Tilton seems to have been a familiar figure on the streets of the old town. Mr. Brewster speaks of him as “the well-known idiot, Johnny Tilton,” as if one should say, “the well-known statesman, Daniel Webster.” It is curious to observe how any sort of individuality gets magnified in this parochial atmosphere, where everything lacks perspective, and nothing is trivial. Johnny Tilton does not appear to have had much individuality to start with; it was only after his head was cracked that he showed any shrewdness whatever. That happened early in his unobtrusive boyhood. He had frequently watched the hens flying out of the loft102 window in his father’s stable, which stood in the rear of the Old Bell Tavern103. It occurred to Johnny, one day, that though he might not be as bright as other lads, he certainly was in no respect inferior to a hen. So he placed himself on the sill of the window in the loft, flapped his arms, and took flight. The New England Icarus alighted head downward, lay insensible for a while, and was henceforth looked upon as a mortal who had lost his wits. Yet at odd moments his cloudiness was illumined by a gleam of intelligence such as had not been detected in him previous to his mischance. As Polonius said of Hamlet—another unstrung mortal—Tilton’s replies had “a happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity104 could not so prosperously be delivered of.” One morning, he appeared at the flour-mill with a sack of corn to be ground for the almshouse, and was asked what he knew. “Some things I know,” replied poor Tilton, “and some things I don’t know. I know the miller’s hogs105 grow fat, but I don’t know whose corn they fat on.” To borrow another word from Polonius, though this be madness, yet there was method in it. Tilton finally brought up in the almshouse, where he was allowed the liberty of roaming at will through the town. He loved the water-side as if he had had all his senses. Often he was seen to stand for hours with a sunny, torpid106 smile on his lips, gazing out upon the river where its azure107 ruffles108 itself into silver against the islands. He always wore stuck in his hat a few hen’s feathers, perhaps with some vague idea of still associating himself with the birds of the air, if hens can come into that category.
George Jaffrey, third of the name, was a character of another complexion109, a gentleman born, a graduate of Harvard in 1730, and one of His Majesty’s Council in 1766—a man with the blood of the lion and the unicorn110 in every vein. He remained to the bitter end, and beyond, a devout111 royalist, prizing his shoe-buckles, not because they were of chased silver, but because they bore the tower mark and crown stamp. He stoutly112 objected to oral prayer, on the ground that it gave rogues113 and hypocrites an opportunity to impose on honest folk. He was punctilious114 in his attendance at church, and unfailing in his responses, though not of a particularly devotional temperament115. On one occasion, at least, his sincerity116 is not to be questioned. He had been deeply irritated by some encroachments on the boundaries of certain estates, and had gone to church that forenoon with his mind full of the matter. When the minister in the course of reading the service came to the apostrophe, “Cursed be he who removeth his neighbor’s landmark,” Mr. Jeffrey’s feelings were too many for him, and he cried out “Amen!” in a tone of voice that brought smiles to the adjoining pews.
Mr. Jaffrey’s last will and testament117 was a whimsical document, in spite of the Hon. Jeremiah Mason, who drew up the paper. It had originally been Mr. Jaffrey’s plan to leave his possessions to his beloved friend, Colonel Joshua Wentworth; but the colonel by some maladroitness118 managed to turn the current of Pactolus in another direction. The vast property was bequeathed to George Jaffrey Jeffries, the testator’s grandnephew, on condition that the heir, then a lad of thirteen, should drop the name of Jeffries, reside permanently119 in Portsmouth, and adopt no profession excepting that of gentleman. There is an immense amount of Portsmouth as well as George Jaffrey in that final clause. George the fourth handsomely complied with the requirements, and dying at the age of sixty-six, without issue or assets, was the last of that particular line of Georges. I say that he handsomely complied with the requirements of the will; but my statement appears to be subject to qualification, for on the day of his obsequies it was remarked of him by a caustic120 contemporary: “Well, yes, Mr. Jaffrey was a gentleman by profession, but not eminent in his profession.”
This modest exhibition of profiles, in which I have attempted to preserve no chronological121 sequence, ends with the silhouette122 of Dr. Joseph Moses.
If Boston in the colonial days had her Mather Byles, Portsmouth had her Dr. Joseph Moses. In their quality as humorists, the outlines of both these gentlemen have become rather broken and indistinct. “A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear that hears it.” Decanted123 wit inevitably124 loses its bouquet125. A clever repartee126 belongs to the precious moment in which it is broached127, and is of a vintage that does not usually bear transportation. Dr. Moses—he received his diploma not from the College of Physicians, but from the circumstance of his having once drugged his private demijohn of rum, and so nailed an inquisitive128 negro named Sambo—Dr. Moses, as he was always called, had been handed down to us by tradition as a fellow of infinite jest and of most excellent fancy; but I must confess that I find his high spirits very much evaporated. His humor expended129 itself, for the greater part, in practical pleasantries—like that practiced on the minion130 Sambo—but these diversions, however facetious131 to the parties concerned, lack magnetism132 for outsiders. I discover nothing about him so amusing as the fact that he lived in a tan-colored little tenement133, which was neither clapboarded nor shingled134, and finally got an epidermis135 from the discarded shingles136 of the Old South Church when the roof of that edifice137 was repaired.
Dr. Moses, like many persons of his time and class, was a man of protean138 employment—joiner, barber, and what not. No doubt he had much pithy139 and fluent conversation, all of which escapes us. He certainly impressed the Hon. Theodore Atkinson as a person of uncommon140 parts, for the Honorable Secretary of the Province, like a second Haroun Al Raschid, often summoned the barber to entertain him with his company. One evening—and this is the only reproducible instance of the doctor’s readiness—Mr. Atkinson regaled his guest with a diminutive141 glass of choice Madeira. The doctor regarded it against the light with the half-closed eye of the connoisseur142, and after sipping143 the molten topaz with satisfaction, inquired how old it was. “Of the vintage of about sixty years ago,” was the answer. “Well,” said the doctor reflectively, “I never in my life saw so small a thing of such an age.” There are other mots of his on record, but their faces are suspiciously familiar. In fact, all the witty144 things were said aeons ago. If one nowadays perpetrates an original joke, one immediately afterward finds it in the Sanskirt. I am afraid that Dr. Joseph Moses has no very solid claims on us. I have given him place here because he has long had the reputation of a wit, which is almost as good as to be one.
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1
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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picturesqueness
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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ruminative
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| adj.沉思的，默想的，爱反复思考的 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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mitigating
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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vegetated
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的过去式和过去分词 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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differentiate
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| vi.(between)区分；vt.区别；使不同 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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tantalizes
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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50
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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51
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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52
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
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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54
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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55
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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56
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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57
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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58
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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59
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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60
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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61
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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62
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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63
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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64
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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65
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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66
assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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67
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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68
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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69
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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71
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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72
expunging
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| v.擦掉( expunge的现在分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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73
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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74
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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75
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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77
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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78
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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79
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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81
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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83
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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84
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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85
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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86
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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88
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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90
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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convertible
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| adj.可改变的，可交换，同意义的；n.有活动摺篷的汽车 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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94
emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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95
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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97
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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98
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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99
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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100
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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101
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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102
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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103
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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104
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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105
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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106
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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107
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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108
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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109
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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110
unicorn
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| n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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111
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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112
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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113
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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114
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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115
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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116
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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117
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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118
maladroitness
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119
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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120
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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121
chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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122
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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123
decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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125
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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126
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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127
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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128
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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129
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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130
minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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131
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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132
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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133
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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134
shingled
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| adj.盖木瓦的；贴有墙面板的v.用木瓦盖(shingle的过去式和过去分词形式) | |
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135
epidermis
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| n.表皮 | |
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136
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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137
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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138
protean
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| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
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139
pithy
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| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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140
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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141
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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142
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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143
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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144
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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