He had firm grounds for his confidence, as the sequel showed, though many dark days of hope deferred6 were yet to put his mettle7 to the proof. He was in his twentieth year, and his reputation had not reached much beyond the local centres where he had gained it. But it was plainly beginning to spread. Even his friendliest admirers had not the prescience to discern the signs of that vast success which was to make him a continental8 celebrity9; but he knew better than they the fervor10 of his ambition and the strength of the motives11 that fed it, and he felt the consciousness of a latent power which justified12 him in sanguine13 dreams for the future. His intuitive perception had interpreted better than the critics or his friends the revelation and prophecy contained in the effects he had already often produced on his audiences. He knew very well himself that which it needed fame to make the public consciously recognize. That fame he not only expected, but was resolved to win.
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In the autumn he succeeded in securing an engagement on moderate terms at the theatre in Albany, then under the management of a shrewd, capable, but eccentric Dutchman, Charles Gilfert. He was to play leading parts in the stock company, and second parts to stars. Albany, as the capital of the State of New York, during the theatrical14 season was thronged15 with cultivated and distinguished16 people, and was an excellent place for a dramatic aspirant17 to achieve and extend a reputation. Forrest began with good heart and zeal19, and, without any sudden or brilliant success, received sufficient encouragement to increase his confidence and keep him progressing. He took great pains to perfect his physical development, exercising his voice in declamation20, practising gestures, and every night and morning taking a thorough sponge-bath, followed by vigorous friction21 with coarse towels. Immediately after his morning ablutions he always devoted22 a half-hour to gymnastics,—using dumb-bells, springing, attitudinizing, and walking two or three times about the room on his hands. One of the most distinguished philosophical23 writers of our country, who was a native of Albany and at that time a particular friend of Forrest, has recently been heard to describe with great animation24 the pleasure he used to take in visiting the actor at this early hour of the morning to see him go through his gymnastic performances. The metaphysician said he admired the enormous strength displayed by the player, and applauded his fidelity25 to the conditions for preserving and increasing it, though for his own part he never could bring himself to do anything of the kind.
Nothing occurred through the winter out of the ordinary routine, except his happy and most profitable intercourse26 with Edmund Kean, during the last engagement filled in Albany by that illustrious actor and unfortunate man. This encounter was of so much consequence to Forrest that we must pause a little over it. It will be recollected27 that he had, several years before, seen Kean perform a few nights in Philadelphia, and that he was filled with enthusiasm about him. But now the discipline and experience of five added years fitted him far more worthily28 to appreciate the genius and to profit from the startling methods and points of the tragedian whom many judges declare to have been the most original and electrifying29 actor that has ever stepped before the foot-lights.
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Edmund Kean, born under the ban of society, treated as a dog, beaten, starved, while yet an infant flung for a livelihood30 on his wits and tricks as a public performer, associating mostly with vagrants31 and adventurers, but occasionally with the best and highest, early became a wonder both in the elastic33 strength of his small body and in the penetrative power of his flashing mind. With sensibilities of extreme delicacy34 and passions of terrific energy he combined a natural and sedulously-cultivated ability of giving to the outer signs of inner states their utmost possible distinctness and intensity35. Perhaps there never was, within his range, a greater master of the physiological36 language of the soul, one who set facial expression in more vivid relief. As a student of his art he went to no traditional school of posture37, no frigid38 school of elocution, but to the original school of nature in the burning depths of his own mind and heart.
His direct observations of other men, and his reflex researches on himself in his impassioned probationary40 assumptions of characters, struck to the automatic centres of his being, the seats of those intuitions which are historic humanity epitomized in the individual, or the spirit of nature itself inspiring man. And when he acted there was something so unitary and elemental in the unconscious depths from which his revelations seemed to break in spontaneous thunderbolts that sensitive auditors42 were filled with awe43, utterly44 overwhelmed and carried away from themselves. Coleridge said that seeing him act Macbeth was like reading the play by flashes of lightning. In his most impassioned moods his voice suggested, by the tense intermittent45 vibration46 of his whole resonant47 frame revealed in it, the frenzied48 energy of a tiger. He spoke49 then in a stammering50 staccato of spasmodic outbursts which shook others because they threatened to shatter him. After years of maddening scorn, poverty, drudgery51, neglect, he vaulted52 at one bound, with his first appearance as Shylock on the stage of Drury Lane, into an almost fabulous53 popularity, courted and fêted by the proudest in the land, and reaping an income of over fifty thousand dollars a year. No wonder he grew wild, reeling with all sorts of intoxication54 between the throne of the scenic55 king and the den5 of the ungirt debauchee.
The essential peculiarity57 of Kean's greatness in his greatest
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effects was that his acting58 was then no effort of will, no trick or art of calculation, but nature itself uncovered and set free in its deepest intensity of power, just on the edge, sometimes quite over the verge59, of madness. He penetrated60 and incorporated himself with the characters he represented until he possessed61 them so completely that they possessed him, and their performance was not simulation but revelation. He brought the truth and simplicity62 of nature to the stage, but nature in her most intensified63 degrees. His playing was a manifestation64 of the inspired intuitions, infallibly true and irresistibly65 sensational66. It came not from the surfaces of his brain, but from the very centres of his nervous system, and suggested something portentous67, preternatural, supernal68, that blinded and stunned69 the beholders, appalled70 their imagination, and chilled their blood. This same curdling71 automatic touch Lucius Junius Brutus Booth also had; but it is asserted that he was first led to it by imitating Kean.
At the time of his engagement in Albany, Kean was much marred72 and broken from his best estate by his bad habits. The intoxication of fame, the intoxication of love, and the dismal73 intoxication of stimulants74 snatched to keep his jaded75 faculties76 at their height, had done their sad work on him. Still, the habitudes of his genius lingered fascinatingly with him, and he delivered his climacteric points with almost undiminished power, between the cloudy intervals77 of his weariness striking lightning and eliciting78 universal shocks.
Nothing could have been more fortunate for Forrest, just at that time, than to watch such an actor in his greatest parts and come into confidential79 contact with him. In playing Iago to his Othello, Titus to his Brutus, Richmond to his Richard, the best chance was afforded for this. About noon of the day they were to act together, as Kean did not come to the rehearsal80, Forrest called at his hotel and asked to see him. He told the messenger to say to Mr. Kean that the young man who was to play Iago wished a brief interview with him, to receive any directions he might like to give for the performance in the evening. "Show him up," said the actor, graciously. As Forrest entered, with a beating heart, Kean rose and welcomed him with great kindness of manner. In answer to a question as to the business of the play, he said, "My boy, I do not care how you come on or go
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off, if while we are on the stage you always keep in front of me and let not your attention wander from me." He had not yet breakfasted, late as it was, but was in a loose dressing-gown, with the marks of excessive indulgence in dissipation and sleepless81 hours too plainly revealed in his whole appearance. A rosewood piano was covered with spilth and sticky rings from the glasses used in the debauch56 of the night. "Have you ever heard me sing?" asked Kean. "Oh, yes, in Tom Tug82 the Waterman." "Did you see my Tom Tug?" responded the actor, in a pleased tone of caressing83 eagerness. "I learned those songs purely84 by imitation of my old friend Incledon; and I approached him so closely that it was said no one could tell the singing of one of us from that of the other. But now you shall hear me sing my favorite piece." He sat down at the piano, struck a few notes, and sang the well-known song of Moore, "Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour." His face was very pale, and wore an expression of unutterable pathos85 and melancholy86; his hair was floating in confused masses, and his eyes looked like two great inland seas. Both he and his auditor41 wept as he sang with matchless depth of feeling and a most mournful sweetness,—
"Let fate do her worst, there are relics87 of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy,
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled88,—
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent89 of the roses will hang round it still."
While he thus sang, he was, to the fancy of his moved and admiring listener, himself the vase broken and ruined, and his genius, still blooming over the ruins of the man, distilled its holy perfume around him.
The Othello of Kean was his unapproachable masterpiece, crowded with electric effects in detail and crowned with a masterly originality90 as a whole. It left its general stamp ineffaceably on the young actor who that night confronted it with his Iago in such a manner as to win not only the vehement91 applause of the house but likewise the warm approval of the Othello himself. Forrest had carefully studied the character of Iago in the inde
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pendent light of what he knew of human nature. And he conceived the part in what was then quite an original reading of it. The current Iago of the stage was a sullen92 and sombre villain93, as full of gloom as of hate, and with such sinister94 manners and malignant95 bearing as made his diabolical96 spirit and purposes perfectly97 obvious. One must be a simpleton to be deceived by such a style of man. A man like Othello, accustomed to command, moving for many years among all sorts of men in peace and war, could be so played on only by a most accomplished98 master of the arts of hypocrisy99. Forrest accordingly represented Iago as a gay and dashing fellow on the outside, hiding his malice100 and treachery under the signs of a careless honesty and jovial101 good humor. One point, strictly102 original, he made which powerfully affected103 Kean. Iago, while working insidiously104 on the suspicions of Othello, says to him,—
"Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio;
Wear your eye thus, not jealous,—nor secure."
All these words, except the last two, Forrest uttered in a frank and easy fashion; but suddenly, as if the intensity of his under-knowledge of evil had automatically broken through the good-natured part he was playing on the surface and betrayed his secret in spite of his will, he spoke the words nor secure in a husky tone, sliding down from a high pitch and ending in a whispered horror. The fearful suggestiveness of this produced from Kean a reaction so truly artistic105 and tremendous that the whole house was electrified106. As they met in the dressing-room, Kean said, excitedly, "In the name of God, boy, where did you get that?" Forrest replied, "It is something of my own." "Well," said he, while his auditor trembled with pleasure, "everybody who speaks the part hereafter must do it just so."
There must, from all accounts, have been something supernaturally sweet and sorrowful, an unearthly intensity of plaintive107 and majestic108 pathos, in the manner in which Kean delivered the farewell of Othello. The critics, Hazlitt, Procter, Lamb, and the rest, all agree in this. They say, "the mournful melody of his voice came over the spirit like the desolate109 moaning of the blast that precedes the thunder-storm." It was like "the hollow and musical murmur110 of the midnight sea when the tempest has raved111
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itself to rest." His "tones sunk into the soul like the sighing of the breeze among the strings112 of an æolian harp113 or through the branches of a cypress114 grove115." His voice "struck on the heart like the swelling116 of some divine music laden117 with the sound of years of departed happiness." The retrospect118 of triumphant119 exultation120, the lingering sense of delight, the big shocks of sudden agony, and the slow blank despair, breathed in a voice elastic and tremulous with vital passion and set off with a by-play of exquisitely121 artistic realism, made up a whole of melancholy beauty and overwhelming power perhaps never equalled. It was at once an anthem122, a charge, and a dirge123. Forrest was inexpressibly delighted and thrilled by it, and he did not fail to his dying day to speak of it with rapturous admiration124.
Kean, both as a man and as an actor, made a fascinating impression on the imagination and heart as well as on the memory of his youthful supporter in the Albany theatre. What he had himself experienced under the influence of this marvellous player, in the profound stirring of his wonder and affection, remained to exalt125 his estimate of the rank of his professional art and to stimulate126 still further his personal ambition. This is the way the sensitive soul of genius grows, by assimilating something from every superior ideal exhibited to it. Kean himself, at a public dinner given him in Philadelphia on his return thither127 from Albany, generously said that he had met one actor in this country, a young man named Edwin Forrest, who gave proofs of a decided128 genius for his profession, and who would, as he believed, rise to great eminence129. This kind act on the part of the veteran was reported to the novice130, and sank gratefully into his heart. To be praised by one we admire is such a delight to the affections and such a spur to endeavor that it is a pity the successful are not more ready to give it to the aspiring131. Ah, what a heaven this world would be if all the men and women in it were only what in our better hours we dream and wish!
One incident occurred during this season at Albany showing extraordinary character in so young a man. The fearful power of the passion for gaming has been well known in all ages. It has prevailed with equal violence and evil among the rudest savages132 and in the most luxurious133 phases of civilization. Every year, at the present time, in the capital centres of Christendom it
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explodes in forgeries134, murder, and suicides. And we read in the Mahabharata, the great Sanscrit epic135 written we know not how many centuries before the Christian136 era, that king Yudishthira was so desperately137 addicted138 to gambling139 that on one occasion he staked his empire, and lost it; then his wife, and lost; finally, his own body, lost that, and became the slave of the winner. In New Orleans Forrest had felt something of the horrid140 fascination141 of this passion. He had not, however, indulged much in it, although his friend Gazonac, who stood at the head of the profession, had initiated142 him pretty thoroughly143 into the secret tricks of the art.
The company of actors and actresses used often to stay after the play was over and engage in games of chance. Forrest joined them several times. He then steadily144 refused to do so any more; for he felt that the gambling spirit was getting hold of him. But on a certain evening they urged him so strongly that he consented,—determined to give them a lesson. He said it was a base business, full of dishonest arts by which all but the sharpest adepts145 could be cheated. They maintained that there were among them neither decoys nor dupes, and they challenged fraud. They played all night, and Forrest at last had won every cent they had with them. He then rose to his feet, and denounced the habit of gaming for profit as utterly pernicious. He recited some examples of the horrors he had known to result from it. He said it demoralized the characters of those who practised it, and, producing nothing, was a robbery, stealing the time, thought, and feeling which might so much better be devoted to something useful. With these words he swept the implements146 of play into the fire, strewed147 the money he had won on the floor, left the room, and went home in the gray light of the morning,—and never gambled again from that hour unto the day of his death.
May 16th, 1826, Forrest made his first re-appearance on the stage of his native city. It was on the occasion of a benefit given to his old friend Charles S. Porter, manager of the theatre, it will be remembered, in which he made his début as Rosalia de Borgia. He took the part of Jaffier in Venice Preserved. His success was flattering and complete. The leading journal of the city said, "He left us a boy, and has returned a man. The talents he then exhibited, improved by attention and study, now display
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themselves in the excellence148 of his delineation149. He is by no means what he was when he left us. His delivery, attitudes, and gesture are similar to those of Conway; and he could not have chosen a better model. Just in his conception of his part, clear and correct in his utterance150, graceful151 in his action, he never offends us by unmeaning rant18. When one so young relies more on his own judgment152 than on the flattery of partial friends, we cannot expect too much from him. We doubt if any aspirant at the same age has ever equalled him. No performer, perhaps, ever was received and continued to play with so much applause. On the dropping of the curtain at the end of the fourth act, he was rewarded with nine rounds of cheers."
His unmistakable triumph was crowned by such loud and general calls for an engagement that the manager came forward and announced that he had secured the services of Mr. Forrest for two nights, and that he would appear, on the evening after the next, in the character of Rolla. This, on the whole, was the most signal and important victory he had ever achieved. It consoled him and it spurred him. He slept sweetly that night under his mother's roof, and in his dreams saw himself decked with wreath and crown, time after time, through a long vista153 of brightening successes.
The Bowery Theatre, in New York, now nearly finished, was to be opened in the autumn, and its proprietors154 were on the watch to secure the best talent for the company. They had heard favorable reports of the acting of Forrest in Albany. Prosper155 M. Wetmore and another of the directors of the new theatre made a journey to that city on purpose to see a specimen156 of his performance and decide whether or not it would be expedient157 to engage him. They were so much pleased with his playing that they earnestly urged Gilfert, who was already engaged as manager, to close with him at once. He did so, bargaining with him to play leading parts for the first season at a salary of twenty-eight dollars a week. Wetmore, who was a cultivated gentleman of literary habits, afterwards Navy Agent at New York, became a fast friend of Forrest for life, and half a century later was fond of recalling the incidents of this journey, so interesting in the adventure and so pleasant in the results.
Gilfert had lost money at Albany, and, when he closed, his
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company were dismissed unpaid158, some of them utterly destitute159. Forrest himself was forced to leave his wardrobe with his hostess as security for arrearages. He took passage down the Hudson to New York, and, securing lodgings160 at a tavern161 in Cortlandt Street, began as best he could to fill the time until the opening of the Bowery. He was a stranger in the city. He was without money, without friends, his wardrobe in pawn162, with no stated employment to occupy his attention and pass the hours. Naturally, life seemed dull and the days grew heavy. First he felt homesick, then he felt sick of himself and sick of the world. His faculties turned in on themselves, and made him so morbidly163 melancholy that he thought of ending his existence. He actually went to an apothecary164 and got some arsenic165 on pretence166 that he wanted to kill rats. This revulsive and dismal state of feeling, however, did not last long. An event occurred which brought him relief and caused him to fling away the poison and resume his natural tone of cheerful fortitude167 and readiness for enjoyment168.
The propitious169 event referred to was this. An actor at the Park Theatre, by the name of Woodhull, was about having a benefit, and experienced much difficulty in deciding on something attractive for the occasion. Walking in the street with Charles Durang, of Philadelphia, who had recently seen Forrest act in that city, and expressing his anxiety to him, Durang replied, "If I were you, I would try and get Forrest to act for me. And there he is now, sitting under the awning170 in front of the hotel. I will introduce you." The deed suited the word, and in a moment Woodhull had made his request. At first Forrest somewhat moodily171 declined, saying that he was penniless, friendless, spiritless, and could do nothing. "But," the poor actor urged, "I have a large family dependent on me, and this benefit is my chief reliance." "Is that so?" asked Forrest. "It is, indeed," was the reply. "Then," said the generous tragedian, mounting out of his unhappiness, "I will play Othello for you, and do my best." The new acquaintances parted with hearty172 greetings, Woodhull to finish the arrangements for his benefit, Forrest to prepare for his arduous173 task. For he felt that this his first appearance in the chief metropolitan174 theatre of the country was an ordeal175 that might make him or undo176 him quite.
He shut himself up in his room with his Shakspeare. He
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studied the part with all the earnestness of his soul, over and over, with every light he could bring to bear upon it, carefully perfected himself in it according to his best ideal, and impatiently awaited the evening. It came, and found a house poor in numbers, which disheartened him not a whit177. Durang was there, and has described the scene. The audience, though neither fashionable nor large, was eager and susceptible178. As the actor came on, his careful costume, superb form, and reposeful179 bearing made a strong sensation on the expectant auditory. And when the sweet, resonant tones of his deep, rich voice broke forth180 in the eloquence181 of an unaffected manliness182, the charm was obviously deepened. His remarkable183 self-possession and deliberate way of doing just what he intended to do were very impressive, and, combined with his terrible earnestness growing with the thickening plot, took hold of the sympathies of the house more and more powerfully. In the middle of the pit sat Gilfert, energetically plying184 his snuff-box and inspecting alternately the player and the spectators. And when, in the fourth act, as the pent flood of passion in the breast of the tortured Othello burst in fearful explosion on Iago in one resplendent climax185 of attitude, look, voice and gesture, and the whole audience rose to their feet and gave vent32 to their unprecedented186 excitement in round after round of cheering, the little Dutchman let his snuff-box mechanically slip through his fingers, and cried, "By heaven, he has made a hit!" The popular verdict was one of unqualified enthusiasm, and the directors and manager of the Bowery felt that they had underrated their prize. Gilfert hurried behind the scenes, lavishing187 congratulations on his protégé, and promising188 the next day to pay his debts and supply him with some pocket-money. In doing a kind thing for a needy189 fellow-actor, Forrest found that he had also done an exceedingly good thing for himself.
With the means he had wrung190 from the delinquent191 and doubtful but now sanguine Gilfert, he proceeded to Albany and redeemed192 his wardrobe. He then went to Washington, and played Rolla for the benefit of his brother William. He next fulfilled an engagement as a Star for six nights in Baltimore, and then paid a visit to his home in Philadelphia. He was able from the remnant of his earnings193 to carry four hundred dollars to his mother. And when he gave it to her, sitting happy at her feet, and told her of
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his trials, and of his struggles against them, as he felt her hand on his head and saw her fond eyes looking approval, the sweetness of the satisfaction seemed to sink into his very bones. So he himself said, and added, "The applause I had won before the foot-lights? Yes, it was most welcome and precious to me; but, compared with this, it was nothing, less than nothing!"
The Bowery was opened with great display and success the last week in October. On the following Monday Forrest made his first appearance there. Othello was the play. The house was thronged in all parts, everything was fresh and new, eager expectation filled the air, and he came forward encouraged by the memory of his decisive triumph at the benefit of Woodhull, and nerved with determination now to outdo it. Yet, in spite of all the favoring conditions, so much depended on the result of his performance this night, and his sensitiveness was still so little hardened by custom, that his nervousness and trepidation194 were quite apparent to critical eyes. But as the play progressed this wore off, and his acting became so sincere, so varied195 and vigorous, he set his best points in such clean-cut relief, and his elocution was so full of natural passion, that he carried the sympathies of the audience with him ascendingly to the close. The ovation196 he then received left no doubt as to the place he was thenceforth to hold in the theatrical world of New York and the country. By unanimous consent, admitting errors and faults both positive and negative, he had shown an extraordinary breadth and raciness of original individuality, and an extraordinary power of painting the character he had pictured in his imagination so vividly197 that it should also live in the imaginations of the beholders and kindle198 their sensibilities. This is the one test of the true actor, that he can transmit his thoughts and passions into others, causing his ideal so to move before them that they recognize it and react on it with the play of their souls accordant with his. This given, all defects are pardoned; this denied, all merits are ineffectual. Forrest had this from first to last, whenever appeal was made from dialect cliques199 to the great vernacular200 of human nature.
At the close of the performance Forrest was personally congratulated by the stockholders of the theatre in the committee-room. Their chairman said to him, "We are all very much
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more than gratified. You have made a great hit; but, if you are willing, we would like to cancel our engagement with you at twenty-eight dollars a week, and——" Here Forrest interrupted him by saying, "Certainly, gentlemen; just as you please; for I am confident I can readily command those terms almost anywhere I feel disposed to play." "We have no doubt of it," replied the chairman; "but we propose to cancel the engagement made with you at twenty-eight dollars a week, and to draw an agreement giving you forty dollars a week instead." This of course was very agreeable to him, and accordingly it was so arranged.
With this night his histrionic probation39 was at an end, and fame and fortune were secure. It was now that he made the acquaintance of James Lawson, who was so enraptured201 with his playing that he sought an introduction on the spot, and then went home and wrote for one of the morning papers a glowing eulogium on the performance. Lawson remained through life one of his most trusted and useful friends, especially in his business concerns, never wavering in his loyalty202 to him for one moment in all the succeeding years, and surviving to be one of the trustees of his estate. Here, also, at the same time, and under the identical circumstances, began his friendship with Leggett, one of the most important and valued attachments203 he ever formed. Leggett, at that time associated with Bryant in the editorship of the New York "Evening Post," was a man of a high-strung, chivalrous204 nature, possessed of uncommon205 talents and of immense force of character. Among his fine tastes was a sincere passion for the drama. He was the elder by four years, and had enjoyed far superior educational advantages. He loved Forrest devotedly206 as soon as he knew him, and his affection was as ardently207 returned. In their manly208 truth and generous sympathy, which knew no taint209 of affectation or mean design, they were a great comfort to each other. In the fourteen years that passed before death came between them they rendered invaluable210 services to each other in many ways.
The following letter is interesting in several respects. It shows his great devotion to his mother, betrays his tendency to occasional depression of spirit, and reveals even so early in his life that irregular violence in the currents of his blood from the
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effects of which he finally died. It bears date a little less than a month after his début at the Bowery.
"New York, Dec. 3d, 1826.
"Most beloved Mother,—The reason I have not answered your letter is a serious indisposition under which I have been laboring211 for some time. But, thanks be to the Eternal (only for your sake and my dear sisters'), I am now convalescent. You will ask, no doubt, why it is only for your sake that I thank the Eternal. Because were you separated forever from me existence would have no longer an attraction. Again, you will wonder what has made me tired of life, especially now that I am on the full tide of prosperity. Alas212! I know not how soon sickness may render me incapable213 of the labors214 of my profession; and then penury215, perchance the poor-house, may ensue. I shudder216 to think of it. Yet the terrible reflection haunts me in spite of myself; and were it not for you and the girls I should not shrink to try the unsearchable depths of eternity217. But no more of this gloomy subject.
"Dining last Sunday with Major Moses, when the cloth was removed, as I was preparing to take a glass of wine, I felt a pain in my right breast, which rapidly increased to such a degree that I told the Major, who sat next to me, of the singular sensation. I had no sooner spoken than the pain shot to my heart and I fell upon the floor. For the space of fifteen minutes I lay perfectly speechless. When, through the kind attentions of the family (which I can never forget), I had in a measure recovered, the pain was still very violent. A physician was summoned, who bled me copiously218, and this relieved my sufferings. In consequence of my weakened and distressed219 condition, I was persuaded to stay there all night. The next morning I returned to my lodgings, and remained in-doors all day, though feeling perfectly recovered. But the following evening, very injudiciously, I performed Damon. The exertion220 in this arduous part caused a relapse, which, however, was not seriously felt until Thursday evening, when I was performing William Tell. Then, indeed, it was agony. All that I had suffered before was but the shadow of a shade to what I then felt,—pains in all my limbs, and my head nigh to bursting. With the unavoidable use of brandy, ether, and hartshorn, I got wildly through the character. Since that time I have had
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medical attendance and every attention that kindness can show. In a few days, without doubt, I shall be on the boards again.
"I received a few days ago a letter from William, which remains221 unanswered. Please inform him of the cause. I shall take my benefit shortly, and am led to believe that it will be all that I can desire. Do not think I shall then forget those who heretofore may sometimes have had cause to upbraid222 me. Farewell, dear mother.
"Tell Henrietta to write, and quickly, too.
"Yours most affectionately,
"Edwin Forrest."
His illness proved, as he thought it would, brief. His success knew no abatement223. He drew such crowds nightly and excited them to such a pitch that the whole city became alive and agog224 about him. Of the many tributes then paid him, these lines may serve as a specimen:
"See how the stormy passions of the soul
Are Edwin Forrest's, and at his control:
How he can drive the curdling blood along
Its choking channels—how his face and tongue
Can check the current as it seeks the brain,
Arrest its course, and bring it back again;
Freeze it when circling round the glowing heart,
Or thaw225 it thence, and bid it, melting, part;
Rouse up revenge for Tell's unmeasured wrongs
Until it echoes from a thousand tongues;
Or melt the soul of friendship quite away
When Damon claims his Pythias' dying day."
From this auspicious226 beginning he went steadily on gaining power and public favor until his popularity was so conspicuous227 that one of the managers of the rival establishment came to him with an offer of three times the amount he was then receiving. He replied, "I cannot listen to you, as I am engaged to Gilfert for the season." "You are not bound by a legal paper, and therefore are free," expostulated the wily bargainer. "Sir," was his characteristic answer, "my word is as strong as any written contract." During this first winter, so rapidly did his fame spread that Gilfert actually lent him repeatedly to other theatres at two hundred dollars a night, he still paying him only his forty
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dollars a week. Certain disinterested228 persons who learned this fact commented on it to Gilfert himself with much severity. And at the end of the engagement he said to the young man, "I want to engage you for the next season, but I suppose our terms must be somewhat different. What do you expect?" Forrest quietly looked at him, and replied, "You have yourself fixed229 my value. You have found me to be worth two hundred dollars a night." He was at once engaged at that rate for eighty nights. And it is to be remembered that sixteen thousand dollars then was equivalent to thirty thousand now. He had just passed his twenty-first birthday. Thus in six short months the youthful artist who came to the metropolis230 poor, scarcely known, little heralded231, had acquired an imposing232 fame, was surrounded by a brilliant host of friends, and entered on his summer vacation prospective233 master of a sumptuous234 income.
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5 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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6 deferred | |
adj.延期的,缓召的v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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7 mettle | |
n.勇气,精神 | |
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8 continental | |
adj.大陆的,大陆性的,欧洲大陆的 | |
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9 celebrity | |
n.名人,名流;著名,名声,名望 | |
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10 fervor | |
n.热诚;热心;炽热 | |
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11 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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12 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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13 sanguine | |
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
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14 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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15 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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17 aspirant | |
n.热望者;adj.渴望的 | |
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18 rant | |
v.咆哮;怒吼;n.大话;粗野的话 | |
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19 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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20 declamation | |
n. 雄辩,高调 | |
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21 friction | |
n.摩擦,摩擦力 | |
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22 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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23 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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24 animation | |
n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
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25 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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26 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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27 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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28 worthily | |
重要地,可敬地,正当地 | |
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29 electrifying | |
v.使电气化( electrify的现在分词 );使兴奋 | |
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30 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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31 vagrants | |
流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 ); 无业游民; 乞丐; 无赖 | |
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32 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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33 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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34 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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35 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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36 physiological | |
adj.生理学的,生理学上的 | |
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37 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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38 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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39 probation | |
n.缓刑(期),(以观后效的)察看;试用(期) | |
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40 probationary | |
试用的,缓刑的 | |
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41 auditor | |
n.审计员,旁听着 | |
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42 auditors | |
n.审计员,稽核员( auditor的名词复数 );(大学课程的)旁听生 | |
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43 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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44 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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45 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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46 vibration | |
n.颤动,振动;摆动 | |
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47 resonant | |
adj.(声音)洪亮的,共鸣的 | |
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48 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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49 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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50 stammering | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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51 drudgery | |
n.苦工,重活,单调乏味的工作 | |
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52 vaulted | |
adj.拱状的 | |
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53 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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54 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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55 scenic | |
adj.自然景色的,景色优美的 | |
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56 debauch | |
v.使堕落,放纵 | |
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57 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
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58 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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59 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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60 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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61 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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62 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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63 intensified | |
v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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65 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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66 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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67 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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68 supernal | |
adj.天堂的,天上的;崇高的 | |
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69 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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70 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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71 curdling | |
n.凝化v.(使)凝结( curdle的现在分词 ) | |
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72 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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73 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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74 stimulants | |
n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 );含兴奋剂的饮料;刺激物;激励物 | |
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75 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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76 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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77 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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78 eliciting | |
n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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79 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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80 rehearsal | |
n.排练,排演;练习 | |
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81 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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82 tug | |
v.用力拖(或拉);苦干;n.拖;苦干;拖船 | |
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83 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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84 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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85 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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86 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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87 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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88 distilled | |
adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 );从…提取精华 | |
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89 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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90 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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91 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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92 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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93 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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94 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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95 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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96 diabolical | |
adj.恶魔似的,凶暴的 | |
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97 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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98 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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99 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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100 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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101 jovial | |
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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102 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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103 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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104 insidiously | |
潜在地,隐伏地,阴险地 | |
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105 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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106 electrified | |
v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 );使兴奋 | |
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107 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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108 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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109 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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110 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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111 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
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112 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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113 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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114 cypress | |
n.柏树 | |
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115 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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116 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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117 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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118 retrospect | |
n.回顾,追溯;v.回顾,回想,追溯 | |
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119 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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120 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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121 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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122 anthem | |
n.圣歌,赞美诗,颂歌 | |
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123 dirge | |
n.哀乐,挽歌,庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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124 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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125 exalt | |
v.赞扬,歌颂,晋升,提升 | |
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126 stimulate | |
vt.刺激,使兴奋;激励,使…振奋 | |
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127 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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128 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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129 eminence | |
n.卓越,显赫;高地,高处;名家 | |
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130 novice | |
adj.新手的,生手的 | |
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131 aspiring | |
adj.有志气的;有抱负的;高耸的v.渴望;追求 | |
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132 savages | |
未开化的人,野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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133 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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134 forgeries | |
伪造( forgery的名词复数 ); 伪造的文件、签名等 | |
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135 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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136 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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137 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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138 addicted | |
adj.沉溺于....的,对...上瘾的 | |
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139 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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140 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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141 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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142 initiated | |
n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始,创始,启蒙,介绍加入 | |
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143 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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144 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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145 adepts | |
n.专家,能手( adept的名词复数 ) | |
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146 implements | |
n.工具( implement的名词复数 );家具;手段;[法律]履行(契约等)v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 );执行;贯彻;使生效 | |
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147 strewed | |
v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 );散落于;点缀;撒满 | |
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148 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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149 delineation | |
n.记述;描写 | |
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150 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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151 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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152 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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153 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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154 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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155 prosper | |
v.成功,兴隆,昌盛;使成功,使昌隆,繁荣 | |
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156 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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157 expedient | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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158 unpaid | |
adj.未付款的,无报酬的 | |
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159 destitute | |
adj.缺乏的;穷困的 | |
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160 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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161 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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162 pawn | |
n.典当,抵押,小人物,走卒;v.典当,抵押 | |
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163 morbidly | |
adv.病态地 | |
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164 apothecary | |
n.药剂师 | |
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165 arsenic | |
n.砒霜,砷;adj.砷的 | |
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166 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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167 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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168 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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169 propitious | |
adj.吉利的;顺利的 | |
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170 awning | |
n.遮阳篷;雨篷 | |
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171 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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172 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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173 arduous | |
adj.艰苦的,费力的,陡峭的 | |
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174 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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175 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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176 undo | |
vt.解开,松开;取消,撤销 | |
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177 whit | |
n.一点,丝毫 | |
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178 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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179 reposeful | |
adj.平稳的,沉着的 | |
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180 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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181 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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182 manliness | |
刚毅 | |
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183 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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184 plying | |
v.使用(工具)( ply的现在分词 );经常供应(食物、饮料);固定往来;经营生意 | |
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185 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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186 unprecedented | |
adj.无前例的,新奇的 | |
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187 lavishing | |
v.过分给予,滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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188 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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189 needy | |
adj.贫穷的,贫困的,生活艰苦的 | |
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190 wrung | |
绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 ); 握紧(尤指别人的手); 把(湿衣服)拧干; 绞掉(水) | |
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191 delinquent | |
adj.犯法的,有过失的;n.违法者 | |
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192 redeemed | |
adj. 可赎回的,可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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193 earnings | |
n.工资收人;利润,利益,所得 | |
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194 trepidation | |
n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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195 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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196 ovation | |
n.欢呼,热烈欢迎,热烈鼓掌 | |
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197 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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198 kindle | |
v.点燃,着火 | |
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199 cliques | |
n.小集团,小圈子,派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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200 vernacular | |
adj.地方的,用地方语写成的;n.白话;行话;本国语;动植物的俗名 | |
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201 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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203 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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204 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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205 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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206 devotedly | |
专心地; 恩爱地; 忠实地; 一心一意地 | |
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207 ardently | |
adv.热心地,热烈地 | |
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208 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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209 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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210 invaluable | |
adj.无价的,非常宝贵的,极为贵重的 | |
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211 laboring | |
n.劳动,操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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212 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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213 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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214 labors | |
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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215 penury | |
n.贫穷,拮据 | |
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216 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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217 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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218 copiously | |
adv.丰富地,充裕地 | |
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219 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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220 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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221 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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222 upbraid | |
v.斥责,责骂,责备 | |
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223 abatement | |
n.减(免)税,打折扣,冲销 | |
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224 agog | |
adj.兴奋的,有强烈兴趣的; adv.渴望地 | |
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225 thaw | |
v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
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226 auspicious | |
adj.吉利的;幸运的,吉兆的 | |
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227 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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228 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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229 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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230 metropolis | |
n.首府;大城市 | |
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231 heralded | |
v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 );宣布(好或重要) | |
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232 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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233 prospective | |
adj.预期的,未来的,前瞻性的 | |
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234 sumptuous | |
adj.豪华的,奢侈的,华丽的 | |
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