For my own part, I had never seen a prison, and, like the majority of my brethren, had given myself little concern to enquire1 what was the condition of those who committed offence against, or became obnoxious2 to suspicion from, the community. Oh, how enviable is the most tottering3 shed under which the labourer retires to rest, compared with the residence of these walls!
To me every thing was new,— the massy doors, the resounding4 locks, the gloomy passages, the grated windows, and the characteristic looks of the keepers, accustomed to reject every petition, and to steel their hearts against feeling and pity. Curiosity, and a sense of my situation, induced me to fix my eyes on the faces of these men; but in a few minutes I drew them away with unconquerable loathing6. It is impossible to describe the sort of squalidness and filth7 with which these mansions8 are distinguished9. I have seen dirty faces in dirty apartments, which have nevertheless borne the impression of health, and spoke10 carelessness and levity11 rather than distress12. But the dirt of a prison speaks sadness to the heart, and appears to be already in a state of putridity13 and infection.
I was detained for more than an hour in the apartment of the keeper, one turnkey after another coming in, that they might make themselves familiar with my person. As I was already considered as guilty of felony to a considerable amount, I underwent a rigorous search, and they took from me a penknife, a pair of scissars, and that part of my money which was in gold. It was debated whether or not these should be sealed up, to be returned to me, as they said, as soon as I should be acquitted16; and had I not displayed an unexpected firmness of manner and vigour17 of expostulation, such was probably the conduct that would have been pursued. Having undergone these ceremonies, I was thrust into a day-room, in which all the persons then under confinement18 for felony were assembled, to the number of eleven. Each of them was too much engaged in his own reflections, to take notice of me. Of these, two were imprisoned19 for horse-stealing, and three for having stolen a sheep, one for shop-lifting, one for coining, two for highway-robbery, and two for burglary.
The horse-stealers were engaged in a game at cards, which was presently interrupted by a difference of opinion, attended with great vociferation,— they calling upon one and another to decide it, to no purpose; one paying no attention to their summons, and another leaving them in the midst of their story, being no longer able to endure his own internal anguish20, in the midst of their mummery.
It is a custom among thieves to constitute a sort of mock tribunal of their own body, from whose decision every one is informed whether he shall be acquitted, respited21, or pardoned, as well as respecting the supposed most skilful22 way of conducting his defence. One of the housebreakers, who had already passed this ordeal23, and was stalking up and down the room with a forced bravery, exclaimed to his companion, that he was as rich as the Duke of Bedford himself. He had five guineas and a half, which was as much as he could possibly spend in the course of the ensuing month; and what happened after that, it was Jack24 Ketch’s business to see to, not his. As he uttered these words, he threw himself abruptly25 upon a bench that was near him, and seemed to be asleep in a moment. But his sleep was uneasy and disturbed, his breathing was hard, and, at intervals26, had rather the nature of a groan27. A young fellow from the other side of the room came softly to the place where he lay, with a large knife in his hand: and pressed the back of it with such violence upon his neck, the head hanging over the side of the bench, that it was not till after several efforts that he was able to rise. “Oh, Jack!” cried this manual jester, “I had almost done your business for you!” The other expressed no marks of resentment28, but sullenly30 answered, “Damn you, why did not you take the edge? It would have been the best thing you have done this many a day!”[B]
[Footnote B: An incident exactly similar to this was witnessed by a friend of the author, a few years since, in a visit to the prison of Newgate.]
The case of one of the persons committed for highway-robbery was not a little extraordinary. He was a common soldier of a most engaging physiognomy, and two-and-twenty years of age. The prosecutor31, who had been robbed one evening, as he returned late from the alehouse, of the sum of three shillings, swore positively32 to his person. The character of the prisoner was such as has seldom been equalled. He had been ardent33 in the pursuit of intellectual cultivation34, and was accustomed to draw his favourite amusement from the works of Virgil and Horace. The humbleness35 of his situation, combined with his ardour for literature, only served to give an inexpressible heightening to the interestingness of his character. He was plain and unaffected; he assumed nothing; he was capable, when occasion demanded, of firmness, but, in his ordinary deportment, he seemed unarmed and unresisting, unsuspicious of guile36 in others, as he was totally free from guile in himself. His integrity was proverbially great. In one instance he had been intrusted by a lady to convey a sum of a thousand pounds to a person at some miles distance: in another, he was employed by a gentleman, during his absence, in the care of his house and furniture, to the value of at least five times that sum. His habits of thinking were strictly37 his own, full of justice, simplicity38, and wisdom. He from time to time earned money of his officers, by his peculiar39 excellence40 in furbishing arms; but he declined offers that had been made him to become a Serjeant or a corporal, saying that he did not want money, and that in a new situation he should have less leisure for study. He was equally constant in refusing presents that were offered him by persons who had been struck with his merit; not that he was under the influence of false delicacy41 and pride, but that he had no inclination42 to accept that, the want of which he did not feel to be an evil. This man died while I was in prison. I received his last breath.[C]
[Footnote C: A story extremely similar to this is to be found in the Newgate Calendar, vol. i. p. 382.]
The whole day I was obliged to spend in the company of these men, some of them having really committed the actions laid to their charge, others whom their ill fortune had rendered the victims of suspicion. The whole was a scene of misery43, such as nothing short of actual observation can suggest to the mind. Some were noisy and obstreperous44, endeavouring by a false bravery to keep at bay the remembrance of their condition; while others, incapable45 even of this effort, had the torment46 of their thoughts aggravated47 by the perpetual noise and confusion that prevailed around them. In the faces of those who assumed the most courage, you might trace the furrows48 of anxious care and in the midst of their laboured hilarity49 dreadful ideas would ever and anon intrude50, convulsing their features, and working every line into an expression of the keenest agony. To these men the sun brought no return of joy. Day after day rolled on, but their state was immutable51. Existence was to them a scene of invariable melancholy52; every moment was a moment of anguish; yet did they wish to prolong that moment, fearful that the coming period would bring a severer fate. They thought of the past with insupportable repentance53, each man contented54 to give his right hand to have again the choice of that peace and liberty, which he had unthinkingly bartered55 away. We talk of instruments of torture; Englishmen take credit to themselves for having banished56 the use of them from their happy shore! Alas57! he that has observed the secrets of a prison, well knows that there is more torture in the lingering existence of a criminal, in the silent intolerable minutes that he spends, than in the tangible58 misery of whips and racks!
Such were our days. At sunset our jailors appeared, and ordered each man to come away, and be locked into his dungeon59. It was a bitter aggravation60 of our fate, to be under the arbitrary control of these fellows. They felt no man’s sorrow; they were of all men least capable of any sort of feeling. They had a barbarous and sullen29 pleasure in issuing their detested61 mandates62, and observing the mournful reluctance63 with which they were obeyed. Whatever they directed, it was in vain to expostulate; fetters64, and bread and water, were the sure consequences of resistance. Their tyranny had no other limit than their own caprice. To whom shall the unfortunate felon15 appeal? To what purpose complain, when his complaints are sure to be received with incredulity? A tale of mutiny and necessary precaution is the unfailing refuge of the keeper, and this tale is an everlasting65 bar against redress66.
Our dungeons67 were cells, 7–1/2 feet by 6–1/2, below the surface of the ground, damp, without window, light, or air, except from a few holes worked for that purpose in the door. In some of these miserable68 receptacles three persons were put to sleep together.[D] I was fortunate enough to have one to myself. It was now the approach of winter. We were not allowed to have candles, and, as I have already said, were thrust in here at sunset, and not liberated69 till the returning day. This was our situation for fourteen or fifteen hours out of the four-and-twenty. I had never been accustomed to sleep more than six or seven hours, and my inclination to sleep was now less than ever. Thus was I reduced to spend half my day in this dreary70 abode71, and in complete darkness. This was no trifling72 aggravation of my lot.
[Footnote D: See Howard on Prisons.]
Among my melancholy reflections I tasked my memory, and counted over the doors, the locks, the bolts, the chains, the massy walls, and grated windows, that were between me and liberty. “These,” said I, “are the engines that tyranny sits down in cold and serious meditation73 to invent. This is the empire that man exercises over man. Thus is a being, formed to expatiate74, to act, to smile, and enjoy, restricted and benumbed. How great must be his depravity or heedlessness, who vindicates75 this scheme for changing health and gaiety and serenity76, into the wanness77 of a dungeon, and the deep furrows of agony and despair!”
“Thank God,” exclaims the Englishman, “we have no Bastile! Thank God, with us no man can be punished without a crime!” Unthinking wretch78! Is that a country of liberty, where thousands languish79 in dungeons and fetters? Go, go, ignorant fool! and visit the scenes of our prisons! witness their unwholesomeness, their filth, the tyranny of their governors, the misery of their inmates80! After that, show me the man shameless enough to triumph, and say, England has no Bastile! Is there any charge so frivolous81, upon which men are not consigned82 to those detested abodes84? Is there any villainy that is not practised by justices and prosecutors85? But against all this perhaps you have been told there is redress. Yes; a redress, that it is the consummation of insult so much as to name! Where shall the poor wretch reduced to the last despair, to whom acquittal perhaps comes just time enough to save him from perishing,— where shall this man find leisure, and much less money, to fee counsel and officers, and purchase the tedious dear-bought remedy of the law? No; he is too happy to leave his dungeon, and the memory of his dungeon, behind him; and the same tyranny and wanton oppression become the inheritance of his successor.
For myself, I looked round upon my walls, and forward upon the premature86 death I had too much reason to expect: I consulted my own heart, that whispered nothing but innocence87; and I said, “This is society. This is the object, the distribution of justice, which is the end of human reason. For this sages5 have toiled88, and midnight oil has been wasted. This!”
The reader will forgive this digression from the immediate89 subject of my story. If it should be said these are general remarks, let it be remembered that they are the dear-bought, result of experience. It is from the fulness of a bursting heart that reproach thus flows to my pen. These are not the declamations of a man desirous to be eloquent90. I have felt the iron of slavery grating upon my soul.
I believed that misery, more pure than that which I now endured, had never fallen to the lot of a human being. I recollected91 with astonishment92 my puerile93 eagerness to be brought to the test, and have my innocence examined. I execrated94 it, as the vilest95 and most insufferable pedantry96. I exclaimed, in the bitterness of my heart, “Of what value is a fair fame? It is the jewel of men formed to be amused with baubles97. Without it, I might have had serenity of heart and cheerfulness of occupation, peace, and liberty; why should I consign83 my happiness to other men’s arbitration98? But, if a fair fame were of the most inexpressible value, is this the method which common sense would prescribe to retrieve99 it? The language which these institutions hold out to the unfortunate is, ‘Come, and be shut out from the light of day; be the associate of those whom society has marked out for her abhorrence100, be the slave of jailers, be loaded with fetters; thus shall you be cleared from every unworthy aspersion102, and restored to reputation and honour!’ This is the consolation103 she affords to those whom malignity104 or folly105, private pique106 or unfounded positiveness, have, without the smallest foundation, loaded with calumny107.” For myself, I felt my own innocence; and I soon found, upon enquiry, that three fourths of those who are regularly subjected to a similar treatment, are persons whom, even with all the superciliousness108 and precipitation of our courts of justice, no evidence can be found sufficient to convict. How slender then must be that man’s portion of information and discernment, who is willing to commit his character and welfare to such guardianship109!
But my case was even worse than this. I intimately felt that a trial, such as our institutions have hitherto been able to make it, is only the worthy101 sequel of such a beginning. What chance was there after the purgation I was now suffering, that I should come out acquitted at last? What probability was there that the trial I had endured in the house of Mr. Falkland was not just as fair as any that might be expected to follow? No; I anticipated my own condemnation110.
Thus was I cut off, for ever, from all that existence has to bestow111 — from all the high hopes I had so often conceived — from all the future excellence my soul so much delighted to imagine,— to spend a few weeks in a miserable prison, and then to perish by the hand of the public executioner. No language can do justice to the indignant and soul-sickening loathing that these ideas excited. My resentment was not restricted to my prosecutor, but extended itself to the whole machine of society. I could never believe that all this was the fair result of institutions inseparable from the general good. I regarded the whole human species as so many hangmen and torturers; I considered them as confederated to tear me to pieces; and this wide scene of inexorable persecution112 inflicted113 upon me inexpressible agony. I looked on this side and on that: I was innocent; I had a right to expect assistance; but every heart was steeled against me; every hand was ready to lend its force to make my ruin secure. No man that has not felt, in his own most momentous114 concerns, justice, eternal truth, unalterable equity115 engaged in his behalf, and on the other side brute116 force, impenetrable obstinacy117, and unfeeling insolence118, can imagine the sensations that then passed through my mind. I saw treachery triumphant119 and enthroned; I saw the sinews of innocence crumbled120 into dust by the gripe of almighty121 guilt14.
What relief had I from these sensations? Was it relief, that I spent the day in the midst of profligacy122 and execrations — that I saw reflected from every countenance123 agonies only inferior to my own? He that would form a lively idea of the regions of the damned, need only to witness, for six hours, a scene to which I was confined for many months. Not for one hour could I withdraw myself from this complexity124 of horrors, or take refuge in the calmness of meditation. Air, exercise, series, contrast, those grand enliveners of the human frame, I was for ever debarred from, by the inexorable tyranny under which I was fallen. Nor did I find the solitude125 of my nightly dungeon less insupportable. Its only furniture was the straw that served me for my repose126. It was narrow, damp, and unwholesome. The slumbers127 of a mind, wearied, like mine, with the most detestable uniformity, to whom neither amusement nor occupation ever offered themselves to beguile128 the painful hours, were short, disturbed, and unrefreshing. My sleeping, still more than my waking thoughts, were full of perplexity, deformity, and disorder129. To these slumbers succeeded the hours which, by the regulations of our prison, I was obliged, though awake, to spend in solitary130 and cheerless darkness. Here I had neither books nor pens, nor any thing upon which to engage my attention; all was a sightless blank. How was a mind, active and indefatigable131 like mine, to endure this misery? I could not sink it in lethargy; I could nor forget my woes132: they haunted me with unintermitted and demoniac malice133. Cruel, inexorable policy of human affairs, that condemns134 a man to torture like this; that sanctions it, and knows not what is done under its sanction; that is too supine and unfeeling to enquire into these petty details; that calls this the ordeal of innocence, and the protector of freedom! A thousand times I could have dashed my brains against the walls of my dungeon; a thousand times I longed for death, and wished, with inexpressible ardour, for an end to what I suffered; a thousand times I meditated135 suicide, and ruminated136, in the bitterness of my soul, upon the different means of escaping from the load of existence. What had I to do with life? I had seen enough to make me regard it with detestation. Why should I wait the lingering process of legal despotism, and not dare so much as to die, but when and how its instruments decreed? Still some inexplicable137 suggestion withheld138 my hand. I clung with desperate fondness to this shadow of existence, its mysterious attractions, and its hopeless prospects139.
1 enquire | |
v.打听,询问;调查,查问 | |
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2 obnoxious | |
adj.极恼人的,讨人厌的,可憎的 | |
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3 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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4 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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5 sages | |
n.圣人( sage的名词复数 );智者;哲人;鼠尾草(可用作调料) | |
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6 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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7 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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8 mansions | |
n.宅第,公馆,大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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9 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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10 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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11 levity | |
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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12 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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13 putridity | |
n.腐败 | |
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14 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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15 felon | |
n.重罪犯;adj.残忍的 | |
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16 acquitted | |
宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(自己)作出某种表现 | |
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17 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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18 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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19 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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21 respited | |
v.延期(respite的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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22 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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23 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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24 jack | |
n.插座,千斤顶,男人;v.抬起,提醒,扛举;n.(Jake)杰克 | |
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25 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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26 intervals | |
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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27 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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28 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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29 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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30 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
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31 prosecutor | |
n.起诉人;检察官,公诉人 | |
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32 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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33 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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34 cultivation | |
n.耕作,培养,栽培(法),养成 | |
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35 humbleness | |
n.谦卑,谦逊;恭顺 | |
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36 guile | |
n.诈术 | |
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37 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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38 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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39 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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40 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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41 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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42 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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43 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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44 obstreperous | |
adj.喧闹的,不守秩序的 | |
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45 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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46 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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47 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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48 furrows | |
n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 );(脸上的)皱纹v.犁田,开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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50 intrude | |
vi.闯入;侵入;打扰,侵扰 | |
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51 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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52 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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53 repentance | |
n.懊悔 | |
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54 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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55 bartered | |
v.作物物交换,以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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58 tangible | |
adj.有形的,可触摸的,确凿的,实际的 | |
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59 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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60 aggravation | |
n.烦恼,恼火 | |
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61 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62 mandates | |
托管(mandate的第三人称单数形式) | |
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63 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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64 fetters | |
n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 );束缚v.给…上脚镣,束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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66 redress | |
n.赔偿,救济,矫正;v.纠正,匡正,革除 | |
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67 dungeons | |
n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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68 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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69 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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70 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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71 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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72 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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73 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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74 expatiate | |
v.细说,详述 | |
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75 vindicates | |
n.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的名词复数 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护v.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的第三人称单数 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护 | |
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76 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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77 wanness | |
n.虚弱 | |
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78 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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79 languish | |
vi.变得衰弱无力,失去活力,(植物等)凋萎 | |
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80 inmates | |
n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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81 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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82 consigned | |
v.把…置于(令人不快的境地)( consign的过去式和过去分词 );把…托付给;把…托人代售;丟弃 | |
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83 consign | |
vt.寄售(货品),托运,交托,委托 | |
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84 abodes | |
住所( abode的名词复数 ); 公寓; (在某地的)暂住; 逗留 | |
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85 prosecutors | |
检举人( prosecutor的名词复数 ); 告发人; 起诉人; 公诉人 | |
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86 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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87 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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88 toiled | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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89 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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90 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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91 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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93 puerile | |
adj.幼稚的,儿童的 | |
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94 execrated | |
v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 );厌恶;诅咒;咒骂 | |
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95 vilest | |
adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 );可耻的;极坏的;非常讨厌的 | |
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96 pedantry | |
n.迂腐,卖弄学问 | |
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97 baubles | |
n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 );华而不实的小件装饰品;无价值的东西;丑角的手杖 | |
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98 arbitration | |
n.调停,仲裁 | |
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99 retrieve | |
vt.重新得到,收回;挽回,补救;检索 | |
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100 abhorrence | |
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
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101 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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102 aspersion | |
n.诽谤,中伤 | |
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103 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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104 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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105 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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106 pique | |
v.伤害…的自尊心,使生气 n.不满,生气 | |
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107 calumny | |
n.诽谤,污蔑,中伤 | |
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108 superciliousness | |
n.高傲,傲慢 | |
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109 guardianship | |
n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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110 condemnation | |
n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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111 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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112 persecution | |
n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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113 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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115 equity | |
n.公正,公平,(无固定利息的)股票 | |
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116 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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117 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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118 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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119 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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120 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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121 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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122 profligacy | |
n.放荡,不检点,肆意挥霍 | |
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123 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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124 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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125 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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126 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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127 slumbers | |
睡眠,安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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128 beguile | |
vt.欺骗,消遣 | |
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129 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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130 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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131 indefatigable | |
adj.不知疲倦的,不屈不挠的 | |
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132 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
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133 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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134 condemns | |
v.(通常因道义上的原因而)谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 );宣判;宣布…不能使用;迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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135 meditated | |
深思,沉思,冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 ); 内心策划,考虑 | |
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136 ruminated | |
v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 );反复考虑;反刍;倒嚼 | |
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137 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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138 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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139 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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