SENSATIONAL1 AND ARTISTIC2 ACTING3.—CHARACTERS OF PHYSICAL
AND MENTAL REALISM.—ROLLA.—TELL.—DAMON.—BRUTUS.—
VIRGINIUS.—SPARTACUS.—METAMORA.
A nation beginning its career as a colony is naturally dependent on the parent country for its earliest examples in culture. Some time must elapse; wealth, leisure, and other conditions favorable to spiritual enrichment and free aspiration5 must be developed, before it can create ideals of its own and achieve æsthetic triumphs in accordance with them. Such was the case with America. Its mental dependence6 on England continued long after its civil allegiance had ceased. Little by little, however, the colonial temper and servile habit were repudiated8 in one province after another of the national activity. Jefferson was our first audacious and fruitful original thinker in politics. In painting, Stuart arose as a bold and profound master, with no teacher but nature. In fiction, Cooper opened a rich field, and reaped a harvest of imperishable renown10. In religion, the inspired genius of Channing appeared with a leavening11 impulse which still works. And in poetry, Bryant was the earliest who treated indigenous12 themes with a distinction which has made his name ineffaceable.
In no other region of the national life was the colonial dependence so complete and so prolonged as in the drama. The chief plays and actors alike were imported. Scarcely did anything else dare to lift its head on the theatrical13 boards. All was servile imitation or lifeless reproduction, until Forrest fought his way to the front, burst into fame, and by the conspicuous14 brilliance15 of his success heralded17 a new day for his profession in this country. Forrest, as an eloquent18 writer said a quarter of a century ago, was the first great native actor who brought to the illustration of Shakspeare and other poets a genius essentially19 American and at the same time individual,—a genius distinguished20 by its freedom from all trammels and subservience21 to schools, by its force
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in a self-reliance which seemed loyalty22 to nature, and by its freshness in an ideal which gave to all his efforts a certain moral elevation,—a genius which, after every deduction23, still remained as a something peculiarly noble and enkindling, highly original in itself, and distinctively26 American. This is certainly his historic place; and it was perhaps more fortunate than calamitous28 that he was left in his early years so largely without teachers and without models, to develop his own resources in his early wanderings as a strolling player in the West by direct experience of the soul within him and direct observation of the impassioned unconventional life about him. He was thus forced to shape out of the mint of his own nature the form and stamp and coloring of his conceptions. There was fitness and significance in such a genius as his maturing and pouring itself out under the shade of the Western woods, rising up amid their grandeur30 clear and simple as a spring, till, fed and strengthened, it leaped forth31 fresh and thundering as a torrent32.
In characterizing Forrest as a tragedian by the epithet34 American, it is necessary that we should understand what is meant by the word in such a connection. We mean that he was an intense ingrained democrat35. Democracy asserts the superiority of man to his accidents. Its genius is contemptuous of titular37 claims or extrinsic38 conditions in comparison with intrinsic truth and merit. Its glance pierces through all pompous39 circumstances and pretences40, to the personal reality of the man. If that be royal and divine, it is ready to worship; if not, it pays no false or hollow tribute, no matter what outward prestige of attraction there may be or what clamor of threats. That is the proper temper and historic ideal of our republic; and that was Forrest in the very centre of his soul, both as a man and as an actor.
But his individuality was in the general sense as deeply and positively41 human as it was American or democratic. That is to say, he was an affirmative, believing, sympathetic character, not a skeptical42, negative, or sneering43 one. He so vividly45 loved in their plain and concrete reality his own parents, brothers and sisters, friends, native land, that he could give vivid expression to such sentiments in abstract generality without galvanizing his nerves with any artificial volition46. His affections preponderated47 over his antipathies48. He was not fond of badinage49, but full of
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downright earnestness. He loved the sense of being, enjoyed it, was grateful for its privileges, and delighted to contemplate50 the phenomena51 of society. He had the keenest love for little children, and the deepest reverence52 for old age. He valued the goods of life highly, and labored54 to accumulate them. He had a vivid sensibility for the beauties of nature. He had an enthusiastic admiration55 of great men, and a ruling desire for the prizes of honor and fame. His soul thrilled at the recital56 of glorious deeds, and his tears started at a great thought or a sublime57 image or a tender sentiment. Friendship for man, love for woman, a kindling25 patriotism59, a profound feeling of the domestic ties, a burning passion for liberty, and an unaffected reverence for God, were dominant62 chords in his nature. He had no patience with those vapid63 weaklings, those disappointed aspirants65 or negative dreamers, who think everything on earth a delusion66 or a temptation, nature a cheat, man a phantom67 or a fool, history a toy, life a wretched chaos69, death an unknown horror, and nothing between worth an effort. He was, on the contrary, a wholesome70 realist, full of throbbing72 vitality73 and eagerness, embracing the natural goods of existence with a sharp relish75, and putting a worshipful estimate on the ideal glories of humanity. Intellect, instinct, and affection in him were all alive,—free and teeming76 springs of personal power. This rich fulness of positive life and passion in himself both opened to him the elemental secrets of experience and enabled him to play effectively on the sympathies of other men.
Let such a man, trained under such circumstances, endowed with a magnificent physique, overflowing78 with energy and fire, become an actor, and it is easy to see what will be the leading ideal exemplified in his personations. Exactly what this dominant ideal was will be illustrated79 in the descriptions which are to follow. But a clear statement of it in advance will aid us the better to appreciate those descriptions.
The rank of any work of art is determined80 by the ideal expressed in it, and the accuracy of its expression. As has been well said, no art better illustrates81 this fact than the art of acting. Take, for instance, the genius of Kemble. His ideal was authority. He was never so impressive as in the illustration of a king or ruler. In Coriolanus, in Macbeth, in Wolsey, in every character that gave opportunity for it, he was ever expressing the sense of
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mental or official power as the noblest of human attributes. So the ideal of Cooke was skepticism. He was always best as a social infidel, uttering the bitterest sarcasms84. It was this faculty85 that rendered his Man of the World so great a triumph. The ideal of Kean, again, was retribution. He was grandest as the sufferer and avenger86 of great wrongs. And the ideal of Macready was that of Kemble modified by its more fretful and impatient expression, making him ever most effective in the display of some form of pride or wounded honor, as in Werner, Richelieu, Melantius.
In distinction from the special ideals of these and the other most celebrated88 tragedians of the past, the ideal of Forrest was unquestionably the democratic ideal of universal manhood, a deep sense of natural and moral heroism89, sincerity90, friendship, and faith. This imperial self-reliance and instinctive91 honesty, this unperverted and unterrified personality poised92 in the grandest natural virtues95 of humanity, is the key-note or common chord to the whole range of his conceptions, on which all their varieties are modulated96, from Rolla and Tell to Metamora and Spartacus, from Damon and Brutus to Othello and Lear. Fearless, faithful manhood penetrates97 them all, is the great elevating principle which makes them harmonics of one essential ideal. To have exemplified so sublime an ideal, in so many grand forms, each as clearly defined as a sculptured statue, during a half-century, before applauding millions of his countrymen, is what stamps Forrest and makes him worthy98 of his fame, singling him out in the rising epoch99 of his country's greatness as one of the most imposing100 and not unworthiest of her types of nationality.
There are two contrasted styles of the dramatic art which have long been recognized and discriminated101 in the two schools of acting, the Romantic and the Classic. Before proceeding102 to the best rôles of Forrest in his earlier period, it is indispensable that we clearly seize the essence of the distinction between these two schools. Otherwise we shall fail to see the originality103 and importance of the relation in which he stood to them.
The one school, in its separate purity, is sensational or natural, exhibiting characters of physical and mental realism; the other is reflective or artistic, representing characters of imaginative portraiture104. The former springs from strong and sincere im
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pulses, the latter from clear and mastered perceptions. That is based on the instincts and passions, and is predominantly imitative or reproductive; this rests on the intellect and imagination, and is predominantly creative. The one projects the thing in reflex life, as it exists in reality; the other reveals it, as in a glass. That is nature brought alive on the stage; this is art repeating nature refined at one mental remove. They resemble and contrast each other as the hurtless image of the bird mirrored in the lake would correspond with its concrete cause above, could it, while yet remaining a mere105 reflection, address our other senses as it now does the eye alone. The sensational acting of crude nature is characteristically sympathetic and mimetic in its origin, enslaved, expensive of force, and mainly seated in the nervous centres of the body. The artistic acting of the accomplished107 master is characteristically spiritual and self-creative in its origin, free, economical of exertion108, and mainly seated in the nervous centres of the brain. The one actor lives his part, and is the character he represents; the other plays his part, and truly portrays109 the character he imagines.
The Classic style is self-controlled, stately, deliberately110 does what it consciously predetermines to do, trusts as much to the expressive111 power of attitudes and poses as to facial changes and voice. It elaborates its rôle by systematic112 critical study, leaving nothing to chance, to caprice, or to instinct. The Romantic style permeates113 itself with the situations and feeling of its rôle, and then is full of impetuosity and abandon, giving free vent29 to the passions of the part and open swing to the energies of the performer. The one is marked by careful consistency114 and studious finish, the other by impulsive115 truth, abrupt116 force, electric bursts. That abounds117 in the refinements119 of polished art, this abounds in the sensational effects of aroused and uncovered nature. The former is adapted to delight the cultivated Few, the latter thrills the unsophisticated Many.
Now, it was the originality of Forrest that he combined in a most fresh and impressive manner the fundamental characteristics of both these schools,—in his first period with an undoubted preponderance of the characters of physical realism, but in his second period with an unquestionable preponderance of the characters of imaginative portraiture. He was from the first both an artistic and
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a sensational actor. None of his great predecessors120 ever came upon the stage with conceptions more patiently studied, wrought121 up with a more complete consistency in every part, or with the perspective, the foreshortening, the lights and shades, arranged with more conscientious122 fidelity123. His idea of a character might sometimes, perhaps, be questioned, but the clearness with which he grasped his idea, and the thorough harmony with which he put it forth and sustained it, could not be questioned. In this respect he was one of the most consummate124 of dramatic artists. And as for the other side of the picture, the spontaneous sincerity and irresistible125 force of his demonstrations126 of the great passions of the human heart were almost unprecedented127 in the effects they wrought.
In an accurate use of the words, sensational acting would be acting that took its origin in the senses and passed thence through the muscles without the intervention128 of the mind. This is the acting learned by the parrot, the dog, or the monkey, and by the mere mimic130. Artistic acting, on the other hand, is acting which originates in the creative mind and is freely sent thence through the proper channels of expression. The true definition of art is feeling passed through thought and fixed131 in form. When the intellectualized feeling is fixed in its just form, it should be made over to the automatic nerves, and the brain be relieved from the care of its oversight132 and direction. Then playing becomes beautiful, because it is at ease in unconscious spontaneity. Otherwise, it often becomes repulsive133 to the delicate observer, because it is laborious134. This was the one defect of Forrest which lamed135 him in the supreme136 height of his great art. His brain continued to do the work. There was often too much volition in his play, causing a muscular friction137 and an organic expense which made the sensitive shrink, and which only the robust138 could afford. But no one was more completely an artist in always passing his emotions through his thought, knowing exactly what he meant to do and how he would do it.
The word melodramatic properly describes an action in which the movement is physical rather than mental, and in which more is made of the interest of the situations than of the revelation of the characters. For example, the pantomimic expression of great passions is melodramatic. In this sense Forrest often produced
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the highest effects where the subject and the scene, the logic139 of the situation, required it. But in the popular sense of the term, which makes it synonymous with crudity141 and falsity, hollow extravagance, a vulgar aiming at a sensation by exaggeration or artifices142 which disregard the harmonious143 fitness of things, no actor could be more free from the vice144. He was always sincere, always earnest, always careful of the sustained congruity145 of his representation. And within these limits, surely the more intense the sensation he could produce, the better. Sensation is the very thing desired in attending a play. The spectators know enough for their present purpose; they want to be made to feel more keenly, more purely146, more nobly. Power and perfection on the lowest level are superior to weakness and failure on that level, and are not incompatible147 with power and perfection on all the higher levels, but rather tributary148 to them. Did we not desire to be strong rather than weak, to be handsome rather than ugly, to be admired rather than scorned, all aspiration would cease, and the human race stagnate149 and end. To be capable of such astounding150 outbursts of power and passion as to electrify151 all who behold152, curdle153 their very marrow154, and cause them ever after to remember you with wondering interest and fruitful imitation, is a glorious endowment, worthy of our envy. To sneer44 at it as sensationalism gives proof of a mean disposition155 or a morbid156 soul.
In the same sense in which Forrest was melodramatic, God and Nature themselves are so. What can be more genuinely sensational than Niagara, Mont Blanc, the earthquake, the tempest, the forked flash of the lightning, the crashing roll of the thunder, the crouch158 of the tiger, the dart159 of the anaconda, the shriek160 of the swooping161 eagle, the prance162 of the war-horse in his proud pomp? And the attributes of all these belong to man, with additions of nameless grandeur, terror, and beauty beside, making him an incarnate163 representative of God on the earth. To see Forrest in Lear, or Salvini in Saul, is to feel this. True sensationalism, banished164 in our tame times from the selfish and servile walks of common life, is the very desideratum and glory of the Stage.
ROLLA.
One of the first characters in which Forrest enjoyed great popularity was that of Rolla, the Peruvian hero. The play of
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"The Spaniards in Peru," by Kotzebue, as rewritten by Sheridan from a paraphrase165 in English, was for a long time a favorite with the public. It brought the adventurers and wonderful achievements of the most romantic kingdom in Christendom into picturesque166 combination with the strange scenes, simplicity167, and superstition168 of the newly-discovered transatlantic world, and was full of music, pomp, pictures, poetic169 situations, and processions. In literary style, the knowing critics call it tawdry and bombastic170; in ethical171 tone, sentimental172 and inflated173. But the average audiences, especially of a former generation, were not fastidious censors174. They went to the theatre less to judge and sneer than to be moved with sympathy, enjoyment175, and admiration. And they found this play rich in strong appeals to the better instincts of their moral nature. What the blasé found turgid, affected61, or ludicrous, the unsophisticated felt to be eloquent, poetic, and noble. For the fair appreciation177 of a piece of acting, assuredly this latter point of view is preferable to the former; for tragedy is a form of poetry, and has as one of its purest functions the revelation of the moral ingredients of man, lifted, enlarged, and glorified178 in its mirror of art.
Rolla is depicted179 as simple, grand, a nobleman of nature, frank, ardent181, impulsive, magnanimous,—his own truth and heroism investing him with an invisible robe and crown of royalty182. It was a rôle precisely183 adapted to the young tragedian whose own soul it so well reflected. Endowed with all the chivalrous184 sentiments, expansive and kindling, uncurbed by the nil186 admirari standards of fashionable breeding, he could fill up every extravagant187 phrase of the part without any feeling of extravagance.
Pizarro and his followers188 are pictured throughout the play in an odious189 light, as tyrants190 assailing192 the Peruvians without provocation193 and slaughtering195 them without mercy. The sympathies of Las Casas and of the noble Alonzo have been alienated197 from their own countrymen and transferred to the barbarians199, who are represented in the most favorable colors as honest, affectionate, brave, standing200 in defence of their liberty and their altars. Alonzo, disgusted and shocked by the atrocities202 of Pizarro, has joined the Peruvians, and has been placed in conjunction with Rolla at the head of their forces. The aged33 Orozembo, seized by the Spaniards and brought before their leader, is questioned, "Who is this
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Rolla joined with Alonzo in command?" He replies, "I will answer that; for I love to repeat the hero's name. Rolla, the kinsman203 of the king, is the idol204 of our army; in war, a tiger; in peace, more gentle than the lamb. Cora was once betrothed205 to him; but, finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned his claim, to friendship and her happiness." Pizarro exclaims, "Romantic savage206! I shall meet this Rolla soon." "Thou hadst better not," replies Orozembo; "the terrors of his eye would strike thee dead."
In the next scene the way is still further prepared for the impression of his appearance. His beloved Alonzo and Cora are discerned playing with their child in front of a wood. They talk of Rolla, of his sacrifice for them, and of his noble qualities. Shouts arise, when Alonzo says, "It is Rolla setting the guard. He comes." At that instant the sonorous207 tones of his voice are heard from outside the stage, like the martial208 clang of a trumpet209, uttering the words, "Place them on the hill fronting the Spanish camp." Every eye is fixed, the whole audience lean forward as he enters, and in a flash the magnetic spell is on them, and they breathe and feel as one man. The stately ease of his athletic210 port, his deep square chest, broad shoulders, and columnar neck, his frank brow, with the mild, glowing, open eyes, the warm blood mantling211 the brave and wooing face, seize the collective sympathy of the assembly, and they break into wild cheering. He seems to stand there, in his barbaric costume and majestic212 attitude, as a romantic picture stereoscoped by nature herself. And when, in reply to the exclamation213 of Alonzo, "Rolla, my friend, my benefactor214, how can our lives repay the obligations which we owe thee?" he says, "Pass them in peace and bliss215; let Rolla witness it, and he is overpaid,"—the very soul of friendship and nobility seems to flow in the sweet music of his liquid gutturals, and the charm is complete.
From this point onward216 to the close all was moulded and wrought up in perfect keeping. He had fashioned to himself a complete image of what Rolla should be in accordance with the conception in the play, his carriage, walk, and attitudes, his style of gesture, his physiognomy, his tone and habit of voice. He had imprinted217 this idea so deeply in his brain, and had trained himself so carefully to its consistent manifestation219, that his portrayal220 on the stage had all the unity82 of design and precision of
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detail which characterize the work of a masterly painter. Instead of using canvas, pigment221, and brush, he painted his part in the air in living pantomime. In all his rôles this was his manner more and more up to the crowning period of his career.
He gave extraordinary effectiveness to the famous address which Rolla pronounces to the Peruvian warriors223 on the eve of battle, by the manly224 truth and simplicity of his delivery,—"My brave associates, partners of my toil225, my feelings, and my fame." Instead of launching forth in a swollen226 and mechanical declamation227, he spoke228 with the straightforward229 truth and the varied230 and hearty231 inflection of nature; and his honest earnestness woke responsive echoes in every breast. Like Macklin and Garrick on the English stage, Talma on the French, and Devrient on the German, Forrest on the American was a bold and original innovator232 on the inveterate233 elocutionary mannerism234 of actors embodied235 in what is universally known as theatrical delivery. For the mouthing formality, the torpid236 noisiness, the strained monotony and forced cadences238 of the routine players, these men of genius substituted—only enlarging the scale of power—the abruptness239, the changes, the conversational240 vivacity241 of tone, emphasis, and inflection, which are natural to a free man with a free voice played upon by the genuine passions of life. This was one of the chief excellences242 and attractions of Forrest throughout his professional course. He was ever a man uttering thoughts and sentiments,—not an elocutionist displaying his trade.
Alonzo, filled with a presentiment244 of death, charged his friend, in such an event, to take Cora for his wife and adopt their child. Rolla, finding after the battle that Alonzo was a prisoner, repeated his parting message to his wife. Cora's suspicion was aroused, and she accused him of deserting his friend for the sake of securing her. Then was shown a fine picture of contending emotions in Rolla. Disinterested245 and heroic to the last degree, to be charged with such baseness, and that, too, by the woman whom he loved and revered,—it stung him to the quick. Injured honor, proud indignation, mortified246 affection, and magnanimous resolution were seen flying from his soul through his form and face. He determines to rescue Alonzo by piercing to his prison and assuming his place. Disguised as a monk129, he asks the sentinel to admit him to the prisoner. Being refused, he tries to bribe247 the sentinel.
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This fails, and he appeals to him by nobler motives248, revealing himself as the friend of Alonzo, who has come to bear his last words to his wife and child. The sentinel relents. Rolla lifts his eyes to heaven, and says, "O holy Nature, thou dost never plead in vain!" and rushes into the arms of his friend. After an earnest controversy249, Alonzo changes dress with him, and escapes, Rolla exclaiming, with a sigh of satisfaction, "Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me? This is the first time I ever deceived man. If I am wrong, forgive me, God of Truth!"
All this was done with a sincerity and energy irresistibly250 contagious251. And when Elvira has armed him with a dagger252 and led him to the couch of the sleeping Pizarro, when, instead of slaying253 his foe255, he wakens him and drops the weapon, showing how superior a heathen can be to a Christian256, and when the tyrant191 calls in his guards and orders them to seize the hapless Elvira, the contrast of the confronting Rolla and Pizarro, the example of godlike magnanimity and its foil of unnatural257 depravity, stands in an illumination of moral splendor258 that thrills every heart.
Two more scenes remained to carry the triumph of Forrest in the part to its culmination259. The child of Alonzo and Cora, in ignorance of who he is, has been captured by the Spanish soldiers, and is brought in. Pizarro bids them toss the Peruvian imp9 into the sea. With a start and look of alternating horror and love, Rolla cries, "Gracious Heaven, it is Alonzo's child!" "Ha!" exclaims Pizarro: "welcome, thou pretty hostage. Now is Alonzo again in my power." After vain expostulation, Rolla prostrates261 himself before the cruel captain, saying, "Behold me at thy feet, thy willing slave, if thou wilt262 release the child." Other actors, including the cold and stately Kemble, as they spoke these words, sank directly on their knees. But Forrest introduced a by-play of startling power, full of the passionate263 warmth of nature. Regarding Pizarro with an amazement264 made of surprise and scorn waxing into noble anger, he is seen making the strongest exertion to refrain from rushing on the tyrant and striking him down. He begins to kneel. Half-way in the slow descent, repugnance265 to stoop his manhood before such baseness checks him, and he partly rises, when a glance at the child overcomes his hesitation266, and he sinks swiftly on his knees. The Spaniard replies, "Rolla,
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thou art free to go; the boy remains267." With the rapidity of lightning, Rolla snatches the child and lifts him over his left shoulder, and, waving his sword, cries, in clarion268 accents, "Who moves one step to follow me dies on the spot!" He strikes down three of the guards who oppose him, and rushes across a bridge at the back of the stage. The soldiers fire, and a shot strikes him as he vanishes with the child held proudly aloft. The view changes to the Peruvian court. The king is seen with his nobles, and with Alonzo and Cora distracted at the loss of their child. Shouts are heard. "Rolla! Rolla!" The hero staggers in, bleeding, ghastly, and faint, and places the child in its mother's arms, with an exquisite269 touch of nature first drawing the little face down to his own and planting a kiss on it, staining it from his bleeding wounds in the act. She exclaims, "Oh, God, there is blood upon him!" He replies, "'Tis mine, Cora." Alonzo says, "Thou art dying, Rolla." He answers, faintly, "For thee and Cora." One long gasp270, a wavering on his feet, a convulsion of his chest, and he sinks in an inanimate heap.
The truth and power with which all this was done were attested271 by the crowds that thronged273 to see it, their intense emotion, and the universal praise for many years awarded to it.
TELL.
Another chosen part of Forrest, in which he was received with extraordinary favor, was that of William Tell. This play, like the former, had a basis of untutored love and magnanimity; but the romantic heroism of the character was less remote to the American mind, less strained in ideality, than that of Rolla. The plot was simpler, the language more eloquent, domestic love more prominent, and patriotic274 enthusiasm more emphatic275. In fact, the three constant keys of the action are parental276 affection, ardent attachment277 to native land, and the burning passion for liberty, corresponding with three central elements of strength in the personality of the actor now drawn278 to the part with a hungry instinct.
In preparation for this rôle, Forrest had first the native congruity of his own soul with it. Then he studied the character in the text of Knowles with the utmost care, analyzing279 every speech and situation. Furthermore, he saturated280 his imagination with the spirit of the life and legends of Switzerland, by means of
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histories, books of travel, and engravings, till its people and their customs, its torrents281, ravines, pastures, chalets, cloud-capped peaks, and storms, were distinct and real to him. In the next place, he paid great attention to his make-up, arraying himself in a garb282 scrupulously283 accurate to the fashion of a Switzer peasant and huntsman.
No actor placed greater stress on a fitting costume than Forrest. He knew its subtle influences as well as its more obvious effects. The more vital unity and sensitiveness we have, the more important each adjunct to our personality becomes. A man who is a sloppy284 mess of fragments is not influenced much by anything, and in return does not much influence anything; but to a man whose body and soul form, as it were, one vascular285 piece, the action and reaction between him and everything with which he is in close relation is of great consequence. The dress of such a person is another self, corresponding in some sort with the outer man as his skin does with the inner man.
When Forrest came upon the stage with his bow and quiver, belted tunic286 and tight buskins, with free, elastic287 bearing, and high tread, deep-breathing breast, resounding288 voice, his whole shape and moving moulded to the robust and sinewy289 manners of the archer290 living in the free, open airs between the grass and the snow, he was an embodied picture of the legendary291 Swiss mountaineer. At the first sight a keen sensation was produced in the audience, for it kindled292 all the enthusiastic associations fondly bound up with this image in the American imagination.
It is morning, the sunrise creeping down the flanks of the mountains and spreading over the lake and valley, in the background Albert shooting at a mark, as Tell appears in the distance returning from an early chase. Approaching, he sees the boy, and pauses to watch him shoot. Poised on a crag, leaping with eager gaze of fondness fixed on the little marksman, he looks like the statue of a chamois-hunter on the cliffs of Mont Blanc, carved and set there by some superhuman hand. Then the magic voice, breathing love blent in freedom, is heard:
"Well aimed, young archer!
There plays the skill will thin the chamois herd293,
And bring the lammergeyer from the cloud
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To earth; perhaps do greater feats,—perhaps
Make man its quarry295, when he dares to tread
Upon his fellow-man. That little arm
May pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,
And from their chains a prostrate260 people lift
To liberty. I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day. What, Albert!"
The lad, with a glad cry of "Ah, my father!" flies into his embrace, while in unison296, from pit to gallery, a thousand hearts throb71 warmly.
One point of very great beauty and power in this tragedy is the remarkable298 manner in which the author has combined the impassioned love of national liberty with the impassioned love of the natural scenery associated with that liberty. To these numerous descriptions, marked by the highest declamatory merit, Forrest did ample justice with his magnificent voice.
Indeed, elocutionary force and felicity were ever a central charm in his acting. He did not thrust the gift ostentatiously forward for its own sake, but kept it subordinated to its uses. His first aim in vocal299 delivery was always to articulate the thought clearly,—make it stand out in unmistakable distinctness; his second, to breathe the true feeling of the words in his tones; his third, by rate, pitch, inflection, accent, and pause, to give some imaginative suggestion of the scenery, of the thought, and thus set it in its proper environment. In the first aim he rarely failed; in the second he generally succeeded; and he often triumphed in the third. One example, which no man of sensibility who heard him pronounce it could ever forget, was this:
"I have sat
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge300
The wind came roaring,—I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.
You know the jutting301 cliff, round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty302 room
For two abreast304 to pass? O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust201 followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid305 brink306,
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And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wished me there,—the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head
And cried in thraldom307 to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!"
And the following is another example, still happier in the climax308 of its eloquence309:
"Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow:
O'er the abyss his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed310 him proudly up. Instinctively311
I bent312 my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight
Of measuring the ample range beneath
And round about: absorbed, he heeded313 not
The death that threatened him. I could not shoot—
'Twas liberty! I turned my bow aside,
And let him soar away."
Old Melctal, the father of Tell's wife, is led in by Albert, blind and trembling, his eyes having been plucked from their sockets314 by order of Gesler. As Tell, horror-struck, listened to the frightful315 story from the lips of the old man, the revelation of the feelings it stirred in him was one of the most genuine and moving pieces of emotional portraiture ever shown to an audience. It was an unveiled storm of contending pity, amazement, wrath316, tenderness, tears, loathing317, and revenge. Every muscle worked, his soul seemed wrapt and shaken with thunders and lightnings of passion, which alternately darkened and illumined his features, and he seemed going mad, until at last he seized his weapons and darted318 away in search of the monster whose presence profaned319 the earth, crying, as he went, "Father, thou shalt be revenged, thou shalt be revenged!" The power of this effort is shown in the fact that more than one critic compared his struggle with his own feelings under the narrative320 of Melctal to his subsequent struggle with the guards of Gesler, when, like a lion amidst a pack of curs, he hurled321 them in every direction, and held them at bay till overpowered by sheer numbers. The mental struggle was quite as visibly defined and terrible as the physical one.
In this play Forrest presented four successive examples of that
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proud assertion of an independent, high-minded man which has been said to be the real type of his character as a tragedian. These specimens322 were differenced from one another with such clean strokes and bold colors that it was an æsthetic as well as a moral luxury to behold him enact323 them. The first was a trenchant324, sarcastic325 scorn of baseness, spoken when he sees the servile peasants bow to Gesler's cap, and the hireling soldiery driving them to it:
"They do it, Verner;
They do it! Look! Ne'er call me man again!
Look, look! Have I the outline of that caitiff
Who to the outraged326 earth doth bend the head
His God did rear for him to heaven? Base pack!
Lay not your loathsome328 touch upon the thing
God made in his own image. Crouch yourselves;
'Tis your vocation194, which you should not call
On free-born men to share with you, who stand
Erect329 except in presence of their God
Alone."
The second example is the stern stateliness of unshaken heroism with which he confronts insult and threats of torture and death, when, chained and baited by the soldiers, Sarnem bids him down on his knees and beg for mercy. They try to force him to the ground, inciting330 one another with cowardly ferocity to strike him, put out his eyes, or lop off a limb. His bearing and the soul it revealed were such as corresponded with the descriptive comment wrung331 from the onlooking332 Gesler:
"Can I believe my eyes? He smiles. He grasps
His chains as he would make a weapon of them
To lay his smiter333 dead. What kind of man
Is this, that looks in thraldom more at large
Than they who lay it on him!
A heart accessible as his to trembling
The rock or marble hath. They more do fear
To inflict334 than he to suffer. Each one calls
Upon the other to accomplish that
Himself hath not the manhood to begin.
He has brought them to a pause, and there they stand
Like things entranced by some magician's spell,
Wondering that they are masters of their organs
And not their faculties335."
The third example is fearless defiance336 of tyrannical power, when, bound and helpless, he confronts the cowering337 Gesler with
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majestic superiority. The Austrian governor says, "Ha, beware! think on thy chains!" Tell replies, with swelling338 bosom340 and flashing eyes,—
"Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper341, to the teeth,
Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains!
Show me the link of them which, could it speak,
Would give its evidence against my word.
Think on my chains! 'They are my vouchers342, which
I show to heaven, as my acquittance from
The impious swerving343 of abetting344 thee
In mockery of its Lord!' Think on my chains!
How came they on me?"
The fourth example is that of a grand, positive exultation345 in the moral beauty and glory of human nature in its undesecrated experiences. In response to the contemptible347 threat of the despot that his vengeance348 can kill, and that that is enough, Tell raises his face proudly, stretches out his arm, and says, in rich, strong accents,—
"No: not enough:
It cannot take away the grace of life,—
Its comeliness349 of look that virtue94 gives,—
Its port erect with consciousness of truth,—
Its rich attire350 of honorable deeds,—
Its fair report that's rife351 on good men's tongues:
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun,
Or with polluted finger tarnish352 it."
The capacities of parental and filial affection in tragic353 pathos354 are wrought up by Knowles in the last two acts with consummate and unrelenting skill. The varied interest and suspense355 of the dialogue and action between Tell and Albert are harrowing, as, neither knowing that the other is in the power of Gesler, they are suddenly brought together. Instinct teaches them to appear as strangers. The struggle to suppress their feelings and play their part under the imminent356 danger is followed with painful excitement as the plot thickens and the dread357 catastrophe358 seems hurrying. Tell, ordered to instant execution, seeks to speak a few last words to his son, under the pretext359 of sending a farewell message to his Albert by the stranger boy. In a voice
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whose condensed and tremulous murmuring betrays all the crucified tenderness it refuses to express, he says,—
"Thou dost not know me, boy; and well for thee
Thou dost not. I'm the father of a son
About thy age; I dare not tell thee where
To find him, lest he should be found of those
'Twere not so safe for him to meet with. Thou,
I see, wast born, like him, upon the hills:
If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thraldom, he
May chance to cross thee; if he should, I pray thee,
Relate to him what has been passing here,
And say I laid my hand upon thy head,
And said to thee—if he were here, as thou art,
Thus would I bless him: Mayst thou live, my boy,
To see thy country free, or die for her
As I do!"
Here he turns away with a slight convulsive movement mightily361 held down, and Sarnem exclaims, "Mark, he weeps!" The whole audience weep with him, too; as well they may, for the concentration of affecting circumstances in the scene forms one of the masterpieces of dramatic art. And Forrest played it in every minute particular with an intensity362 of nature and a closeness of truth effective to all, but agonizing363 to the sympathetic. His last special stroke of art was the natural yet cunningly-prepared contrast between the extreme nervous anxiety and agitation364 that marked his demeanor365 through all the preliminary stages of the fearful trial-shot for life and liberty, and his final calmness. Until the apple was on the head of his kneeling boy, and he had taken his position, he was all perturbation and misgiving366. Then this spirit seemed to pass out of him with an irresolute367 shudder369, and instantly he confirmed himself into an amazing steadiness. Every limb braced370 as marble, and as motionless, he stood, like a sculptured archer that looked life yet neither breathed nor stirred. The arrow flies, the boy bounds forward unhurt, with the transfixed apple in his hand. Tell then slays371 Gesler, and, dilating372 above the prostrated373 Austrian banner, amidst universal exultation both on and off the stage, closes the play with the shouted words,—
"To arms! and let no sword be sheathed374
Until our land, from cliff to lake, is free!
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun!"
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DAMON.
The Damon of Forrest perhaps surpassed, in popular effect, all his other early performances. The romantic story of the devotion of the ancient Greek pair of friends, as narrated375 by Valerius Maximus, has had a diffusion376 in literature and produced an impression on the imaginations of men almost without a parallel. This is because it appeals so penetratingly to a sentiment so deep and universal. Above the mere materialized instincts of life there is hardly a feeling of the human heart so profound and vivid as the craving378 for a genuine, tender, and inviolable friendship. After all the disappointments of experience, after all the hardening results of custom, strife379, and fraud, this desire still remains alive, however thrust back and hidden. Remove the disguises and pretences, even of the aged and worldly-minded, and it is surprising in the souls of how many of them the spring of this baffled yet importunate380 desire will be found running and murmuring in careful concealment381. In the hurry and worry of our practical age, so crowded with toil, rivalry382, and distraction383, the sentiment is less gratified in real life than ever, a fact which in many cases only makes the ideal still more attractive. Accordingly, when the sacred old tale of the Pythagorean friends was wrought into a play by Banim and Shiel, it struck the taste of the public at once. The play, too, had exceptional rhetorical merit, and was constructed with a simple plot, marked by a constant movement full of moral force and pathos.
Forrest had seen the rôle of Damon filled by Cooper with transcendent dignity and energy, and the remembrance had been burned into his brain. It was one of the most finished and famous impersonations of that celebrated actor, who charged it with honest passion and clothed it with rugged385 grandeur. The representation by Cooper, though unequal and careless, was so just in its general outlines to the idea of the author, that when Forrest first hesitatingly essayed the character, he had as a disciple386 of truth, perforce, largely to repeat the example. But he came to the part with a fresher youth, a more concentrated nature, a keener ambition, and a more elaborate study; and, original in many details as well as in the more conscientious working up of the harmony of the different scenes, it was soon conceded that
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in the portrayal as a whole and in the unprecedented excitement it produced he had eclipsed his distinguished English forerunner387 on the American stage. He entered into the spirit and scenery of the subject with so intelligent and vehement388 an earnestness that he seemed not to act, but to be, Damon, speaking the words spontaneously created in his soul on the spot, not uttering any memorized lesson. It was like a resurrection of Syracuse, with the despot and his tools plotting the overthrow389 of its republican government, and the faithful friends seeking to prevent the success of the scheme. The spectators forgot that the Sicilian city had vanished ages since, and Dionysius and Pythias and Procles and Calanthe all gone to dust. The reality was before them, and its living shapes moved and spoke to the spell-bound sense.
The Damon of Forrest was in every respect grandly conceived and grandly embodied. His noble form carried proudly aloft in weighty ease, clad in Grecian garb, with long robe and sandals, corresponded with the justice and dignity of his soul. He was in no sense a sentimentalist or fanatic390, but a man with intellect and heart balanced in conscience,—equally a patriot58, a philosopher, and a friend,—his sentiments set in the great virtues of human nature loyal to the gods, his convictions and love not mere instincts but embedded391 in his reason and his honor. Yet, trained as he had been in the lofty ethics392 of Pythagoras, the austere393 discipline deadened not, but only curbed185, the tremendous elemental passions of his being. Beneath his cultivated stateliness and playfulness the impetuous volume and energy of his natural feelings made them, reposing394, grand as mountains clad with verdure, aroused, terrible as volcanoes spouting395 fire. An inferior actor would be tempted396 to weaken or slur397 everything else in order to give the higher relief to the great central topic of friendship. It was the rare excellence243 of Forrest that he gave as patient an attention and as sustained a treatment to the gravity and zealous398 devotion of the senator, the thoughtful habit of the scholar, the fondness of the husband and father, as he did to the touching400 affection of the friend, in his portraiture of Damon.
He makes his appearance in the street, on his way to the Senate, when he encounters a crowd of venal401 officers and soldiers thronging402 to the citadel403, brandishing404 their swords and cheering
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for the despot. He says, with a musing405 air first, then quickly passing through indignant scorn to mournful expostulation,—
"Then Dionysius has o'erswayed it? Well,
It is what I expected: there is now
No public virtue left in Syracuse.
What should be hoped from a degenerate406,
Corrupted407, and voluptuous408 populace,
When highly-born and meanly-minded nobles
Would barter409 freedom for a great man's feast,
And sell their country for a smile? The stream
With a more sure eternal tendency
Seeks not the ocean, than a sensual race
Their own devouring410 slavery. I am sick
At my inmost heart of everything I see
And hear! O Syracuse, I am at last
Forced to despair of thee! And yet thou art
My land of birth,—thou art my country still;
And, like an unkind mother, thou hast left
The claims of holiest nature in my heart,
And I must sorrow for, not hate thee!"
The soldiery shout,—
"For Dionysius! Ho, for Dionysius!
Damon. Silence, obstreperous411 traitors412!
Your throats offend the quiet of the city;
And thou, who standest foremost of these knaves414,
Stand back and answer me, a Senator,
What have you done?"
And then he slowly leans towards them with dilating front, and sways the whole crowd away from him as if by the invisible momentum415 of some surcharging magnetism416.
"Procles. But that I know 'twill gall297 thee,
Thou poor and talking pedant417 of the school
Of dull Pythagoras, I'd let thee make
Conjecture418 from thy senses: But, in hope
'Twill stir your solemn anger, learn from me,
We have ta'en possession of the citadel.
Damon. Patience, ye good gods! a moment's patience,
That these too ready hands may not enforce
The desperate precept419 of my rising heart,—
Thou most contemptible and meanest tool
That ever tyrant used!"
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Procles in a rage calls on his soldiers to advance and hew420 their upbraider in pieces. At this moment Pythias enters, sees how affairs stand, and, hastening to the side of his friend, calls out,—
"Back! back! I say. He hath his armor on,—
I am his sword, shield, helm; I but enclose
Myself, and my own heart, and heart's blood, when
I stand before him thus.
Damon. False-hearted cravens!
We are but two,—my Pythias, my halved422 heart!—
My Pythias, and myself! but dare come on,
Ye hirelings of a tyrant! dare advance
A foot, or raise an arm, or bend a brow,
And ye shall learn what two such arms can do
Amongst a thousand of you."
A brief altercation423 follows, and the mob are appeased424 and depart, leaving the two friends alone together. They proceed to unbosom themselves, fondly communing with each other, alike concerning the interests of the State and their private relations, especially the approaching marriage of Pythias with the beautiful Calanthe. The unstudied ease and loving confidence of the dialogue, in voice and manner, plainly revealing the history of love that joined their souls, their cherished luxury of interior trust and surrender to each other, formed an artistic and most pleasing contrast to the hot and rough passages which had preceded. And when the fair Calanthe herself breaks in upon them, and Damon, unbending still more from his senatorial absorption and philosophic426 solemnity, changes his affectionate familiarity with Pythias into a sporting playfulness with her, the colloquial427 lightness and tender banter428 were a delightful429 bit of skill and nature, carrying the previous contrast to a still higher pitch. It was a lifting and lighting430 of the scene as gracious and sweet as sunshine smiling on flowers where the tempest had been frowning on rocks.
Learning that the recreant431 servants of the State are about to confer the dictatorship of Syracuse on Dionysius, Damon speeds to the capitol, to resist, and, if possible, defeat, the purpose. Undaunted by the studious insolence432 of his reception, almost single-handed he maintains a long combat with the conspirators433, battling their design step by step. It was a most exciting scene on all accounts, and was steadily434 marked by delicate gradations to a climax of overwhelming power. He wielded435 by turns all the
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weapons of argument, invective436, persuasion437, command, and defiance, exhibiting magnificent specimens of impassioned declamation, towering among the meaner men around him, an illuminated438 mould of heroic manhood whereon every god did seem to have set his seal.
Finally, they pass the fatal vote, and cry,—
"All hail, then, Dionysius the king.
Damon. Oh, all ye gods, my country! my country!
Dionysius. And that we may have leisure to put on
With fitting dignity our garb of power,
We do now, first assuming our own right,
Command from this, that was the senate-house,
Those rash, tumultuous men, who still would tempt36
The city's peace with wild vociferation
And vain contentious440 rivalry. Away!
Damon. I stand,
A senator, within the senate-house!
Dion. Traitor413! and dost thou dare me to my face?
Damon. Traitor! to whom? to thee?—O Syracuse,
Is this thy registered doom441? To have no meaning
For the proud names of liberty and virtue,
But as some regal braggart442 sets it down
In his vocabulary? And the sense,
The broad, bright sense that Nature hath assigned them
In her infallible volume, interdicted443
Forever from thy knowledge; or if seen,
And known, and put in use, denounced as treasonable,
And treated thus?—No, Dionysius, no!
I am no traitor! But, in mine allegiance
To my lost country, I proclaim thee one!
Dion. My guards, there! Ho!
Damon. What! hast thou, then, invoked444
Thy satellites already?
Dion. Seize him!
Damon. Death's the best gift to one that never yet
Wished to survive his country. Here are men
Fit for the life a tyrant can bestow445!
Let such as these live on."
Forrest was so absolutely possessed446 by the sentiment of these passages, that if, instead of standing in the Senate of Syracuse and representing her little forlorn-hope of patriots447, he had been standing in the capitol of the whole republican world as a representative of collective humanity, his delivery could not have been more proudly befitting and competent. Such was the immense
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contagious flood of inspiration with which he was loaded, that repeatedly his audiences rose to their feet as one man and cheered him till the dust rose to the roof and the very walls seemed to quiver.
Damon is cast into prison and doomed448 to die. The curtain rises on him seated at a table, writing a last testament449 to be given to Pythias. The solitude450, the stillness, the heavy hour, the retrospect451 of his life, the separation from all he loves, the nearness of death, combine to make his meditations452 profound and sad. The picture of man and fate which he then drew—so calm and grave and chaste453, so relieved against the other scenes—was an exquisite masterpiece. He lays down his stylus. In an attitude of deep reflection—the left leg easily extended and the hand pendent by its side, the right leg drawn up even with the chair, his right elbow resting on the table, the hand supporting his slightly-bowed head, the opened eyes level and fixed, with a voice of manly and mournful music, every tone and accent faultless in its mellow454 and pellucid455 solemnity—he pronounces this soliloquy:
"Existence! what is that? a name for nothing!
It is a cloudy sky chased by the winds,—
Its fickle457 form no sooner chosen than changed!
It is the whirling of the mountain-flood,
Which, as we look upon it, keeps its shape,
Though what composed that shape, and what composes,
Hath passed—will pass—nay458, and is passing on
Even while we think to hold it in our eyes,
And deem it there. Fie! fie! a feverish459 vision,
A crude and crowded dream, unwilled, unbidden,
By the weak wretch68 that dreams it."
The effect was comparable to that of suddenly changing the scene from the clamorous460 multitude, bustle461, and struggle of a noonday square to the midnight sky, with its eternal stars and moon shining on a lonely lake, whose serenity462 not a ripple463 or a rustling464 leaf disturbs.
Pythias visits him in his dungeon465. The interview is conducted in a manner so unaffected, so true to the finest feelings of the human heart, that few and hard indeed were the beholders who could remain unmoved. On the lamentation468 of Damon that he is denied the satisfaction of pressing his wife and child to his
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bosom before he dies, Pythias proposes to gain that privilege for him by being his hostage, if the tyrant will consent. He makes the request.
"Dionysius. What wonder is this?
Is he thy brother?
Damon. Not in the fashion that the world puts on,
But brother in the heart.
Dion. Oh, by the wide world, Damocles,
I did not think the heart of man was moulded
To such a purpose."
Six hours are granted Damon in which to reach his villa469 on the mountain-side, four leagues distant, take his farewell, and return, assured that if he is not at the place of execution at the moment appointed the axe470 falls on his substitute.
The meeting with his Hermion and their boy in the garden of his villa, his resolute368 adaptation of his manner to the untimely innocent prattle471 of the child, the various transitions of tone and topic, the pathos of the intermittent472 upbreaking of his concealed473 struggle, the gradual unveiling of the awful announcement of his impending474 destiny, the determined efforts at firmness in himself and consolation475 for her, the clinging and agonized476 farewell,—all these were managed with a truthfulness477 and a distinct setting to be attained478 by no player without the utmost patience of study added to the deepest sincerity of nature.
He has lingered to the latest allowable moment. Hurrying out, he calls to his freedman, Lucullus, "Where is my horse?" and receives the following reply:
"When I beheld479 the means of saving you,
I could not hold my hand,—my heart was in it,
And in my heart the hope of giving life
And liberty to Damon—and—
Damon. Go on!
I am listening to thee.
Lucullus. And in hope to save you
I slew480 your steed.
Damon. Almighty481 heavens!"
An ordinary actor would have said "Almighty heavens," at once; but Forrest, seeming taken utterly483 by surprise, did not speak the words till he had for some time prepared the way for them by a display of bewildered astonishment484, which revealed the
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workings of his brain so clearly that the spectators could scarcely believe that the actor was acquainted with the plot in advance. The facts of the situation seemed presenting themselves to his inner gaze in so many pictures,—the calamity485, his broken promise, the disappointment and death of his friend, the dread dishonor,—and their expressions—wonder, rage, horror, despair, frenzy—visibly came out first in slow succession, then in chaotic486 mixture. At last the gathered tornado487 explodes in one burst of headlong wrath. Every rigid488 muscle swollen, his convulsed face livid, his dilated489 eyes emitting sparks, with the crouch and spring of an infuriated tiger he plunges490 on the hapless Lucullus and hoists492 him sheer in air. Vain are the cries of the unfortunate wretch, idle his struggles. Articulating with a terrible scream the words,—
"To the eternal river of the dead!
The way is shorter than to Syracuse,—
'Tis only far as yonder yawning gulf,—
I'll throw thee with one swing to Tartarus,
And follow after thee!"—
his enraged493 master disappears with him in his grasp. The feelings of the audience, wound to an intolerable pitch, audibly give way in a long, loosened breath, as they sink into their seats with a huge rustle494 all over the house.
Meanwhile, the fatal crisis nears, and Damon, delayed by the loss of his steed, comes not. The stroke of time on the dial-plate against the temple dedicated495 to the Goddess of Fidelity moves unrelentingly forward. All is ready. The tyrant, his skepticism confirmed, is there, indignant at the soul that in its fling of proud philosophy had made him feel so outsoared and humbled496. Pythias, agitated497 between a dreadful suspicion of his friend and the fear of some unforeseen obstacle, parts with Calanthe, and prepares for the beheading steel. A vast multitude on the hills stretch their long, blackening outline in the round of the blue heavens, and await the event.
"Mute expectation spreads its anxious hush498
O'er the wide city, that as silent stands
As its reflection in the quiet sea.
Behold, upon the roof what thousands gaze
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Toward the distant road that leads to Syracuse.
An hour ago a noise was heard afar,
Like to the pulses of the restless surge;
But as the time approaches, all grows still
As the wide dead of midnight!
A horse and rider in the distance,
By the gods! They wave their hats, and he returns it!
It is—no—that were too unlike—but there!"
Damon rushes in, looks around, exclaims, exultingly,—
"Ha! he is alive! untouched!"
and falls, with a hysterical499 laugh, exhausted500 by the superhuman exertions501 he has made to arrive in time. He soon rallies, and, when his name is pronounced, leaps upon the scaffold beside his friend; and all the god comes into him as, proudly erecting502 his form, he answers,—
"I am here upon the scaffold! look at me:
I am standing on my throne; as proud a one
As yon illumined mountain where the sun
Makes his last stand; let him look on me too;
He never did behold a spectacle
More full of natural glory. Death is— Ha!
All Syracuse starts up upon her hills,
And lifts her hundred thousand hands. She shouts,
Hark, how she shouts! O Dionysius!
When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal176
Of hearts and hands like that one? Shout again!
Again! until the mountains echo you,
And the great sea joins in that mighty482 voice,
And old Enceladus, the Son of Earth,
Stirs in his mighty caverns503. Tell me, slaves,
Where is your tyrant? Let me see him now;
Why stands he hence aloof504? Where is your master?
What is become of Dionysius?
I would behold and laugh at him!
Dionysius. Behold me!
Go, Damocles, and bid a herald16 cry
Wide through the city, from the eastern gate
Unto the most remote extremity505,
That Dionysius, tyrant as he is,
Gives back to Damon life and freedom."
Like one struggling out of a fearful dream, the phantom mists receding506, horror expiring and brightening into joy, the great actor lifts himself, relaxes, staggers into the arms of his Pythias, and the curtain sinks. The people, slowly scattering507 to their homes, do not easily or soon forget the mighty agitation they have undergone.
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BRUTUS.
The two celebrated characters of early Roman history, Brutus and Virginius, each the hero of a startling social revolution, as well as of an appalling508 domestic tragedy, in which personal affection is nobly sacrificed to public principle,—these imposing forms, each enveloped510 in his grand and solemn legend, stalking vivid and colossal511 in the shadows of antique time,—these sublime democratic idols512 of old Rome, men of tempestuous513 passion and iron solidity, whose civic514 heroism was mated with private tenderness and crowned with judicial515 severity,—like statues of rock clustered with ivy516 and their heads wreathed in retributive lightnings,—both these personages in all their accompaniments were singularly well fitted for the ethical, passionate, single-minded, and ponderous517 individuality of Forrest to impersonate with the highest sincerity and power. He achieved extraordinary success in them. There was in himself so much of the old Roman pride, independence, concentrated and tenacious518 feeling, majestic and imperious weight, that it was not hard for him to steal the keys of history, enter the chambers519 of the past, and reanimate the heroic and revengeful masks. He did so, to the astonishment and delight of those who beheld the spectacle.
The play of "Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin," the best of the dramatic productions of John Howard Payne, has been greatly admired. Its title rôle was a favorite one with Kean, Cooper, Macready, Booth, and Forrest; and they all won laurels520 in it. The interest of the plot begins at once, and scarcely flags to the end. The murderous tyrant, Tarquin, has forced his way to the throne through treason, poison, and gore384, and holds remorseless rule, to the deep though muffled522 indignation and horror of the better citizens. His fears of the discontented patriots have led him to murder their master-spirit, Marcus Junius, and his eldest523 son. The younger son, Lucius, escaped, and affected to have lost his reason, playing the part of a fool, and meanwhile abiding524 his time to avenge87 his family and his country. He kept his disguise so shrewdly that he was allowed to be much at court, a harmless butt525 for the mirth of the tyrant and his fellows.
Forrest kept up the semblance526 of imbecility, the shambling gait, the dull eyes and vacant face, the sloppy, irresolute gestures, the apparent forgetfulness, with the closest truth. He had for
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years studied the traits and phases of these poor beings in visits to lunatic-asylums. But in the depicting527 of the fool there was some obvious unfitness of his heavy bearing, noble voice, and native majesty528 to the shallow and broken qualities of such a character. It did not appear quite spontaneous or natural. He clearly had to act it by will and effort. Yet there was a sort of propriety529 even in this, as the part was professedly an assumed and pretended one. But when he cast off the vile7 cloud of idiocy530 and broke forth in his own patrician531 person, the effect of the foregone foil was manifest, and the new and perfect picture stood in luminous532 relief. When Claudius and Aruns had been badgering him, and had received some such pointed64 repartees as a fool will seem now and then to hit on by chance, as they went out he followed them with a look of superb contempt, and said, in an intonation533 of intense scorn wonderfully effective,—
"Yet, 'tis not that which ruffles534 me,—the gibes535
And scornful mockeries of ill-governed youth,—
Or flouts536 of dastard537 sycophants538 and jesters,—
Reptiles539, who lay their bellies540 on the dust
Before the frown of majesty!"
And the house was always electrified541 by the sudden transformation542 with which then, passing from the words,
"All this
I but expect, nor grudge543 to bear; the face
I carry, courts it!"
he towered into prouder dimensions, and, as one inspired, delivered himself in an outbreak of declamatory grandeur:
"Son of Marcus Junius!
When will the tedious gods permit thy soul
To walk abroad in her own majesty,
And throw this visor of thy madness from thee,
To avenge my father's and my brother's murder?
Had this been all, a thousand opportunities
I've had to strike the blow—and my own life
I had not valued at a rush.—But still—
There's something nobler to be done!—My soul,
Enjoy the strong conception! Oh! 'tis glorious
To free a groaning544 country,—
To see Revenge
Spring like a lion from the den4, and tear
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These hunters of mankind! Grant but the time,
Grant but the moment, gods! If I am wanting,
May I drag out this idiot-feignéd life
To late old age, and may posterity545
Ne'er hear of Junius but as Tarquin's fool!"
The manner in which, in his fictitious546 rôle, in his interview with Tullia, the parricidal547 queen, whose prophetic soul is ominously549 alive to every alarming hint, he veered550 along the perilous551 edges of his feigned552 and his real character, the sinister553 alternation of jest and portent554, was a passage of exciting interest, sweeping555 the chords of the breast from sport to awe556 with facile and forceful hand. The same effect was produced in a still higher degree in the interview with his son Titus, whose patriotism and temper he tested by lifting a little his false garb of folly557 and letting some tentative gleams of his true nature and purposes appear.
"Brutus. I'll tell a secret to thee
Worth a whole city's ransom558. This it is:
Nay, ponder it and lock it in thy heart:—
There are more fools, my son, in this wise world,
Than the gods ever made.
Titus. Sayest thou? Expound559 this riddle560.
Would the kind gods restore thee to thy reason—
Brutus. Then, Titus, then I should be mad with reason.
Had I the sense to know myself a Roman,
This hand should tear this heart from out my ribs561,
Ere it should own allegiance to a tyrant.
If, therefore, thou dost love me, pray the gods
To keep me what I am. Where all are slaves,
None but the fool is happy.
Titus. We are Romans—
Not slaves—
Brutus. Not slaves? Why, what art thou?
Titus. Thy son.
Dost thou not know me?
Brutus. You abuse my folly.
I know thee not.—Wert thou my son, ye gods,
Thou wouldst tear off this sycophantic562 robe,
Tuck up thy tunic, trim these curléd locks
To the short warrior222-cut, vault563 on thy steed,
Then, scouring564 through the city, call to arms,
And shout for liberty!
Titus. [Starts.] Defend me, gods!
Brutus. Ha! does it stagger thee?"
The simulation had been dropped so gradually, the unconsciously waxing earnestness of purpose and self-betrayal were
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carried up over such invisible and exquisite steps, that, when the electric climax was touched, he who confronted Brutus on the stage did not affect to be more startled than those who gazed on him from before it really were.
Finding his son is in love with the sister of Sextus, and in no ripe mood for dangerous enterprise, he turns sorrowfully from him, murmuring,—
"Said I for liberty? I said it not.
My brain is weak, and wanders. You abuse it."
When left alone, he soliloquizes, beginning with sorrow, and passing in the succeeding parts from sadness to repulsion, then to anxiety, afterwards to hope, and ending with an air of proud joy.
"I was too sudden. I should have delayed
And watched a surer moment for my purpose.
He must be frighted from his dream of love.
What! shall the son of Junius wed77 a Tarquin?
As yet I've been no father to my son,—
I could be none; but, through the cloud that wraps me,
I've watched his mind with all a parent's fondness,
And hailed with joy the Junian glory there.
Could I once burst the chains which now enthrall565 him,
My son would prove the pillar of his country,—
Dear to her freedom as he is to me."
Few things in the history of the stage have been superior in its way to what Forrest made the opening of the third act in Brutus. It is deep night in Rome, thunder and lightning, the Capitol in the background, in front an equestrian566 statue of Tarquinius Superbus. Brutus enters, revolving567 in his breast the now nearly complete scheme for overthrowing568 the despot. Appearance, thoughts, words, voice, manner, all in strict keeping with the time and place, he speaks:
"Slumber569 forsakes570 me, and I court the horrors
Which night and tempest swell339 on every side.
Launch forth thy thunders, Capitolian Jove!
Put fire into the languid souls of men;
Let loose thy ministers of wrath amongst them,
And crush the vile oppressor! Strike him down,
Ye lightnings! Lay his trophies571 in the dust!
[Storm increases.
Ha! this is well! flash, ye blue-forkéd fires!
Loud-bursting thunders, roar! and tremble, earth!
[A violent crash of thunder, and the statue of Tarquin, struck
by a flash, is shattered to pieces.
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What! fallen at last, proud idol! struck to earth!
I thank you, gods! I thank you! When you point
Your shafts572 at human pride, it is not chance,
'Tis wisdom levels the commissioned blow.
But I,—a thing of no account—a slave,—
I to your forkéd lightnings bare my bosom
In vain,—for what's a slave—a dastard slave?
A fool, a Brutus? [Storm increases.] Hark! the storm rides on!
Strange hopes possess my soul. My thoughts grow wild.
I'll sit awhile and ruminate573."
Seating himself on a fragment of the fallen statue, in contemplative attitude, his great solitary574 presence, blending with the entire scene, presented a tableau575 of the most sombre and romantic beauty.
Valerius enters. Brutus cautiously probes his soul, and is rejoiced to find him worthy of confidence. As they commune on the degradation576 of their country, the crimes of the royal family, and the hopes of speedy redemption, we seem to feel the sultry smother577 and to hear the muffled rumble578 of the rising storm of an outraged people. As Valerius departs, Tarquin himself advances, and gives a new momentum to the movement for his own destruction. Still supposing Brutus to be an imbecile, with shameless garrulity579 he boasts of the fiendish violence he has done to Lucretia, the wife of Collatinus, and the near kinswoman of Brutus himself. This woman was of such transcendent loveliness and nobility of person and soul as to have become a poetic ideal of her sex throughout the civilized580 world in all the ages since. While Tarquin boastfully described his deed, the effect on his auditor581 was terrific to see. The inward struggle was fully218 pictured without, in the hands convulsively clutched, the eyes starting from their sockets, the blood threatening to burst through the swollen veins583 of the neck and temples. Finally, the quivering earthquake of passion broke in an explosion of maniacal584 abandonment.
"The fiends curse you, then! Lash157 you with snakes!
When forth you walk, may the red flaming sun
Strike you with livid plagues!
Vipers585, that die not, slowly gnaw586 your heart!
May earth be to you but one wilderness587!
May you hate yourself,—
For death pray hourly, yet be in tortures,
Millions of years expiring!"
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He shrieked588 this fearful curse upon the shrinking criminal with a frenzied589 energy which so amazed and stirred the audience that sometimes they gave vent to their excitement in a simultaneous shout of applause, sometimes by looking at one another in silence or whispering, "Wonderful!"
Lucretia, unwilling590 to survive the purity of her name, has stabbed herself. Collatinus rushes wildly in with the bloody591 steel in his hand, and tells the tale of horror:
"She's dead! Lucretia's dead! This is her blood!
Howl, howl, ye men of Rome.
Ye mighty gods, where are your thunders now?"
Brutus, the full gale592 of oratoric fire and splendor swelling his frame and lighting his features, seizes the dagger, lifts it aloft, and exclaims:
"Heroic matron!
Now, now, the hour is come! By this one blow
Her name's immortal594, and her country saved!
Hail, dawn of glory! Hail, thou sacred weapon!
Virtue's deliverer, hail! This fatal steel,
Empurpled with the purest blood on earth,
Shall cut your chains of slavery asunder595.
Hear, Romans, hear! did not the Sibyl tell you
A fool should set Rome free? I am that fool:
Brutus bids Rome be free!
Valerius. What can this mean?
Brutus. It means that Lucius Junius has thrown off
The mask of madness, and his soul rides forth
On the destroying whirlwind, to avenge
The wrongs of that bright excellence and Rome.
[Sinks on his knees.]
Hear me, great Jove! and thou, paternal596 Mars,
And spotless Vesta! To the death, I swear,
My burning vengeance shall pursue these Tarquins!
Ne'er shall my limbs know rest till they are swept
From off the earth which groans597 beneath their infamy598!
Valerius, Collatine, Lucretius, all,
Be partners in my oath."
The above apostrophe to the dagger was marvellously delivered. As he held it up with utmost stretch of arm and addressed it, it seemed to become a living thing, an avenging600 divinity.
The next scene was given with a contrast that came like enchantment601. A multitude of relatives and friends are celebrating
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the obsequies of Lucretia. Brutus, with solemn and gentle mien602, and a delivery of funereal603 gloom in which admiring love and pride gild604 the sorrow, pronounces her eulogy605. He paints her with a bright and sweet fondness, and bewails her fate with a closing cadence237 indescribably plaintive607.
"Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture608: such a mind
Might have abashed609 the boldest libertine610,
And turned desire to reverential love
And holiest affection. Oh, my countrymen!
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch611, labor53 its task,—all ran;
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
'There, there's Lucretia!' Now, look ye, where she lies,
That beauteous flower by ruthless violence torn!
Gone! gone! gone!
All. Sextus shall die! But what for the king, his father?
Brutus. Seek you instruction? Ask yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry. Revenge!
Ask yon deserted612 street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeaséd ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,
The gods themselves, shall justify613 the cry,
And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!"
The instant change, in that presence of death, from the subdued614, mournful manner to this tremendous burst of blazing eloquence was a consummate marvel599 of oratoric effect, in which art and nature were at odds615 which was the greater element. It might be said of Forrest in this scene,—as Corunna in the play itself described to Horatius the action of Brutus,—
"He waved aloft the bloody dagger,
And spoke as if he held the souls of men
In his own hand and moulded them at pleasure.
They looked on him as they would view a god.
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Who, from a darkness which invested him,
Sprang forth, and, knitting his stern brow in frowns,
Proclaimed the vengeful will of angry Jove."
The throng272 are so possessed with him that they propose to make him king in place of Tarquin; but the patriot, his unselfish soul breathing from his countenance616 and audible in his accent, convinces them of his personal purity:
"No, fellow-citizens!
If mad ambition in this guilty frame
Had strung one kingly fibre,—yea, but one,—
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart.
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And, in the blazing conflagration617, rear
A pile for these chaste relics618, that shall send
Her soul amongst the stars. On!"
They sweep away to their victims, deliver the State, and seal an ample vengeance.
The primary climax of the play has thus been reached. Brutus has emerged from his idiot concealment and vindicated619 himself as the successful champion of liberty and his country. He is next to appear in a second climax, of still greater intensity and height, by the personal sacrifice of himself as the martyr620 of duty. The first action has the superior national significance, but the second action has the superior human significance, and therefore properly succeeds. Titus, the only son of the liberator621, corrupted by his love of power and pleasure, has, in a measure, joined the party of the Tarquins. He is therefore regarded by the victor patriots as a traitor to Rome. Brutus, torn between his parental affection and his public duty, is profoundly agitated, yet resolute. He spares the life of Tarquinia, the betrothed of Titus, at the same time warning him,—
"This I concede; but more if thou attemptest,—
By all the gods!—Nay, if thou dost not take
Her image, though with smiling Cupids decked,
And pluck it from thy heart, there to receive
Rome and her glories in without a rival,
Thou art no son of mine, thou art no Roman!"
For the defective622 treatment of the theme of the love of Brutus for his son by the author the actor made the very best amends623 in
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his power by improving every opportunity to suggest the depth and fervor624 of the tie, in look and gesture and tone, in order to exalt625 the coming catastrophe. Seated calmly in the curule chair as Consul626, robed with purple, the lictors with their uplifted axes before him, a messenger announces the seizure627 of a young man at the head of an insurgent628 band. Valerius whispers to Brutus,—
"Oh, my friend, horror invades my heart.
I know thy soul, and pray the gods to put
Thee to no trial beyond a mortal bearing."
Mastering his agitation by a mighty effort, Brutus responds,—
"No, they will not,—they cannot."
The unhappy Titus is brought in guarded. The father, all his convulsed soul visible in his countenance and motions, turns from him, rises, walks to his colleague, and says, with tremulous, sobbing629 voice,—
"That youth, my Titus, was my age's hope,—
I loved him more than language can express,—
I thought him born to dignify630 the world."
The culprit kneels to him, and begs for clemency631:
"A word for pity's sake. Before thy feet,
Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels.
Love is my plea: a father is my judge;
Nature my advocate!—I can no more:
If these will not appease425 a parent's heart,
Strike through them all, and lodge632 thy vengeance here!"
Almost overpowered, Brutus hesitates a moment, rallies, straightens himself up, and exclaims, with lofty dignity,—
"Break off! I will not, cannot hear thee further!
The affliction nature hath imposed on Brutus,
Brutus will suffer as he may.—Enough!
Lictors, secure your prisoner. Point your axes.
To the Senate—On!"
The last scene shows the Senate in the temple of Mars, Brutus in the Consular633 seat. He speaks, beginning with solemn air and tones of ringing firmness:
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"Romans the blood which hath been shed this day
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire634
Against mature societies, may urge
Their acts as bold and daring; and though villains635,
Yet they are manly villains. But to stab
The cradled innocent, as these have done,—
To strike their country in the mother-pangs
Of struggling childbirth, and direct the dagger
To freedom's infant throat,—is a deed so black
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name."
Here he pauses, falters638 a little, then slowly adds,—
"There is one criminal still left for judgment639:
Let him approach."
Titus is led in by the lictors, with the edges of their axes turned towards him. He kneels.
"Oh, Brutus! Brutus! must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness?
Brutus. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Romans, forgive this agony of grief,—
My heart is bursting,—Nature must have way.
I will perform all that a Roman should,—
I cannot feel less than a father ought!"
The piteous look and choking accents with which he said to his son, "Think that I love thee by my present passion," were irresistible. They seemed to betoken640 that his heart was breaking. The sound of weeping was usually audible in the audience, and hundreds might be seen wiping the tears from their cheeks.
Justice holds its course, and the Consul sentences the guilty citizen to the block:
"Brutus. The sovereign magistrate641 of injured Rome
Condemns642
A crime, thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go,—meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
Farewell!
Titus. Farewell forever!
Brutus. Forever! Lictors, lead your prisoner forth.
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My hand shall wave the signal for the axe;
Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim its fall.
Poor youth! Thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice643, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom644. Justice now
Demands her victim! A little moment,
And I am childless.—One effort, and 'tis past!—
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free!"
Forrest made the finale an artistic climax of superlative originality, finish, and power. He climbs the steps of the tribune to wave his hand, as agreed, in signal for the execution. His face grows pale. He struggles to lift his arm. Then, when the trumpet announces that the deed is done, he absently wraps his head up in his toga, as if it were something separate from his body which must not know what has taken place. Suddenly his whole form relaxes and sinks heavily on the stage.
VIRGINIUS.
The rôle of Virginius, as filled by Forrest, had, with many resemblances to that of Brutus, also many important differences. In the domestic pictures of the first part, the sacred innocence645 and artless ways of the motherless daughter and the overflowing fondness of the widowed father, an element of more varied and tender beauty is introduced. The play has a wider range of interest than that of Brutus, and, while more attractive in some portions, is quite as terrible in others. To the perfecting of his performance of it Forrest devoted646 as much study and labor as to any part he ever acted. It obtained a commensurate recognition and approval from the general public. In its outlines as a piece of physical realism his rendering647 of Virginius was as pronounced as that of his Brutus, and in its artistic finish as an example of imaginative portraiture it was unquestionably far superior. In addition to the exceptional power with which the central motives were presented, there were incidental features of extreme felicity. For instance, the vein582 of sarcasm83 which Virginius displays towards the Decemvirs and their party was worked with a master-hand, and the friendship for the crabbed648 but brave and good old Dentatus was exhibited with a careless and bluff649 cordiality direct from nature. As a complete picture of the antique passion and sublime
[Pg 231]
strength of the Roman character, the whole performance stood forth in pre-eminent distinctness and vitality.
W. G. Jackman
EDWIN FORREST AS
VIRGINIUS.
Sometimes, as an artist is lifting the curtain to expose his picture to view, with the removal of the first corner of drapery the connoisseur650 catches a glimpse of an exquisite bit of drawing and color which convinces him that the entire work is a great and beautiful one. When Forrest made his entrance in Virginius, with an irritated and impetuous air, the earliest sound of his voice, so deep and resonant651, coining and propelling its words in air with such easy and percussive652 precision, seized the attention of the auditory and gave assurance that something uncommon653 was to come. With a quick articulation654 and an expostulating tone he said, "Why did you make him Decemvir, and first Decemvir, too?" He refers to the shameless Appius Claudius, and the key-note of the play is struck by his inflection of the words.
He is not displeased655 on seeing reason for suspecting that his daughter—an only and idolized child left him by his dead wife—is in love with the noble young Lucius Icilius, for whom he has an excellent liking656. He sends for Virginia, who is still a schoolgirl, that he may question her. She comes in, and sits upon his knee, saying, "Well, father, what is your will?" At the sight of her his face lights as if a sunbeam had suddenly fallen on it, and his voice has a sweet, low, half-smothered tone, as if the words were spoken in his heart, and only their softened657 echoes came forth:
"Virginius. I wished to see you,
To ask you of your tasks,—how they go on,—
And what your masters say of you,—what last
You did. I hope you never play
The truant658?
Virginia. The truant! No, indeed, Virginius.
Virginius. I am sure you do not. Kiss me!
Virginia. Oh! my father,
I am so happy when you are kind to me!
Virginius. You are so happy when I'm kind to you!
Am I not always kind? I never spoke
An angry word to you in all my life,
Virginia! You are happy when I'm kind!
That's strange; and makes me think you have some reason
To fear I may be otherwise than kind."
The parental tenderness of his manner, his speech, his kiss, seemed to combine the love of a father and a mother in one. His
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hand meanwhile was playing with her tresses in a way suggestive of unpurposed instinctive fondness, exquisitely659 touching.
The transition was perfect when, meeting Icilius, after scrutinizing660 him earnestly, as though to read his very soul, the rough soldier and honest man succeeds to the adoring father:
"Icilius!
Thou seest this hand? It is a Roman's, boy;
'Tis sworn to liberty,—it is the friend,
Of honor. Dost thou think so?
Icilius. Do I think
Virginius owns that hand?
Virginius. Then you'll believe
It has an oath deadly to tyranny,
And is the foe of falsehood! By the gods,
Knew it the lurking-place of treason, though
It were a brother's heart, 'twould drag the caitiff
Forth. Dar'st thou take this hand?"
And when, a little later, he led his daughter to her lover and formally betrothed them in these eloquent words, his whole frame betraying the struggle at composure, it was a consummate moral painting of humanity in one of its most sacred aspects:
"Didst thou but know, young man,
How fondly I have watched her, since the day
Her mother died, and left me to a charge
Of double duty bound,—how she hath been
My pondered thought by day, my dream by night,
My prayer, my vow661, my offering, my praise,
My sweet companion, pupil, tutor, child!—
Thou wouldst not wonder that my drowning eye
And choking utterance662 upbraid421 my tongue
That tells thee she is thine!"
The plot progresses, and the air is thick with the clamor and strife of Rome, the hates of parties and the reverberation663 of war. Virginius is called to a distance with the army. His daughter is left under the guardianship664 of her uncle. One day the lustful665 Appius has a sight of her passing in the street.
"Her young beauty,
Trembling and blushing 'twixt the striving kisses
Of parting spring and meeting summer,"
inflames666 him. He charges one of his minions667 to seize her, under
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the pretext that she is the child of one of his slaves, sold to Virginius and falsely proclaimed his daughter. With details of cruel atrocity668 the deed is accomplished, in spite of the desperate interference of Icilius. Lucius is sent as a messenger to the camp to inform Virginius. Lucius tells him he is wanted immediately at Rome. With a start and a look of dread anxiety he demands to know wherefore. The messenger prevaricates670 and delays, but, on being chided and commanded to speak out, says, "Hear me, then, with patience." Virginius replies, while his restless fingers and the working of his toes, seen through the openings of his sandals, most effectually contradict the words, "Well, I am patient."
"Lucius. Your Virginia—
Virginius. Stop, my Lucius!
I am cold in every member of my frame!
If 'tis prophetic, Lucius, of thy news,
Give me such token as her tomb would,—silence.
I'll bear it better.
Lucius. You are still—
Virginius. I thank thee, Jupiter, I am still a father!"
The change of his countenance while uttering the word "father," from the expression it wore on the word "silence," was like an unexpected sunburst through a gloomy cloud. As Lucius went on in his narration671, the breathing of the listener thickened with intensity of suspense, his heart beat with remittent throb, and he started at each point in the outrage327 like one receiving electric shocks.
He departed for Rome, where his poor daughter was guarded in the house of her uncle, Numitorius, in the deepest distress672 and terror. He entered; and such was his expression as he cried, "My child! my child!" and she rushed into his arms, that there were scarcely ever many dry eyes in the theatre at that moment. Then it was something divine to be seen, and never to be forgotten, to behold how he turned from his blistering673 and disdainful apostrophe to the villain636 who had dared set his panders675 after her, and, taking her precious head in his hands, gazed in her face, saying,—
"I never saw you look so like your mother
In all my life!
Virginia. You'll be advised, dear father?
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Virginius. It was her soul,—her soul, that played just then
About the features of her child, and lit them
Into the likeness676 of her own. When first
She placed thee in my arms,—I recollect677 it
As a thing of yesterday!—she wished, she said,
That it had been a man. I answered her,
It was the mother of a race of men.
And paid her for thee with a kiss. Her lips
Are cold now,—could they but be warmed again,
How they would clamor for thee!
Virginia. My dear father,
You do not answer me! Will you not be advised?
Virginius. I will not take him by the throat and strangle him!
But I COULD do it! I could DO IT!"
They go to the Forum678, where Appius is seated on the tribunal, supported by the lictors and an armed troop. The acting of Forrest in the trial-scene that followed was as genuine and moving, set in as bold relief, as anything the American theatre has known. Who that saw him can ever forget the imperial front with which, bearing Virginia on his arm, he advanced before the judgment-seat,—the firm step, the indomitable face, the parental love that seemed to throw a thousand invisible tendrils around his child to hold her up! The tableau caused a silence that was absolute, and was maintained so long that the suspense had begun to be painful, when the kingly voice of Virginius broke the spell:
"Does no one speak? I am defendant679 here!
Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent
To plead a cause too foul680 for speech! What brow
Shameless, gives front to this most valiant681 cause,
That tries its prowess 'gainst the honor of
A girl, yet lacks the wit to know that they
Who cast off shame should likewise cast off fear!"
The strong, lucid456, cutting tones in which these words were spoken went vibrating into the breasts of the listeners, and thrilled them with sympathetic echoes. The perjured682 witness was summoned by the recreant judge. And the next passage of the play had a moral meaning deep enough, and was represented with a truth and power grand enough, to turn the stage for the time being into a pulpit and make the world tremble at its preaching.
"Virginius. And are you the man
That claims my daughter for his slave?—Look at me,
And I will give her to thee.
[Pg 235]
Claudius. She is mine, then:
Do I not look at you?
Virginius. Your eye does, truly,
But not your soul.—I see it, through your eye,
Shifting and shrinking,—turning every way
To shun683 me. You surprise me, that your eye,
So long the bully684 of its master, knows not
To put a proper face upon a lie,
But gives the port of impudence685 to falsehood
When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul
Dares as soon show its face to me!"
Now the interest grows yet intenser and the influence of the actor yet more penetrating377 in its simplicity and terrible beauty. Virginius finds that nothing can save his daughter from the last profanation686 of the tyrant except her immediate669 immolation687 by himself. For a moment he is lost in a reverie, striving to think what he can do. By chance he perceives a knife lying on the stall of a butcher. At the sight of this providential instrument an electric change passes over his face, revealing all his purpose with a grim joy, like the lightning-flash at night illumining the murky688 sky and giving an instantaneous outline of the clouds loaded with the coming storm. He moves gradually towards the stall, smiling on Virginia a tender smile, full of the consolation he sees in the prospect689 of her deliverance even by death. He pats her lovingly on the shoulder while changing her from his left arm, that with it he may reach the knife. He stealthily seizes it and passes it behind him from the left hand to the right. With deep fondness he breathes, "My dear Virginia," and gives her quick and fervent690 kisses, which he appears striving to press into her very soul. Tears seem to moisten his words,—
"There is one only way to save thine honor,—
'Tis this!"
And, swift as motion of the human arm can make it, the knife pierces her heart. The storm has burst, the lightning has wreathed its folds around the consecrated691 instrument of the work, and now the thunder-tones of his voice crash through the theatre in the awful exclamation,—
"Lo, Appius! with this innocent blood
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I do devote thee to the infernal gods!
Make way there!
If they dare
To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened
With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them.
Thus, thus it rushes in amongst them. Way, there!"
His exit here used to excite the wildest huzzas, the men in the pit standing with their hats in their uplifted hands, and the women in the boxes waving their handkerchiefs.
Virginius heads the revolution, in which the revolted troops and the commons join. The tyranny is hurled to the dust, the people freed, and Appius lodged692 in prison. But the wronged and wretched father is broken down by the preternatural horror and excitement he has undergone, and loses his reason. He is next seen in his own desolate693 home, with a pale and haggard face, and a look half wild, half dreamy, talking to himself:
"'Tis ease! 'tis ease! I am content! 'Tis peace,—
'Tis anything that is most soft and quiet.
And after such a dream! I want my daughter.
Send me my daughter! Will she come, or not?
I'll call myself. Virginia!"
His call of Virginia was a call dictated694 by a dethroned mind. It was a sound that appeared to come from a mysterious vault. There was a kind of semi-wakefulness in it, like the utterance of a thought in a dream. It had a touch of pity. It was an inverted695 form of sound, that turned back whence it issued and fell dead where it was born, feeling that there was no reply for it to keep it alive. Yet, after a pause, he fancies he hears her answering; and he rapidly asks,—
"Is it a voice, or nothing, answers me?
I hear a sound so fine there's nothing lives
'Twixt it and silence."
And then, with an entranced listening, he follows the illusory voice around to different parts of the room, in the vain attempt to find its source. An apathetic696 stare, a blank, miserable697 stupor698, succeeds, soon broken by the fancy that he hears her shrieking699 in the prison for rescue from Appius,—and he darts700 away. Appius, meanwhile, is planning an escape, and gloatingly counting over in imagination the victims he will pick out to expiate701 for his
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present shame, when the shattered Virginius, appalling even in his ruins, rushes in upon him, wildly crying, "Give me my daughter!" The affrighted prisoner replies,—
"I know nothing of her, Virginius, nothing.
Virginius. Do you tell me so?
Vile tyrant! Think you, shall I not believe
My own eyes before your tongue? Why, there she is!
There at your back,—her locks dishevelled, and
Her vestment torn,—her cheeks all faded with
Her pouring tears.
Villain! is this a sight to show a father?
And have I not a weapon to requite702 thee?"
In his distraught fury, feeling over his body for some weapon he discovers his own hands. A wild and eager delight shudders703 through him as, holding these naked instruments before him, he springs on the terrified Appius and strangles him to death. Lucius, Icilius, and Numitorius enter, bearing the urn60 of Virginia. The wronged father and sufferer looks up, and sighs, with a bewildered gaze,—
"What a load my heart has heaved off! Where is he?
I thought I had done it."
They call him by name. He makes no response. Icilius places the urn in his right hand, with the single word, "Virginia." He looks at Icilius and the urn, at Numitorius and Lucius, seems struck by their mourning garb, looks again at the urn, breaks into a passion of tears, and falls on the neck of Icilius, exclaiming, "Virginia!"
METAMORA.
Jas Bannister
EDWIN FORREST AS
METAMORA.
The famous prize-play of Metamora, by John Augustus Stone, is not a work of much genius, and if published would have no literary rank; yet it had all that was essential, in the striking merit of furnishing the genius of the enactor704 of its leading character the conditions for compassing a popular success of the most remarkable description. With his performance of Metamora, Forrest impressed the masses of the American people in a degree rarely precedented, and won a continental705 celebrity706 full of idiomatic707 enthusiasm. Of course there were good reasons for this warm favor from the surrendered many, despite the disdain674 of the squeamish few, who can generally enjoy nothing, only conceitedly709 criticise710 everything.
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In the first place, the subject was indigenous, and thus came home to the American heart and curiosity. In the imagination of our people for more than a century the race of the aborigines of the land were clothed with romantic associations and regretted with a sort of national remorse521. The disinterestedness711 of the fancy and the soul, relieved from all proximity712 to their squalor, ferocity, and vice, with a beautiful pity lamented713 their wrongs, their evanescence, and the rapid disappearance714 of the wigwam and papoose and war-dance and canoe of the painted tribes from hill and glen and wood and lake. In this wide-spread sentimental interest the play took hold of powerful chords. Although prosaic715 research and experience have so largely divested716 the character of the Indian of its old romance and made his actual presence a nuisance, nevertheless so long as the memories of our primeval settlements and of our bloody and adventurous717 frontier traditions shall live, so long will the American Indian be remembered with a sigh as the lost human poetry of the nature wherein he was cradled.
Furthermore, the play was stocked with fresh suggestions and images of nature,—a store-house of those simple metaphors718 drawn direct from the great objects of the universe, full of a rude pathos and sublimity719, and so natural to the genius of Indian chief and orator593 in their talk. There was a piquance of novelty and a refreshing720 charm to people—hived in towns and cities, and, stifled721 with artificial customs, almost oblivious722 of any direct contact of their senses with the solemn elementary phenomena of the surrounding universe—in hearing Metamora speak, in a voice that echoed and painted them, of the woods, the winds, the sun, the cliffs, the torrents, the lakes, the sea, the stars, the thunder, the meadows and the clouds, the wild animals and the singing birds. The meaning of the words so fitly intoned by the player awoke in the nerves of the audience dim reminiscences of ancestral experiences reverberating723 out of far ages forgotten long ago, and they were bound by a spell themselves understood not.
And then there was the interest of a style of character and life, of an idealized historic picture of a vanished form of human nature and society, all whose elements stood in strange and fascinating contrast with the personal experience of the beholders. It was the first time the American Indian had ever been dramatized and put on the stage; and this was done in a theme based on
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one of the romantic episodes of his history embodied in a chieftain of tragic greatness.
In a production of art whose subject and materials lie in the domain724 of unreclaimed nature, genius is not, indeed, permitted to falsify any fundamental principle or fact, but is free to modify and add. Otherwise, the creative function of art is gone, and only imitation left. In this respect of combined truth and originality, the acted Metamora of Forrest was a wonder never surpassed, in its own kind, in the long story of the stage. He appeared the kingly incarnation of the spirit of the scene, both of the outward landscape and of the taciturn tribe that peopled it with their gliding725 shapes. He appeared the human lord of the dark wood and the rocky shore, and the natural ruler of their untutored tenants726; the soul of the eloquent recital, the noble appeal, and the fiery727 harangue728; the embodiment of a rude magnanimity, a deep domestic love, an unquivering courage and fortitude729, an instinctive patriotism and sense of justice, and a relentless730 revenge. He appeared, too, the votary731 of a superstition of singular attractiveness, blooming with the native wild-flowers of the human mind, a faith so unaffected and open that it seemed to be read by the stars of the Great Spirit as they looked down on the lone106 Indian kneeling by the mound732 of his fathers, the hunted patriot lying in ambush733 for his foes734. Through all this physically-realized, wondrous735 portraiture of the poetic, the tender, the noble, the awful, the reverential, was mingled736 the glare of the crouching737 tiger. It was thus that Forrest in his great creation of Metamora rendered all that there was in the naturalistic poem of Indian life, to all that there was justly adding an infusion738 of that ideal quality by which art appeals to the nobler feelings of admiration and sympathy in preference to the meaner ones of hate and scorn. In this performance he elaborated a picture of the legendary and historic American Indian which to this day stands alone beyond all rivalry.
Never did an actor more thoroughly739 identify and merge294 himself with his part than Forrest did in Metamora. He was completely transformed from what he appeared in other characters, and seemed Indian in every particular, all through and all over, from the crown of his scalp to the sole of his foot. The carriage of his body, the inflections of his voice, his facial expressions, the
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very pose of his head and neck on his shoulders, were new. For he had recalled all his observations while on his visit with Push-ma-ta-ha among the Choctaws, when he had adopted their habits, eaten their food, slept in their tents, echoed the crack of his rifle over the surface of their lakes, and left the print of his moccasins on their hunting-grounds. He had also patiently studied their characteristics from all other available sources. Accordingly, when he came to impersonate Metamora, or the Last of the Wampanoags, modelled by the author of the play after that celebrated New England Sachem, the son of Massasoit, known in history as King Philip of Pokanoket, it was the genuine Indian who was brought upon the stage, merely idealized a little in some of his moral features. The attributes unnoticed by careless observers were distinctly shown,—the sudden muscular movements, the repressed emotion, the peculiar24 mode of breathing, the deep and vigorous gutturals flung out from the muscular base of the abdomen740, and the straight or slightly inward-pointing line of the footfall. With a profound truth to fact, the general bearing of Metamora on ordinary occasions was marked by a dull monotony of manner, broken with awkward abruptness, and his grand poses were limited to those times of great excitement when the human organism, if in a state of dynamic surcharge, is spontaneously electrified with heroic lines, and becomes an instrument with which impersonal741 passions or the laws of nature gesticulate.
With the single and very proper exception of this partially742 heightened moral refinement118, the counterfeit743 was so cunningly copied that it might have deceived nature herself. Many a time delegations744 of Indian tribes who chanced to be visiting the cities where he acted this character—Boston, New York, Washington, Baltimore, Cincinnati, New Orleans—attended the performance, adding a most picturesque feature by their presence, and their pleasure and approval were unqualified. A large delegation745 of Western Indians, seated in the boxes of the old Tremont Theatre on such an occasion, were so excited by the performance that in the closing scene they rose and chanted a dirge746 in honor of the death of the great chief.
This incident recalls one which happened in the earliest theatre in Philadelphia, when Mrs. Whitelock, the sister of Mrs. Siddons, was playing, and when Washington was present. At the begin
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ning of the performance a group of Indians, who had come from the wilderness to conclude a treaty, made their appearance in the pit in their native costume. The dark, tall, gaunt figures glided747 in, and, without noticing the audience or seeming to hear the claps of welcome which greeted them, seated themselves, and fixed their eyes on the stage, as unchangingly as if they were petrified748. They sat through the chief play like statues, with immovable tranquillity749. But in the after-piece an artificial elephant was introduced, which so electrified these sons of the forest that they suddenly sprang up with a cry. They said there had once been a great beast like this in their land. The next day they called on the manager, inspected the mammoth750 of sticks, pasteboard, and cloth, and asked to see by daylight the heavenly women who had appeared on the stage the previous night.
The opening scene of Metamora was a glen, with ledges751 of stone, trees, bushes, running vines, and flowers, the leading character seen, in his picturesque, aboriginal752 costume, standing on the highest rock in an attitude that charmed the eye. Leaning forward on his firmly-planted right foot, the left foot thrown easily back on its tip, he had a bow in his hands, with the arrow sprung to its head. As the arrow sped from the twanging string he raised his eyes with eager gaze after it, gave a deep interjection, "Hah!" bounded upon a rock below, and vanished. In a few moments he re-entered, with his left arm bleeding, as if it had been bitten in a struggle with a wild beast. Oceana, a white maiden753, passing, sees his wound and offers him her scarf to bind754 it up. The mother of Oceana had once befriended Massasoit when he was sick. Metamora, in his gratitude755, had visited her grave with offerings for the dead, and, on such an occasion, had rescued Oceana from a panther. He hesitates before accepting, and fills the delay with a by-play of pantomime so true to Indian nature, so new and strange to the spectators, that it was invested with an absorbing interest. At length he says, "Metamora will take the white maiden's gift." He then gives her an eagle's feather, bids her wear it in her hair, and if she is ever in danger he will fly to her rescue at the sight of this pledge of his friendship.
As the play moves on, the audience are gradually borne back to the early days of their fathers, and their dread struggle to
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establish themselves on these Western shores. We see the thin and thriving settlements constantly augmenting756 with reinforcements, and pushing the natives before them. We are taken within the homes of the Indians, shown their better qualities, their hopeless efforts, their mixed resolution and misgiving before their coming fate. Our sympathies are enlisted757, before we know it, with the defeated party against ourselves; and thus the author and actor won their just victory. For the English are made to represent power and fraud, the Indians truth and patriotism; and when their fugitive758 king pauses on a lofty cliff in the light of the setting sun, gazes mournfully on the lost hunting-grounds and desecrated346 graves of his forefathers759, and launches his curse on their destroyers, every heart beats with sorrow for him.
The class of speeches in which the instinctive love of nature that unconsciously saturated the Indian soul is expressed, and the closeness of their daily life to the elements of the landscape and the phenomena of the seasons is revealed, were delivered with matchless effect. Metamora, poised like the bronze statue of some god of the antique, says, "I have been upon the high mountain-top when the gray mists were beneath my feet, and the Great Spirit passed by me in wrath. He spoke in anger, and the rocks crumbled760 beneath the flash of his spear. Then I felt proud and smiled. The white man trembles, but Metamora is not afraid."
And again: "The war and the chase are the red man's brother and sister. The storm-cloud in its fury frights him not; and when the stream is wild and broken his canoe is like a feather, that cannot drown."
Another class of speeches, equally unique in character, and breathing with compressed passion, were those in which the relative positions of the intruding761 race and the native lords of the soil were described. The style with which these were pronounced made the form of the actor seem a new tenement762 in which the departed Sachem of the Pequots lived and spoke again. "Your lands?" he exclaims, with sarcastic disdain. "They are mine. Climb upon the rock and look to the sunrise and to the sunset,—all that you see is the land of the Wampanoags, the land of Metamora. I am the white man's friend; but when my friendship is over I will not ask the white man if I have the right to be his
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foe. Metamora will love and hate, smoke the pipe of peace or draw the hatchet763 of battle, as seems good to him. He will not wrong his white brother, but he owns no master save Manito, Master of Heaven."
And at another time: "The pale-faces are around me thicker than the leaves of summer. I chase the hart in the hunting-grounds; he leads me to the white man's village. I drive my canoe into the rivers; they are full of the white man's ships. I visit the graves of my fathers; they are lost in the white man's corn-fields. They come like the waves of the ocean forever rolling upon the shores. Surge after surge, they dash upon the beach, and every foam-drop is a white man. They swarm764 over the land like the doves of winter, and the red men are dropping like withered765 leaves."
In these passages his declamation seemed to make the whole tragedy of the story of the American Indians breathe and swell and tremble.
A wonderful interest, too, was concentrated in the personal traits of Metamora himself as an individual; so true to his word, so faithful to his friend, so devoted to his wife and child, so proud of his land and his fathers, so fearless of his foe, so reverential before his God. "To his friend Metamora is like the willow,—he bends ever at the breath of those that love him. To others he is an oak. Until with your single arm you can rive the strongest tree of the forest from its earth, think not to stir Metamora when his heart says No."
In the earliest scene with his wife, when ready to start on a hunt, he lingered, and directed her to take her child from its couch on the earth. He then lifted it in his hands, and stood for several seconds in an attitude so superbly defined in its outlines of strength and grace that several pictures of it were published at the time. He asked, with a look of fondness, suppressing his stern reserve, "Dost thou not love this little one, Nahmeokee?" "Ah, yes!" she replied. He then continued, in a caressing767 murmur360 like the runneling music of a brook768, "When first his little eyes unclosed, thou saidst that they were like to mine." The expression of human love was so simple and complete, and so exquisitely set in the wild seclusion769 of nature, suggestive of the self-sufficingness of this little nest of affection embosomed in the
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wood and forgetful of all else in the world, that it made many a soft heart beat fast with an aching wish that stayed long after the scene was gone.
In a later scene he describes to his wife a vision he has had in the night. He relates it in a rich, subdued undertone, waxing intenser, and giving the hearer a mixed feeling of mysterious reverie and prophetic inspiration. "Nahmeokee, the power of dreams has been on me, and the shadows of things to be have passed before me. My heart is big with great thoughts. When I sleep, I think the knife is red in my hand and the scalp of the white man is streaming." Here he gave an additional height to his figure, a slight downward inclination770 to his head and eyes, dropped his left arm listlessly, and, while the two halves of his whole form were seen finely distinguished along the median line, with his right hand, extended to its fullest distance straight from the shoulder, grasped his bow, which stood perfectly771 erect from the ground. It was a posture772 of beautiful artistic precision and meaning, expressive of reflection with a quality of earnest listening in it, as if waiting for a reply. The words of Nahmeokee, not fitting his mood, slightly ruffled773 his temper, and then, with a crisp tone of voice which in its change of quality and accent was so unexpected that it was like a sudden sweep of the wind that rustles774 the dry leaves and hums through the wood, he said, "Yes, when our fires are no longer red in the high places of our fathers,—when the bones of our kindred make fruitful the fields the stranger has planted amid the ashes of our wigwams,—when we are hunted back like the wounded elk775 far towards the going down of the sun,—our hatchets776 broken, our bows unstrung, and our war-whoops hushed,—then will the stranger spare; for we shall be too small for his eye to see!"
The controversy between the natives and the new settlers having reached a perilous height, the latter dispatch a messenger asking Metamora to meet them in council. Very angry, and deeming all talk useless, he yet concludes to go. Unannounced, abruptly777, he makes his peremptory778 appearance amidst them. Settling strongly back on his right leg, his left advanced at ease with bent knee, his right side half presented, his face turned squarely towards them, he says, with Spartan779 curtness780, and in a manner not insolent781, and yet indescribably defiant782, "You sent for
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me, and I have come." His action was so wonderfully expressive in speaking these few words that they became a popular phrase, circulating in the mouths of men in all parts of the country.
The same result also followed in another and simpler scene. He had promised to meet the English at a certain time and place. They demanded of him, "Will you come?" By mere force of manner he gave an immense impressiveness to the simple reply, "Metamora cannot lie." The very boys in the streets were seen trying to imitate his posture and look, swelling their little throats to make the words sound big, as they repeated, "Metamora cannot lie."
In an interview with the English, after deadly hostilities783 have begun to rage, Aganemo, a subject of Metamora, who, for some supposed wrong, has turned against him, is called in, and bears testimony784 against his chief and his tribe. Metamora cries, "Let me see his eyes;" and, going close in front of him, addresses the cowering recreant: "Look me in the face, Aganemo. Thou turnest away. The spirit of a dog has entered thee, and thou crouchest. Dost thou come here with a lie in thy heart to witness against me? Thine eye cannot rest on thy chieftain. White men, can he speak words of truth who has been false to his nation and false to his friends?" Fitz Arnold says, "Send him hence." Metamora interposes with an imperial mien full of dread import, "I will do that," and strikes him dead on the spot, exclaiming, "Slave of the whites, follow Sassamon,"—Sassamon being the name of another traitor whom he had previously785 slain786 in the midst of his own braves.
Fitz Arnold orders his men to seize the high-handed executioner of their witness. Towering alone in solitary and solid grandeur, with accents and gestures whose impassioned sincerity painted every thought as a visible reality and made the excited audience lean out of their seats, Metamora hurled back his electric defiance:
"Come! my knife has drunk the blood of the traitor, but it is not satisfied. Men of the pale race, beware! The mighty spirits of the Wampanoags are hovering787 over your heads. They stretch their shadowy arms and call for vengeance. They shall have it. Tremble! From East to West, from the South to the North, the tribes have roused from their slumbers788. They grasp the
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hatchet. The pale-faces shall wither766 under their power. White men. Metamora is your foe!"
The soldiers level their guns at him. He suddenly seizes a white man and places him before himself. The living shield thus extemporized789 falls, perforated with bullets. Metamora hurls790 his tomahawk to the floor, where it sticks quivering, while he cries, "Thus do I defy your power!" and darts away, leaving them dumb with astonishment.
The pathos with which Forrest rendered portions of the play of Metamora was one of its most remarkable excellences and one of his most distinctive27 trophies as a dramatic artist. No theory of the passions or mere mechanical drill in their expression can ever teach a man to be pathetic. Only a disagreeable mockery of it can thus come. Pathos is the one particular affection that knows no deceit, but comes in truth direct from the soul and goes direct to the soul. It may lie dormant791 in us, as music lies in the strings792 of a silent harp74, till a touch gives it life. Speaking more or less in all, it speaks most in those who cherish it most; and when it speaks it is felt by all,—red man and white man, barbarian198 and philosopher. The pathos of Metamora was not like that of Damon when he parted with his family to go to his execution, not like that of Brutus when he sentenced his son to death, not like that of Virginius when he slew his daughter. It was a pathos without tears or gesture. The Indian warrior never weeps. It was almost solely793 a pathos of the voice, and was as broad and primitive794 as the unperverted faith and affection of man. The supreme example of this quality in the play was finely set off by the contrast that immediately foreran it, its soft, sad shades following a scene of lurid795 fury and grandeur.
A peace-runner brings Metamora the news that Nahmeokee is a captive in the power of his enemies. Leaving fifty white men bound as hostages to secure his own safety, he starts alone to deliver her. As he approaches the English camp, he hears Nahmeokee shriek. With one bound he bursts in upon them, levels his gun, and thunders,—
"Which of you has lived too long? Dogs of white men, do you lift your hands against a woman?" "Seize him!" they cry, but shrink from his movement. "Hah!" he scornfully exclaims, "it is now a warrior who stands before you, the fire-weapon in
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his hands. Who, then, shall seize him? Go, Nahmeokee; I will follow thee." Then, reminding them of his hostages, he turns on his heel and departs.
He is next discovered, with a slow and heavy step, approaching his wigwam, where his rescued wife waits to receive him. He has seen that the too unequal struggle of his countrymen is hopeless, and he appears sad and gloomy. Telling Nahmeokee, who looks broken with grief, that he is weary with the strife of blood, he says, "Bring me thy little one, that I may press him to my burning heart to quiet its tumult439." Without his knowledge, the child had been killed by the white men a few hours previous. The mother goes where the child is lying upon the ground, lifts the skin that covers him, points at him, and drops her head in tears. Metamora looks at the child, at the mother, stoops, and, with rapid motions, feels the little face, arms, and legs. Suppressing the start of horror and the cry of grief a white man would have given, he sinks his chin slowly upon his breast and heaves a deep sigh, and then utters the simple words, "Dead! cold!" in a tone low as if to be heard by himself alone, and sounding like the wail606 of a sorrow in some far-away world. Having lifted the dead child and fondled it in his bosom and laid it tenderly back, he walks slowly to the weeping Nahmeokee, places his hand on her shoulder, and says, in a soft voice quivering with the tears not suffered to mount in the eyes, "Well, is he not happy? Better that he should die by the stranger's hand than live to be his slave. Do not bow down thy head. Thou wilt see him again in the happy land of the spirits; and he will look smilingly as—as—as I do now." Here the quality of smilingness was in the tones of the voice only, while his face wore the impress of intense grief. The voice and face thus contradicting each other presented a pathos so overwhelming that it seemed as if nothing human could surpass it or resist it.
His manner now changes. Some great resolution seems to have arisen in him. His words have a tender yet ominous548 meaning in their inflection as he asks Nahmeokee, "Do you not fear the power of the white man? He might seize thee and bear thee off to his far country, bind those arms that have so often clasped me, and make thee his slave. We cannot fly: our foes are all about us. We cannot fight, for this [drawing his long
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knife] is the only weapon I have saved unbroken from the strife. It has tasted the white man's blood and reached the cold heart of the traitor. It has been our best friend, and it is now our only treasure." Here he drew her still closer, and placed her head on his bosom, and, with the long knife in his hand, pointed upwards796, and with an alluring797, indescribably sweet and aerial falsetto tone, painted a picture that seemed to take form and color in the very atmosphere. There was a weird798 dreaminess in his voice and a visionary abstractness in his gaze, as with the words "long path in the thin air," he indicated the heavenward journey of his dead child, that seemed actually to dissolve the whole scene, theatre, actor, spectators, and all, into a passing vapor799, an ethereal enchantment.
"I look through the long path in the thin air, and think I see our little one borne to the land of the happy, where the fair hunting-grounds never know snows or storms, and where the immortal brave feast under the eyes of the Giver of Good. Look upward, Nahmeokee! See, thy child looks back to thee, and beckons800 thee to follow." Drawing her closer with his left arm, and lowering his right, he whispers, "Hark! In the distant wood I faintly hear the tread of the white men. They are upon us! The home of the happy is made ready for thee!" While this picture of fear and hope is vivid before her mind, he strikes the blow, and in an instant she is dead in his arms. He clasps her to his breast, presses his lips on her forehead, and gently places her beside the dead child. He then shudders, and draws forth the knife sheathed in her side, and kisses its blade in a sudden transport, exclaiming, "She knew no bondage802 to the white men. Pure as the snow she lived, free as the air she died!"
At this moment the hills are covered with the white men, pointing their rifles at his heart. "Hah!" he cries. Their leader shouts, "Metamora is our prisoner!" "No," he proudly responds, dilating with the haughtiest803 port of defiance. "I live, the last of my race, live to defy you still, though numbers and treachery overpower me. Come to me, come singly, come all, and this knife, which has drunk the foul blood of your nation, and is now red with the purest of mine, will feel a grasp as strong as when it flashed in the glare of your burning dwellings805 or was lifted terribly over the fallen in battle."
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The order is given to fire upon him; and he replies, "Do so. I am weary of the world; for ye are dwellers806 in it. I would not turn on my heel to save my life." They shoot, and he staggers, but in his dying agonies launches on them his awful malediction808:
"My curses on ye, white men! May the Great Spirit curse ye when he speaks in his war-voice from the clouds! May his words be like the forked lightnings, to blast and desolate! May the loud winds and the fierce red flames be loosed in vengeance upon ye, tigers! May the angry Spirit of the Waters in his wrath sweep over your dwellings! May your graves and the graves of your children be in the path where the red man shall tread, and may the wolf and the panther howl over your fleshless bones! I go. My fathers beckon801 from the green lakes and the broad hills. The Great Spirit calls me. I go,—but the curses of Metamora stay with the white men!"
He crawls painfully to the bodies of his wife and child, and, in a vain effort to kiss them, expires, with his last gasp mixing the words, "I die—my wife, my queen—my Nahmeokee!"
SPARTACUS.
F. Halpin
EDWIN FORREST AS
THE GLADIATOR.
"The Gladiator," written by Robert Montgomery Bird, was another prize-play, in which Forrest acquired a popularity which, if less general, was more intense, than that secured for his Metamora. If the admiration and applause given to it were drawn less universally from men and women, from old and young, they were more fervent and sustained, being fed by those elementary instincts which are strongest in the robust multitude. The Spartacus of Forrest was more abused and satirized809 by hostile critics than any of his other parts, because it was the most "physical" and "melodramatic" of them all. Muscular exertion and ferocious810 passion were carried to their greatest pitch in it, though neither of these was displayed in a degree beyond sincerity and fitness or the demands of the given situations on the given embodiment of the character. There are actual types of men and actual scenes of life which are transcendently "physical" and "melodramatic." No actor can truly represent such specimens of human nature and such conjunctures of human history without being highly "physical" and profoundly "melodramatic." Is it not the office of the player, the very aim of his art, correctly to depict180 the truth of man
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and life? And, recollecting811 what sort of a person the veritable Thracian gladiator was, and what sort of a part he played, one may well ask how he can be justly impersonated on the stage if not invested with the attributes of brawny812 muscularity, terrific indignation, stentorian813 speech, and merciless revenge. Forrest was blamed and ridiculed815 by a coterie816 because he did exactly what, as an artist cast in such a rôle, he ought to do, and any deviation817 from which would have been a gross violation818 of propriety. He simply exhibited tremendous mental and physical realities with tremendous mental and physical realism. What else would the demurrer have?
The fact is, the cant303 words "physical" and "melodramatic," as demeaningly used in dramatic criticism, express a vulgar prejudice too prevalent among the educated and refined,—a prejudice infinitely819 more harmful than any related prejudice of the ignorant and coarse. They seem to fancy the body something vile, to be ashamed of, to receive as little attention and be kept as much out of sight as possible. But since God created the body as truly as he did the spirit, and decreed its uses as much as he did those of the spirit, the perfecting and glorifying820 of the former are just as legitimate821 as the perfecting and glorifying of the latter. The ecclesiastical interpretation822 of Christianity for these fifteen hundred years is responsible, in common with kindred ascetic823 superstitions824 of other and elder religions, for an incalculable amount of disease, deformity, vice, crime, and untimely death. The contempt for bodily power and its material conditions in a superbly-developed and trained physical organism, the foul and dishonoring notion of the superior sanctity of the celibate825 state, the teaching that chastity is the one thing that allies us to the angels, with which every other sin may be forgiven, without which no other virtue is to be recognized,—these and associated errors—discords, distortions, and inversions827 of nature—have been prolific828 sources of evil. They lie at the root of the so common prejudice against a magnificent and glowing condition of the physical organism, a prejudice which feeds the conceit708 of the votaries829 of the present mental forcing system, and causes so many dawdling830 idlers to neglect all use of those vigorous measures of gymnastic hygiene831 which would raise the power and splendor of body and soul together to their maximum.
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The type of man produced by the Athenians in their best age, its unrivalled combination of health and strength, energy and grace, acumen832 and sensibility, organic harmony of mental peace and vital joy, was very largely the fruit of their unrivalled system of gymnastics regulated by music. Free America, with this example and so much subsequent experience, with all the conquests of modern science at her command, should inaugurate a system of popular training which will acknowledge the equal sanctity of body and soul and render them worthy of each other, a union of athletic and æsthetic culture making the body the temporary illuminated temple of its indwelling immortal divinity.
The separating of human nature into opposed parts whose respective highest welfare is incompatible must ever be productive of all kinds of morbidity833, monstrosity, and horror, through the final reactions of the violated harmony of truth. Leading to the enforced culture of one side, the mental, and the enforced neglect of the other, the material, it is fatal to that rounded wholeness of the entire man which is the synonym140 of both health and virtue. For the helpless subsidence of the soul in the body is brutality834 or idiocy; the insurrectionary sway of the body over the soul is insanity835; the remorseless subdual of the body by the soul is egotistic asceticism836 or murderous ferocity; but the parallel development and exaltation of accordant body and soul give us the ideal of health and happiness fulfilled in beauty, or the enthronement of divine order in man. Therefore such a stimulating837 instance of organic glory, extraordinary outward poise93 and inward passion, as the people, thrilled in their most instinctive depths of enthusiasm, used to shout at when they saw Forrest in his early assumptions of the rôle of Spartacus, is not to be stigmatized838 as something offensive, but to be hailed as something admirable.
In those happy and glowing years of his prime and of his fresh celebrity, what a glorious image of unperverted manhood, of personified health and strength and beauty, he presented! What a grand form he had! What a grand face! What a grand voice! And, the living base of all, what a grand blood! the rich flowing seed-bed of his human thunder and lightning. As he stepped upon the stage in his naked fighting-trim, his muscular coating unified839 all over him and quivering with vital power, his skin polished by exercise and friction to a smooth and marble hardness, conscious
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of his enormous potency840, fearless of anything on the earth, proudly aware of the impression he knew his mere appearance, backed by his fame, would make on the audience who impatiently awaited him,—he used to stand and receive the long, tumultuous cheering that greeted him, as immovable as a planted statue of Hercules. In the rank and state of his physical organism and its feelings he had the superiority of a god over common men. The spectacle, let it be repeated, was worthy the admiration it won. And had the personal imitation of the care and training he gave himself been but equal to the admiration lavished841 on their result, the benefit to the American people would have been beyond estimate. But in this, as in the other lessons of the drama, the example was relatively842 fruitless, because shown to spectators who applaud without copying, seeking entertainment instead of instruction. This, however, is clearly the fault of the people, and not of the stage.
The play of "The Gladiator" is founded on that dark and frightful episode in the history of Rome, the famous servile war headed by the gladiators under the lead of Spartacus. Our sympathies are skilfully844 enlisted on the side of the insurgents845, who are goaded846 to their desperate enterprise by insufferable wrongs and cruelties. It abounds in pictures of insolent tyranny on one side, and with eloquent denunciation and fearless resistance on the other, and the chief character is a powerful presentation of a deep and generous manhood, outraged in every fibre, lashed804 to fury by his injuries, and, after superhuman efforts of revenge, expiring in monumental despair and appeal to the gods. The horrors of oppression, the irrepressible dignity of human nature, the reckless luxury of the rulers, the suffering of the slaves, the revolting arrogance847 of despotism, and the burning passion of liberty, are set against one another; and all through it the mighty figure of Spartacus is made to fill the central place. It was just the part for a democrat, who, despising what is factitious, gloried in the ineradicable attributes of free manhood; and Forrest made the most of it. For instance, it is easy for those who knew him to imagine the energy and relish with which he would utter the following lines when he came to them in his part:
"I thank the gods, I am barbarian;
For I can better teach the grace-begot
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And heaven-supported masters of the earth,
How a mere dweller807 of a desert rock
Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels.
Man is heaven's work, and beggars' brats848 may herit
A soul to mount them up the steeps of fortune,
With regal necks to be their stepping-blocks."
In the intense sincerity and elaborate as well as spontaneous truth of his performance, it was not a play that the spectators saw, but a history; not a history, but a resurrection. Entering in the garb of a slave, bound and whipped, his mighty frame and terrible aspect made the abuse seem more awful. Tortured with insulting questions, his proud spirit stung by wrong on wrong, he broke forth in desperation, and carried the passions of the audience by storm, as with clenched850 hands, and half erect from their seats, while the blood ran quicker through their veins, they saw him rush into combat with his enemies and chase them from the stage. They delighted to see the cruel subduer of the world humbled by her own captive, who held her haughty851 prætors by the heart and called on Thrace, on Africa, on the oppressed of all nations, to pour the flood of their united hates on the detested852 city. They rejoiced to hear him recite with bitter eloquence the story of her degradation, and heap on her with hot scorn the recollection of the time when Tiber ran blood and Hannibal hung over her like a cloud charged with ruin. Every step, every word, vibrated on their feelings, and when he fell their hearts swelled853 with a pang637. For the actor had been lost in the slave, the insurgent, the conqueror854, the victim.
His first appearance as a captive in imperial Rome was deeply affecting. "Is it a thousand leagues to Thrace?" he said, with a whispered agony, the deadly lament467 of hopeless exile. He has been purchased by Lentulus, an exhibitor of gladiators, on the strength of the report that he was the most desperate, skilful843, and unconquerable fighter in the province. Bracchius, another proprietor855 of gladiators, owns one Phasarius, a Thracian, who has always been victorious856 in his combats. Phasarius was a younger and favorite brother of Spartacus, supposed to have been killed in battle years before, but really taken captive and brought to Rome. Now Bracchius and Lentulus propose a combat between their two slaves. Spartacus, chained, is ordered in. He asks, "Is not this Rome, the great city?" Bracchius replies,
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"Ay, and thou shouldst thank the gods that they have suffered thee to see it. What think'st thou of it?"
"Spartacus. That if the Romans had not been fiends, Rome had never been great. Whence came this greatness but from the miseries857 of subjugated858 nations? How many myriads859 of happy people that had not wronged Rome, for they knew not Rome,—how many myriads of these were slain, like the beasts of the field, that Rome might fatten860 upon their blood, and become great? Look ye, Roman, there is not a palace upon these hills that cost not the lives of a thousand innocent men; there is no deed of greatness ye can boast, but it was achieved by the ruin of a nation; there is no joy ye can feel, but its ingredients are blood and tears."
Lentulus breaks in, "Now, marry, villain, thou wert bought not to prate861, but to fight."
"Spartacus. I will not fight. I will contend with mine enemy, when there is strife between us; and if that enemy be one of these same fiends, a Roman, I will give him the advantage of weapon and place; he shall take a helmet and buckler, while I, with my head bare and my breast naked, and nothing in my hand but my shepherd's staff, will beat him to my feet and slay254 him. But I will not slay a man for the diversion of Romans."
His master threatens to have him lashed if he refuses to contend in the arena862. The fearful attitude and fixed look with which Spartacus received this threat, suggesting that he would strike the speaker dead with a glance, were a masterpiece of expressive art not easily forgotten by any one who saw it. Its possessing power seemed to freeze the gazer while he gazed. Still refusing to fight, in moody863 despair he bewails the destruction of his home by the Romans, and their murder of his wife and young child. The female slaves of Bracchius here pass by, and, to his amazement, among them Spartacus sees his lost Senona and her boy. After a touching interview of contending joy and grief with them, he agrees to enter the arena, on condition that if he is victorious his reward shall be their liberation.
The next act opens with a view of the great Roman amphitheatre, crowded with the people gathered to see those bloody games which were their horrid but favorite amusement. The first adversary864 brought against Spartacus is a Gaul. He soon slays
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him, though with great reluctance865, and only as moved to it by the prospect of freedom for his wife and child. Then they propose as a second champion a renowned866 Thracian. He flings down his sword and refuses to fight with one of his own countrymen. But at last, on learning that liberty is to be had in no other way, he suddenly yields. The Thracian is introduced. It is Phasarius. A scene of intense pathetic power follows, as little by little the brothers are struck with each other's appearance, suspect, inquire, respond, are satisfied, and rush into a loving embrace. The prætor treats their recognition and their transport of fraternal affection as a trick to escape the combat, and orders them to begin. Spartacus proposes to his brother to die sword in hand rather than obey the unnatural command. In reply, Phasarius rapidly informs him that he has already organized the elements of a revolt among his comrades, and that it awaits but his signal to break out. Crassus angrily calls on his guards to enter the amphitheatre and punish the dilatory867 combatants. The manner in which Spartacus retorted, "Let them come in,—we are armed!" never failed to stir the deepest excitement in the theatre, causing the whole assembly to join in enthusiastic applause. Port, look, gesture, tone, accent, combined to make it a signal example of the sovereign potency of manner in revealing a master-spirit and swaying subject-spirits.
On the entrance of the guards, Phasarius gives a shout, and the confederate gladiators also plunge491 in, and a general conflict begins. In this scene the acting of Forrest absorbed his whole heart. He was so thoroughly imbued868 with the spirit of it that everything he did was perfectly natural, full of that genuine fire which is so much beyond all exertion by rule. It was universally agreed that more spirited and admirable fighting was hardly to be conceived, the varied postures869 into which he threw his massive form being worthy to be taken as studies for the sculptor870.
The rebellion grows apace in success and numbers. Spartacus rescues his wife and child from the Roman camp, and seizes the niece of the prætor. Phasarius falls in love with this young woman, and demands her of his brother. Being refused because she is affianced to a youth in Rome, he insists on his demand. In the altercation occurs one of the finest and loftiest passages in the play, and it was rendered with a sublime eloquence:
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"Spartacus. Come, look me in the face,
And let me see how bad desires have changed thee.
Phasarius. I claim the captive.
Spar. Set thine eye on her:
Lo, you! she weeps, and she is fatherless.
Thou couldst not harm an orphan871? What, I say,
Art thou, whom I have carried in my arms
To mountain-tops to worship the great God,
Art thou a man to plot a wrong and sorrow
'Gainst such as have no father left but Him?"
Phasarius revolts, and takes off more than half the army. Disastrously872 defeated by Crassus, he returns with a broken fragment of his forces, and is generously forgiven and restored to favor by Spartacus, who intrusts him with an important separate command, and confides873 Senona and her boy to his keeping, with the solemn charge that he shall avoid all collision with the enemy. Phasarius, however, thirsting for Roman blood, seeks an engagement, and is totally routed, his force cut in pieces, and the mother and child both slain. The unhappy man, then, mortally wounded, presents himself before his brother, tells his fearful tale, and expires at his feet. In this interview the emotions of anxiety, deprecation, grief, wrath, and horror, were depicted in all their most forcible language in the person of Spartacus. One action in particular was effective in the highest degree. Phasarius described the crucifixion by the Romans of six thousand of their Thracian captives. The highway on both sides, he said, was lined with crosses, and on each cross was nailed a gladiator.
"I crept
Thro' the trenched army to that road, and saw
The executed multitude uplifted
Upon the horrid engines. Many lived:
Some moaned and writhed874 in stupid agony;
Some howled and prayed for death, and cursed the gods;
Some turned to lunatics, and laughed at horror;
And some with fierce and hellish strength had torn
Their arms free from the beams, and so had died
Grasping headlong the air."
The agitations875 of the soul of the listener up to this point had been delineated with fearful distinctness. But when told that his wife and child had been killed, his head suddenly fell forward on his breast and rested there, after vibrating four or five times
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in lessening876 degrees on the pivot877 of the neck, as if utterly abandoned to itself. It was marvellously expressive of the exhausted state, the woe-begone despair, of one who had received a shock too great to be borne, a shock which, had it been a little severer, would have prostrated his whole figure, but, as it was, simply prostrated his head.
Deprived of all his kindred and of all hope, alone on the flinty earth, rage and recklessness now seize the desolate Thracian, and he resolves to sacrifice his captive, the niece of the prætor, in retaliation878 for the slaughter196 of his own family; but a nobler sentiment restrains him, and he dismisses her to her father. In this passage he displayed the agony of generous grief subduing879 the desire of vengeance with a power which, as a prominent English critic said, reminded the beholder466 of the head of Laocoön struggling in the folds of the serpent, or of the head of Hercules writhing880 under the torture of the poisoned shirt.
The prætor in return for his daughter sends Spartacus an offer of pardon if he will surrender. Disdainfully rejecting the overture881, he has the horses in his camp slain, and sets everything on the chance of one more battle, but against such odds as he knows can result only in his defeat. With a frenzied thirst for vengeance he fights his way to the presence of the Roman general, and, in the very act of striking him down, exhausted from the accumulated wounds received in his passage of blood, grows faint, reels, falls in the exact attitude of the immortal statue of the Dying Gladiator, and expires.
A most remarkable proof of the histrionic genius of Forrest was given in the profoundly discriminated manner with which the same mass and fury of revengeful passion, the same rude breadth and tenderness of affection and pathos, were shown by him in the two characters of Metamora and Spartacus. In the Indian there was a stoical compression of the emotions out of their revealing channels, an organic suppression of starts and surprises and lamentations, a profound impassibility of demeanor, an exterior882 of slow, stubborn, monotonous883 self-possession, through which the volcanic884 ferocity of the interior crept in words of slow lava885, or flared886 as fire through a smouldering heap of cinders887. In the Thracian there was more variety as well as incomparably more freedom and impulsiveness888 of expression. The exterior and in
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terior corresponded with each other and mutually reflected instead of contradicting each other. In different exigencies889 the gladiator exhibited in his whole person, limbs, torso, face, eyes, and voice, the extremes of sullen890 stolidity891, pining sorrow, convulsive grief, ambitious pride, pity, anger, resolution, and despair, each well shaded from the others. He had a wider gamut892, as civilization is more comprehensive than barbarism. The movements and expressions of Metamora seemed to be instinctive, and originate in the nervous centres of the physique; those of Spartacus to be volitional893, originating in the cerebral894 centres. In civilized life the body tends to be the reflex of the brain; in savage life the brain to be the reflex of the body. This historic and physiological895 truth Forrest knew nothing about, but the practical results of the fact he intuitively observed.
AND MENTAL REALISM.—ROLLA.—TELL.—DAMON.—BRUTUS.—
VIRGINIUS.—SPARTACUS.—METAMORA.
A nation beginning its career as a colony is naturally dependent on the parent country for its earliest examples in culture. Some time must elapse; wealth, leisure, and other conditions favorable to spiritual enrichment and free aspiration5 must be developed, before it can create ideals of its own and achieve æsthetic triumphs in accordance with them. Such was the case with America. Its mental dependence6 on England continued long after its civil allegiance had ceased. Little by little, however, the colonial temper and servile habit were repudiated8 in one province after another of the national activity. Jefferson was our first audacious and fruitful original thinker in politics. In painting, Stuart arose as a bold and profound master, with no teacher but nature. In fiction, Cooper opened a rich field, and reaped a harvest of imperishable renown10. In religion, the inspired genius of Channing appeared with a leavening11 impulse which still works. And in poetry, Bryant was the earliest who treated indigenous12 themes with a distinction which has made his name ineffaceable.
In no other region of the national life was the colonial dependence so complete and so prolonged as in the drama. The chief plays and actors alike were imported. Scarcely did anything else dare to lift its head on the theatrical13 boards. All was servile imitation or lifeless reproduction, until Forrest fought his way to the front, burst into fame, and by the conspicuous14 brilliance15 of his success heralded17 a new day for his profession in this country. Forrest, as an eloquent18 writer said a quarter of a century ago, was the first great native actor who brought to the illustration of Shakspeare and other poets a genius essentially19 American and at the same time individual,—a genius distinguished20 by its freedom from all trammels and subservience21 to schools, by its force
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in a self-reliance which seemed loyalty22 to nature, and by its freshness in an ideal which gave to all his efforts a certain moral elevation,—a genius which, after every deduction23, still remained as a something peculiarly noble and enkindling, highly original in itself, and distinctively26 American. This is certainly his historic place; and it was perhaps more fortunate than calamitous28 that he was left in his early years so largely without teachers and without models, to develop his own resources in his early wanderings as a strolling player in the West by direct experience of the soul within him and direct observation of the impassioned unconventional life about him. He was thus forced to shape out of the mint of his own nature the form and stamp and coloring of his conceptions. There was fitness and significance in such a genius as his maturing and pouring itself out under the shade of the Western woods, rising up amid their grandeur30 clear and simple as a spring, till, fed and strengthened, it leaped forth31 fresh and thundering as a torrent32.
In characterizing Forrest as a tragedian by the epithet34 American, it is necessary that we should understand what is meant by the word in such a connection. We mean that he was an intense ingrained democrat35. Democracy asserts the superiority of man to his accidents. Its genius is contemptuous of titular37 claims or extrinsic38 conditions in comparison with intrinsic truth and merit. Its glance pierces through all pompous39 circumstances and pretences40, to the personal reality of the man. If that be royal and divine, it is ready to worship; if not, it pays no false or hollow tribute, no matter what outward prestige of attraction there may be or what clamor of threats. That is the proper temper and historic ideal of our republic; and that was Forrest in the very centre of his soul, both as a man and as an actor.
But his individuality was in the general sense as deeply and positively41 human as it was American or democratic. That is to say, he was an affirmative, believing, sympathetic character, not a skeptical42, negative, or sneering43 one. He so vividly45 loved in their plain and concrete reality his own parents, brothers and sisters, friends, native land, that he could give vivid expression to such sentiments in abstract generality without galvanizing his nerves with any artificial volition46. His affections preponderated47 over his antipathies48. He was not fond of badinage49, but full of
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downright earnestness. He loved the sense of being, enjoyed it, was grateful for its privileges, and delighted to contemplate50 the phenomena51 of society. He had the keenest love for little children, and the deepest reverence52 for old age. He valued the goods of life highly, and labored54 to accumulate them. He had a vivid sensibility for the beauties of nature. He had an enthusiastic admiration55 of great men, and a ruling desire for the prizes of honor and fame. His soul thrilled at the recital56 of glorious deeds, and his tears started at a great thought or a sublime57 image or a tender sentiment. Friendship for man, love for woman, a kindling25 patriotism59, a profound feeling of the domestic ties, a burning passion for liberty, and an unaffected reverence for God, were dominant62 chords in his nature. He had no patience with those vapid63 weaklings, those disappointed aspirants65 or negative dreamers, who think everything on earth a delusion66 or a temptation, nature a cheat, man a phantom67 or a fool, history a toy, life a wretched chaos69, death an unknown horror, and nothing between worth an effort. He was, on the contrary, a wholesome70 realist, full of throbbing72 vitality73 and eagerness, embracing the natural goods of existence with a sharp relish75, and putting a worshipful estimate on the ideal glories of humanity. Intellect, instinct, and affection in him were all alive,—free and teeming76 springs of personal power. This rich fulness of positive life and passion in himself both opened to him the elemental secrets of experience and enabled him to play effectively on the sympathies of other men.
Let such a man, trained under such circumstances, endowed with a magnificent physique, overflowing78 with energy and fire, become an actor, and it is easy to see what will be the leading ideal exemplified in his personations. Exactly what this dominant ideal was will be illustrated79 in the descriptions which are to follow. But a clear statement of it in advance will aid us the better to appreciate those descriptions.
The rank of any work of art is determined80 by the ideal expressed in it, and the accuracy of its expression. As has been well said, no art better illustrates81 this fact than the art of acting. Take, for instance, the genius of Kemble. His ideal was authority. He was never so impressive as in the illustration of a king or ruler. In Coriolanus, in Macbeth, in Wolsey, in every character that gave opportunity for it, he was ever expressing the sense of
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mental or official power as the noblest of human attributes. So the ideal of Cooke was skepticism. He was always best as a social infidel, uttering the bitterest sarcasms84. It was this faculty85 that rendered his Man of the World so great a triumph. The ideal of Kean, again, was retribution. He was grandest as the sufferer and avenger86 of great wrongs. And the ideal of Macready was that of Kemble modified by its more fretful and impatient expression, making him ever most effective in the display of some form of pride or wounded honor, as in Werner, Richelieu, Melantius.
In distinction from the special ideals of these and the other most celebrated88 tragedians of the past, the ideal of Forrest was unquestionably the democratic ideal of universal manhood, a deep sense of natural and moral heroism89, sincerity90, friendship, and faith. This imperial self-reliance and instinctive91 honesty, this unperverted and unterrified personality poised92 in the grandest natural virtues95 of humanity, is the key-note or common chord to the whole range of his conceptions, on which all their varieties are modulated96, from Rolla and Tell to Metamora and Spartacus, from Damon and Brutus to Othello and Lear. Fearless, faithful manhood penetrates97 them all, is the great elevating principle which makes them harmonics of one essential ideal. To have exemplified so sublime an ideal, in so many grand forms, each as clearly defined as a sculptured statue, during a half-century, before applauding millions of his countrymen, is what stamps Forrest and makes him worthy98 of his fame, singling him out in the rising epoch99 of his country's greatness as one of the most imposing100 and not unworthiest of her types of nationality.
There are two contrasted styles of the dramatic art which have long been recognized and discriminated101 in the two schools of acting, the Romantic and the Classic. Before proceeding102 to the best rôles of Forrest in his earlier period, it is indispensable that we clearly seize the essence of the distinction between these two schools. Otherwise we shall fail to see the originality103 and importance of the relation in which he stood to them.
The one school, in its separate purity, is sensational or natural, exhibiting characters of physical and mental realism; the other is reflective or artistic, representing characters of imaginative portraiture104. The former springs from strong and sincere im
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pulses, the latter from clear and mastered perceptions. That is based on the instincts and passions, and is predominantly imitative or reproductive; this rests on the intellect and imagination, and is predominantly creative. The one projects the thing in reflex life, as it exists in reality; the other reveals it, as in a glass. That is nature brought alive on the stage; this is art repeating nature refined at one mental remove. They resemble and contrast each other as the hurtless image of the bird mirrored in the lake would correspond with its concrete cause above, could it, while yet remaining a mere105 reflection, address our other senses as it now does the eye alone. The sensational acting of crude nature is characteristically sympathetic and mimetic in its origin, enslaved, expensive of force, and mainly seated in the nervous centres of the body. The artistic acting of the accomplished107 master is characteristically spiritual and self-creative in its origin, free, economical of exertion108, and mainly seated in the nervous centres of the brain. The one actor lives his part, and is the character he represents; the other plays his part, and truly portrays109 the character he imagines.
The Classic style is self-controlled, stately, deliberately110 does what it consciously predetermines to do, trusts as much to the expressive111 power of attitudes and poses as to facial changes and voice. It elaborates its rôle by systematic112 critical study, leaving nothing to chance, to caprice, or to instinct. The Romantic style permeates113 itself with the situations and feeling of its rôle, and then is full of impetuosity and abandon, giving free vent29 to the passions of the part and open swing to the energies of the performer. The one is marked by careful consistency114 and studious finish, the other by impulsive115 truth, abrupt116 force, electric bursts. That abounds117 in the refinements119 of polished art, this abounds in the sensational effects of aroused and uncovered nature. The former is adapted to delight the cultivated Few, the latter thrills the unsophisticated Many.
Now, it was the originality of Forrest that he combined in a most fresh and impressive manner the fundamental characteristics of both these schools,—in his first period with an undoubted preponderance of the characters of physical realism, but in his second period with an unquestionable preponderance of the characters of imaginative portraiture. He was from the first both an artistic and
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a sensational actor. None of his great predecessors120 ever came upon the stage with conceptions more patiently studied, wrought121 up with a more complete consistency in every part, or with the perspective, the foreshortening, the lights and shades, arranged with more conscientious122 fidelity123. His idea of a character might sometimes, perhaps, be questioned, but the clearness with which he grasped his idea, and the thorough harmony with which he put it forth and sustained it, could not be questioned. In this respect he was one of the most consummate124 of dramatic artists. And as for the other side of the picture, the spontaneous sincerity and irresistible125 force of his demonstrations126 of the great passions of the human heart were almost unprecedented127 in the effects they wrought.
In an accurate use of the words, sensational acting would be acting that took its origin in the senses and passed thence through the muscles without the intervention128 of the mind. This is the acting learned by the parrot, the dog, or the monkey, and by the mere mimic130. Artistic acting, on the other hand, is acting which originates in the creative mind and is freely sent thence through the proper channels of expression. The true definition of art is feeling passed through thought and fixed131 in form. When the intellectualized feeling is fixed in its just form, it should be made over to the automatic nerves, and the brain be relieved from the care of its oversight132 and direction. Then playing becomes beautiful, because it is at ease in unconscious spontaneity. Otherwise, it often becomes repulsive133 to the delicate observer, because it is laborious134. This was the one defect of Forrest which lamed135 him in the supreme136 height of his great art. His brain continued to do the work. There was often too much volition in his play, causing a muscular friction137 and an organic expense which made the sensitive shrink, and which only the robust138 could afford. But no one was more completely an artist in always passing his emotions through his thought, knowing exactly what he meant to do and how he would do it.
The word melodramatic properly describes an action in which the movement is physical rather than mental, and in which more is made of the interest of the situations than of the revelation of the characters. For example, the pantomimic expression of great passions is melodramatic. In this sense Forrest often produced
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the highest effects where the subject and the scene, the logic139 of the situation, required it. But in the popular sense of the term, which makes it synonymous with crudity141 and falsity, hollow extravagance, a vulgar aiming at a sensation by exaggeration or artifices142 which disregard the harmonious143 fitness of things, no actor could be more free from the vice144. He was always sincere, always earnest, always careful of the sustained congruity145 of his representation. And within these limits, surely the more intense the sensation he could produce, the better. Sensation is the very thing desired in attending a play. The spectators know enough for their present purpose; they want to be made to feel more keenly, more purely146, more nobly. Power and perfection on the lowest level are superior to weakness and failure on that level, and are not incompatible147 with power and perfection on all the higher levels, but rather tributary148 to them. Did we not desire to be strong rather than weak, to be handsome rather than ugly, to be admired rather than scorned, all aspiration would cease, and the human race stagnate149 and end. To be capable of such astounding150 outbursts of power and passion as to electrify151 all who behold152, curdle153 their very marrow154, and cause them ever after to remember you with wondering interest and fruitful imitation, is a glorious endowment, worthy of our envy. To sneer44 at it as sensationalism gives proof of a mean disposition155 or a morbid156 soul.
In the same sense in which Forrest was melodramatic, God and Nature themselves are so. What can be more genuinely sensational than Niagara, Mont Blanc, the earthquake, the tempest, the forked flash of the lightning, the crashing roll of the thunder, the crouch158 of the tiger, the dart159 of the anaconda, the shriek160 of the swooping161 eagle, the prance162 of the war-horse in his proud pomp? And the attributes of all these belong to man, with additions of nameless grandeur, terror, and beauty beside, making him an incarnate163 representative of God on the earth. To see Forrest in Lear, or Salvini in Saul, is to feel this. True sensationalism, banished164 in our tame times from the selfish and servile walks of common life, is the very desideratum and glory of the Stage.
ROLLA.
One of the first characters in which Forrest enjoyed great popularity was that of Rolla, the Peruvian hero. The play of
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"The Spaniards in Peru," by Kotzebue, as rewritten by Sheridan from a paraphrase165 in English, was for a long time a favorite with the public. It brought the adventurers and wonderful achievements of the most romantic kingdom in Christendom into picturesque166 combination with the strange scenes, simplicity167, and superstition168 of the newly-discovered transatlantic world, and was full of music, pomp, pictures, poetic169 situations, and processions. In literary style, the knowing critics call it tawdry and bombastic170; in ethical171 tone, sentimental172 and inflated173. But the average audiences, especially of a former generation, were not fastidious censors174. They went to the theatre less to judge and sneer than to be moved with sympathy, enjoyment175, and admiration. And they found this play rich in strong appeals to the better instincts of their moral nature. What the blasé found turgid, affected61, or ludicrous, the unsophisticated felt to be eloquent, poetic, and noble. For the fair appreciation177 of a piece of acting, assuredly this latter point of view is preferable to the former; for tragedy is a form of poetry, and has as one of its purest functions the revelation of the moral ingredients of man, lifted, enlarged, and glorified178 in its mirror of art.
Rolla is depicted179 as simple, grand, a nobleman of nature, frank, ardent181, impulsive, magnanimous,—his own truth and heroism investing him with an invisible robe and crown of royalty182. It was a rôle precisely183 adapted to the young tragedian whose own soul it so well reflected. Endowed with all the chivalrous184 sentiments, expansive and kindling, uncurbed by the nil186 admirari standards of fashionable breeding, he could fill up every extravagant187 phrase of the part without any feeling of extravagance.
Pizarro and his followers188 are pictured throughout the play in an odious189 light, as tyrants190 assailing192 the Peruvians without provocation193 and slaughtering195 them without mercy. The sympathies of Las Casas and of the noble Alonzo have been alienated197 from their own countrymen and transferred to the barbarians199, who are represented in the most favorable colors as honest, affectionate, brave, standing200 in defence of their liberty and their altars. Alonzo, disgusted and shocked by the atrocities202 of Pizarro, has joined the Peruvians, and has been placed in conjunction with Rolla at the head of their forces. The aged33 Orozembo, seized by the Spaniards and brought before their leader, is questioned, "Who is this
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Rolla joined with Alonzo in command?" He replies, "I will answer that; for I love to repeat the hero's name. Rolla, the kinsman203 of the king, is the idol204 of our army; in war, a tiger; in peace, more gentle than the lamb. Cora was once betrothed205 to him; but, finding she preferred Alonzo, he resigned his claim, to friendship and her happiness." Pizarro exclaims, "Romantic savage206! I shall meet this Rolla soon." "Thou hadst better not," replies Orozembo; "the terrors of his eye would strike thee dead."
In the next scene the way is still further prepared for the impression of his appearance. His beloved Alonzo and Cora are discerned playing with their child in front of a wood. They talk of Rolla, of his sacrifice for them, and of his noble qualities. Shouts arise, when Alonzo says, "It is Rolla setting the guard. He comes." At that instant the sonorous207 tones of his voice are heard from outside the stage, like the martial208 clang of a trumpet209, uttering the words, "Place them on the hill fronting the Spanish camp." Every eye is fixed, the whole audience lean forward as he enters, and in a flash the magnetic spell is on them, and they breathe and feel as one man. The stately ease of his athletic210 port, his deep square chest, broad shoulders, and columnar neck, his frank brow, with the mild, glowing, open eyes, the warm blood mantling211 the brave and wooing face, seize the collective sympathy of the assembly, and they break into wild cheering. He seems to stand there, in his barbaric costume and majestic212 attitude, as a romantic picture stereoscoped by nature herself. And when, in reply to the exclamation213 of Alonzo, "Rolla, my friend, my benefactor214, how can our lives repay the obligations which we owe thee?" he says, "Pass them in peace and bliss215; let Rolla witness it, and he is overpaid,"—the very soul of friendship and nobility seems to flow in the sweet music of his liquid gutturals, and the charm is complete.
From this point onward216 to the close all was moulded and wrought up in perfect keeping. He had fashioned to himself a complete image of what Rolla should be in accordance with the conception in the play, his carriage, walk, and attitudes, his style of gesture, his physiognomy, his tone and habit of voice. He had imprinted217 this idea so deeply in his brain, and had trained himself so carefully to its consistent manifestation219, that his portrayal220 on the stage had all the unity82 of design and precision of
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detail which characterize the work of a masterly painter. Instead of using canvas, pigment221, and brush, he painted his part in the air in living pantomime. In all his rôles this was his manner more and more up to the crowning period of his career.
He gave extraordinary effectiveness to the famous address which Rolla pronounces to the Peruvian warriors223 on the eve of battle, by the manly224 truth and simplicity of his delivery,—"My brave associates, partners of my toil225, my feelings, and my fame." Instead of launching forth in a swollen226 and mechanical declamation227, he spoke228 with the straightforward229 truth and the varied230 and hearty231 inflection of nature; and his honest earnestness woke responsive echoes in every breast. Like Macklin and Garrick on the English stage, Talma on the French, and Devrient on the German, Forrest on the American was a bold and original innovator232 on the inveterate233 elocutionary mannerism234 of actors embodied235 in what is universally known as theatrical delivery. For the mouthing formality, the torpid236 noisiness, the strained monotony and forced cadences238 of the routine players, these men of genius substituted—only enlarging the scale of power—the abruptness239, the changes, the conversational240 vivacity241 of tone, emphasis, and inflection, which are natural to a free man with a free voice played upon by the genuine passions of life. This was one of the chief excellences242 and attractions of Forrest throughout his professional course. He was ever a man uttering thoughts and sentiments,—not an elocutionist displaying his trade.
Alonzo, filled with a presentiment244 of death, charged his friend, in such an event, to take Cora for his wife and adopt their child. Rolla, finding after the battle that Alonzo was a prisoner, repeated his parting message to his wife. Cora's suspicion was aroused, and she accused him of deserting his friend for the sake of securing her. Then was shown a fine picture of contending emotions in Rolla. Disinterested245 and heroic to the last degree, to be charged with such baseness, and that, too, by the woman whom he loved and revered,—it stung him to the quick. Injured honor, proud indignation, mortified246 affection, and magnanimous resolution were seen flying from his soul through his form and face. He determines to rescue Alonzo by piercing to his prison and assuming his place. Disguised as a monk129, he asks the sentinel to admit him to the prisoner. Being refused, he tries to bribe247 the sentinel.
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This fails, and he appeals to him by nobler motives248, revealing himself as the friend of Alonzo, who has come to bear his last words to his wife and child. The sentinel relents. Rolla lifts his eyes to heaven, and says, "O holy Nature, thou dost never plead in vain!" and rushes into the arms of his friend. After an earnest controversy249, Alonzo changes dress with him, and escapes, Rolla exclaiming, with a sigh of satisfaction, "Now, Cora, didst thou not wrong me? This is the first time I ever deceived man. If I am wrong, forgive me, God of Truth!"
All this was done with a sincerity and energy irresistibly250 contagious251. And when Elvira has armed him with a dagger252 and led him to the couch of the sleeping Pizarro, when, instead of slaying253 his foe255, he wakens him and drops the weapon, showing how superior a heathen can be to a Christian256, and when the tyrant191 calls in his guards and orders them to seize the hapless Elvira, the contrast of the confronting Rolla and Pizarro, the example of godlike magnanimity and its foil of unnatural257 depravity, stands in an illumination of moral splendor258 that thrills every heart.
Two more scenes remained to carry the triumph of Forrest in the part to its culmination259. The child of Alonzo and Cora, in ignorance of who he is, has been captured by the Spanish soldiers, and is brought in. Pizarro bids them toss the Peruvian imp9 into the sea. With a start and look of alternating horror and love, Rolla cries, "Gracious Heaven, it is Alonzo's child!" "Ha!" exclaims Pizarro: "welcome, thou pretty hostage. Now is Alonzo again in my power." After vain expostulation, Rolla prostrates261 himself before the cruel captain, saying, "Behold me at thy feet, thy willing slave, if thou wilt262 release the child." Other actors, including the cold and stately Kemble, as they spoke these words, sank directly on their knees. But Forrest introduced a by-play of startling power, full of the passionate263 warmth of nature. Regarding Pizarro with an amazement264 made of surprise and scorn waxing into noble anger, he is seen making the strongest exertion to refrain from rushing on the tyrant and striking him down. He begins to kneel. Half-way in the slow descent, repugnance265 to stoop his manhood before such baseness checks him, and he partly rises, when a glance at the child overcomes his hesitation266, and he sinks swiftly on his knees. The Spaniard replies, "Rolla,
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thou art free to go; the boy remains267." With the rapidity of lightning, Rolla snatches the child and lifts him over his left shoulder, and, waving his sword, cries, in clarion268 accents, "Who moves one step to follow me dies on the spot!" He strikes down three of the guards who oppose him, and rushes across a bridge at the back of the stage. The soldiers fire, and a shot strikes him as he vanishes with the child held proudly aloft. The view changes to the Peruvian court. The king is seen with his nobles, and with Alonzo and Cora distracted at the loss of their child. Shouts are heard. "Rolla! Rolla!" The hero staggers in, bleeding, ghastly, and faint, and places the child in its mother's arms, with an exquisite269 touch of nature first drawing the little face down to his own and planting a kiss on it, staining it from his bleeding wounds in the act. She exclaims, "Oh, God, there is blood upon him!" He replies, "'Tis mine, Cora." Alonzo says, "Thou art dying, Rolla." He answers, faintly, "For thee and Cora." One long gasp270, a wavering on his feet, a convulsion of his chest, and he sinks in an inanimate heap.
The truth and power with which all this was done were attested271 by the crowds that thronged273 to see it, their intense emotion, and the universal praise for many years awarded to it.
TELL.
Another chosen part of Forrest, in which he was received with extraordinary favor, was that of William Tell. This play, like the former, had a basis of untutored love and magnanimity; but the romantic heroism of the character was less remote to the American mind, less strained in ideality, than that of Rolla. The plot was simpler, the language more eloquent, domestic love more prominent, and patriotic274 enthusiasm more emphatic275. In fact, the three constant keys of the action are parental276 affection, ardent attachment277 to native land, and the burning passion for liberty, corresponding with three central elements of strength in the personality of the actor now drawn278 to the part with a hungry instinct.
In preparation for this rôle, Forrest had first the native congruity of his own soul with it. Then he studied the character in the text of Knowles with the utmost care, analyzing279 every speech and situation. Furthermore, he saturated280 his imagination with the spirit of the life and legends of Switzerland, by means of
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histories, books of travel, and engravings, till its people and their customs, its torrents281, ravines, pastures, chalets, cloud-capped peaks, and storms, were distinct and real to him. In the next place, he paid great attention to his make-up, arraying himself in a garb282 scrupulously283 accurate to the fashion of a Switzer peasant and huntsman.
No actor placed greater stress on a fitting costume than Forrest. He knew its subtle influences as well as its more obvious effects. The more vital unity and sensitiveness we have, the more important each adjunct to our personality becomes. A man who is a sloppy284 mess of fragments is not influenced much by anything, and in return does not much influence anything; but to a man whose body and soul form, as it were, one vascular285 piece, the action and reaction between him and everything with which he is in close relation is of great consequence. The dress of such a person is another self, corresponding in some sort with the outer man as his skin does with the inner man.
When Forrest came upon the stage with his bow and quiver, belted tunic286 and tight buskins, with free, elastic287 bearing, and high tread, deep-breathing breast, resounding288 voice, his whole shape and moving moulded to the robust and sinewy289 manners of the archer290 living in the free, open airs between the grass and the snow, he was an embodied picture of the legendary291 Swiss mountaineer. At the first sight a keen sensation was produced in the audience, for it kindled292 all the enthusiastic associations fondly bound up with this image in the American imagination.
It is morning, the sunrise creeping down the flanks of the mountains and spreading over the lake and valley, in the background Albert shooting at a mark, as Tell appears in the distance returning from an early chase. Approaching, he sees the boy, and pauses to watch him shoot. Poised on a crag, leaping with eager gaze of fondness fixed on the little marksman, he looks like the statue of a chamois-hunter on the cliffs of Mont Blanc, carved and set there by some superhuman hand. Then the magic voice, breathing love blent in freedom, is heard:
"Well aimed, young archer!
There plays the skill will thin the chamois herd293,
And bring the lammergeyer from the cloud
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To earth; perhaps do greater feats,—perhaps
Make man its quarry295, when he dares to tread
Upon his fellow-man. That little arm
May pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,
And from their chains a prostrate260 people lift
To liberty. I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day. What, Albert!"
The lad, with a glad cry of "Ah, my father!" flies into his embrace, while in unison296, from pit to gallery, a thousand hearts throb71 warmly.
One point of very great beauty and power in this tragedy is the remarkable298 manner in which the author has combined the impassioned love of national liberty with the impassioned love of the natural scenery associated with that liberty. To these numerous descriptions, marked by the highest declamatory merit, Forrest did ample justice with his magnificent voice.
Indeed, elocutionary force and felicity were ever a central charm in his acting. He did not thrust the gift ostentatiously forward for its own sake, but kept it subordinated to its uses. His first aim in vocal299 delivery was always to articulate the thought clearly,—make it stand out in unmistakable distinctness; his second, to breathe the true feeling of the words in his tones; his third, by rate, pitch, inflection, accent, and pause, to give some imaginative suggestion of the scenery, of the thought, and thus set it in its proper environment. In the first aim he rarely failed; in the second he generally succeeded; and he often triumphed in the third. One example, which no man of sensibility who heard him pronounce it could ever forget, was this:
"I have sat
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge300
The wind came roaring,—I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.
You know the jutting301 cliff, round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty302 room
For two abreast304 to pass? O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust201 followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid305 brink306,
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And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just
Have wished me there,—the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head
And cried in thraldom307 to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!"
And the following is another example, still happier in the climax308 of its eloquence309:
"Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow:
O'er the abyss his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed310 him proudly up. Instinctively311
I bent312 my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight
Of measuring the ample range beneath
And round about: absorbed, he heeded313 not
The death that threatened him. I could not shoot—
'Twas liberty! I turned my bow aside,
And let him soar away."
Old Melctal, the father of Tell's wife, is led in by Albert, blind and trembling, his eyes having been plucked from their sockets314 by order of Gesler. As Tell, horror-struck, listened to the frightful315 story from the lips of the old man, the revelation of the feelings it stirred in him was one of the most genuine and moving pieces of emotional portraiture ever shown to an audience. It was an unveiled storm of contending pity, amazement, wrath316, tenderness, tears, loathing317, and revenge. Every muscle worked, his soul seemed wrapt and shaken with thunders and lightnings of passion, which alternately darkened and illumined his features, and he seemed going mad, until at last he seized his weapons and darted318 away in search of the monster whose presence profaned319 the earth, crying, as he went, "Father, thou shalt be revenged, thou shalt be revenged!" The power of this effort is shown in the fact that more than one critic compared his struggle with his own feelings under the narrative320 of Melctal to his subsequent struggle with the guards of Gesler, when, like a lion amidst a pack of curs, he hurled321 them in every direction, and held them at bay till overpowered by sheer numbers. The mental struggle was quite as visibly defined and terrible as the physical one.
In this play Forrest presented four successive examples of that
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proud assertion of an independent, high-minded man which has been said to be the real type of his character as a tragedian. These specimens322 were differenced from one another with such clean strokes and bold colors that it was an æsthetic as well as a moral luxury to behold him enact323 them. The first was a trenchant324, sarcastic325 scorn of baseness, spoken when he sees the servile peasants bow to Gesler's cap, and the hireling soldiery driving them to it:
"They do it, Verner;
They do it! Look! Ne'er call me man again!
Look, look! Have I the outline of that caitiff
Who to the outraged326 earth doth bend the head
His God did rear for him to heaven? Base pack!
Lay not your loathsome328 touch upon the thing
God made in his own image. Crouch yourselves;
'Tis your vocation194, which you should not call
On free-born men to share with you, who stand
Erect329 except in presence of their God
Alone."
The second example is the stern stateliness of unshaken heroism with which he confronts insult and threats of torture and death, when, chained and baited by the soldiers, Sarnem bids him down on his knees and beg for mercy. They try to force him to the ground, inciting330 one another with cowardly ferocity to strike him, put out his eyes, or lop off a limb. His bearing and the soul it revealed were such as corresponded with the descriptive comment wrung331 from the onlooking332 Gesler:
"Can I believe my eyes? He smiles. He grasps
His chains as he would make a weapon of them
To lay his smiter333 dead. What kind of man
Is this, that looks in thraldom more at large
Than they who lay it on him!
A heart accessible as his to trembling
The rock or marble hath. They more do fear
To inflict334 than he to suffer. Each one calls
Upon the other to accomplish that
Himself hath not the manhood to begin.
He has brought them to a pause, and there they stand
Like things entranced by some magician's spell,
Wondering that they are masters of their organs
And not their faculties335."
The third example is fearless defiance336 of tyrannical power, when, bound and helpless, he confronts the cowering337 Gesler with
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majestic superiority. The Austrian governor says, "Ha, beware! think on thy chains!" Tell replies, with swelling338 bosom340 and flashing eyes,—
"Though they were doubled, and did weigh me down
Prostrate to earth, methinks I could rise up
Erect, with nothing but the honest pride
Of telling thee, usurper341, to the teeth,
Thou art a monster! Think upon my chains!
Show me the link of them which, could it speak,
Would give its evidence against my word.
Think on my chains! 'They are my vouchers342, which
I show to heaven, as my acquittance from
The impious swerving343 of abetting344 thee
In mockery of its Lord!' Think on my chains!
How came they on me?"
The fourth example is that of a grand, positive exultation345 in the moral beauty and glory of human nature in its undesecrated experiences. In response to the contemptible347 threat of the despot that his vengeance348 can kill, and that that is enough, Tell raises his face proudly, stretches out his arm, and says, in rich, strong accents,—
"No: not enough:
It cannot take away the grace of life,—
Its comeliness349 of look that virtue94 gives,—
Its port erect with consciousness of truth,—
Its rich attire350 of honorable deeds,—
Its fair report that's rife351 on good men's tongues:
It cannot lay its hands on these, no more
Than it can pluck his brightness from the sun,
Or with polluted finger tarnish352 it."
The capacities of parental and filial affection in tragic353 pathos354 are wrought up by Knowles in the last two acts with consummate and unrelenting skill. The varied interest and suspense355 of the dialogue and action between Tell and Albert are harrowing, as, neither knowing that the other is in the power of Gesler, they are suddenly brought together. Instinct teaches them to appear as strangers. The struggle to suppress their feelings and play their part under the imminent356 danger is followed with painful excitement as the plot thickens and the dread357 catastrophe358 seems hurrying. Tell, ordered to instant execution, seeks to speak a few last words to his son, under the pretext359 of sending a farewell message to his Albert by the stranger boy. In a voice
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whose condensed and tremulous murmuring betrays all the crucified tenderness it refuses to express, he says,—
"Thou dost not know me, boy; and well for thee
Thou dost not. I'm the father of a son
About thy age; I dare not tell thee where
To find him, lest he should be found of those
'Twere not so safe for him to meet with. Thou,
I see, wast born, like him, upon the hills:
If thou shouldst 'scape thy present thraldom, he
May chance to cross thee; if he should, I pray thee,
Relate to him what has been passing here,
And say I laid my hand upon thy head,
And said to thee—if he were here, as thou art,
Thus would I bless him: Mayst thou live, my boy,
To see thy country free, or die for her
As I do!"
Here he turns away with a slight convulsive movement mightily361 held down, and Sarnem exclaims, "Mark, he weeps!" The whole audience weep with him, too; as well they may, for the concentration of affecting circumstances in the scene forms one of the masterpieces of dramatic art. And Forrest played it in every minute particular with an intensity362 of nature and a closeness of truth effective to all, but agonizing363 to the sympathetic. His last special stroke of art was the natural yet cunningly-prepared contrast between the extreme nervous anxiety and agitation364 that marked his demeanor365 through all the preliminary stages of the fearful trial-shot for life and liberty, and his final calmness. Until the apple was on the head of his kneeling boy, and he had taken his position, he was all perturbation and misgiving366. Then this spirit seemed to pass out of him with an irresolute367 shudder369, and instantly he confirmed himself into an amazing steadiness. Every limb braced370 as marble, and as motionless, he stood, like a sculptured archer that looked life yet neither breathed nor stirred. The arrow flies, the boy bounds forward unhurt, with the transfixed apple in his hand. Tell then slays371 Gesler, and, dilating372 above the prostrated373 Austrian banner, amidst universal exultation both on and off the stage, closes the play with the shouted words,—
"To arms! and let no sword be sheathed374
Until our land, from cliff to lake, is free!
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun!"
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DAMON.
The Damon of Forrest perhaps surpassed, in popular effect, all his other early performances. The romantic story of the devotion of the ancient Greek pair of friends, as narrated375 by Valerius Maximus, has had a diffusion376 in literature and produced an impression on the imaginations of men almost without a parallel. This is because it appeals so penetratingly to a sentiment so deep and universal. Above the mere materialized instincts of life there is hardly a feeling of the human heart so profound and vivid as the craving378 for a genuine, tender, and inviolable friendship. After all the disappointments of experience, after all the hardening results of custom, strife379, and fraud, this desire still remains alive, however thrust back and hidden. Remove the disguises and pretences, even of the aged and worldly-minded, and it is surprising in the souls of how many of them the spring of this baffled yet importunate380 desire will be found running and murmuring in careful concealment381. In the hurry and worry of our practical age, so crowded with toil, rivalry382, and distraction383, the sentiment is less gratified in real life than ever, a fact which in many cases only makes the ideal still more attractive. Accordingly, when the sacred old tale of the Pythagorean friends was wrought into a play by Banim and Shiel, it struck the taste of the public at once. The play, too, had exceptional rhetorical merit, and was constructed with a simple plot, marked by a constant movement full of moral force and pathos.
Forrest had seen the rôle of Damon filled by Cooper with transcendent dignity and energy, and the remembrance had been burned into his brain. It was one of the most finished and famous impersonations of that celebrated actor, who charged it with honest passion and clothed it with rugged385 grandeur. The representation by Cooper, though unequal and careless, was so just in its general outlines to the idea of the author, that when Forrest first hesitatingly essayed the character, he had as a disciple386 of truth, perforce, largely to repeat the example. But he came to the part with a fresher youth, a more concentrated nature, a keener ambition, and a more elaborate study; and, original in many details as well as in the more conscientious working up of the harmony of the different scenes, it was soon conceded that
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in the portrayal as a whole and in the unprecedented excitement it produced he had eclipsed his distinguished English forerunner387 on the American stage. He entered into the spirit and scenery of the subject with so intelligent and vehement388 an earnestness that he seemed not to act, but to be, Damon, speaking the words spontaneously created in his soul on the spot, not uttering any memorized lesson. It was like a resurrection of Syracuse, with the despot and his tools plotting the overthrow389 of its republican government, and the faithful friends seeking to prevent the success of the scheme. The spectators forgot that the Sicilian city had vanished ages since, and Dionysius and Pythias and Procles and Calanthe all gone to dust. The reality was before them, and its living shapes moved and spoke to the spell-bound sense.
The Damon of Forrest was in every respect grandly conceived and grandly embodied. His noble form carried proudly aloft in weighty ease, clad in Grecian garb, with long robe and sandals, corresponded with the justice and dignity of his soul. He was in no sense a sentimentalist or fanatic390, but a man with intellect and heart balanced in conscience,—equally a patriot58, a philosopher, and a friend,—his sentiments set in the great virtues of human nature loyal to the gods, his convictions and love not mere instincts but embedded391 in his reason and his honor. Yet, trained as he had been in the lofty ethics392 of Pythagoras, the austere393 discipline deadened not, but only curbed185, the tremendous elemental passions of his being. Beneath his cultivated stateliness and playfulness the impetuous volume and energy of his natural feelings made them, reposing394, grand as mountains clad with verdure, aroused, terrible as volcanoes spouting395 fire. An inferior actor would be tempted396 to weaken or slur397 everything else in order to give the higher relief to the great central topic of friendship. It was the rare excellence243 of Forrest that he gave as patient an attention and as sustained a treatment to the gravity and zealous398 devotion of the senator, the thoughtful habit of the scholar, the fondness of the husband and father, as he did to the touching400 affection of the friend, in his portraiture of Damon.
He makes his appearance in the street, on his way to the Senate, when he encounters a crowd of venal401 officers and soldiers thronging402 to the citadel403, brandishing404 their swords and cheering
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for the despot. He says, with a musing405 air first, then quickly passing through indignant scorn to mournful expostulation,—
"Then Dionysius has o'erswayed it? Well,
It is what I expected: there is now
No public virtue left in Syracuse.
What should be hoped from a degenerate406,
Corrupted407, and voluptuous408 populace,
When highly-born and meanly-minded nobles
Would barter409 freedom for a great man's feast,
And sell their country for a smile? The stream
With a more sure eternal tendency
Seeks not the ocean, than a sensual race
Their own devouring410 slavery. I am sick
At my inmost heart of everything I see
And hear! O Syracuse, I am at last
Forced to despair of thee! And yet thou art
My land of birth,—thou art my country still;
And, like an unkind mother, thou hast left
The claims of holiest nature in my heart,
And I must sorrow for, not hate thee!"
The soldiery shout,—
"For Dionysius! Ho, for Dionysius!
Damon. Silence, obstreperous411 traitors412!
Your throats offend the quiet of the city;
And thou, who standest foremost of these knaves414,
Stand back and answer me, a Senator,
What have you done?"
And then he slowly leans towards them with dilating front, and sways the whole crowd away from him as if by the invisible momentum415 of some surcharging magnetism416.
"Procles. But that I know 'twill gall297 thee,
Thou poor and talking pedant417 of the school
Of dull Pythagoras, I'd let thee make
Conjecture418 from thy senses: But, in hope
'Twill stir your solemn anger, learn from me,
We have ta'en possession of the citadel.
Damon. Patience, ye good gods! a moment's patience,
That these too ready hands may not enforce
The desperate precept419 of my rising heart,—
Thou most contemptible and meanest tool
That ever tyrant used!"
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Procles in a rage calls on his soldiers to advance and hew420 their upbraider in pieces. At this moment Pythias enters, sees how affairs stand, and, hastening to the side of his friend, calls out,—
"Back! back! I say. He hath his armor on,—
I am his sword, shield, helm; I but enclose
Myself, and my own heart, and heart's blood, when
I stand before him thus.
Damon. False-hearted cravens!
We are but two,—my Pythias, my halved422 heart!—
My Pythias, and myself! but dare come on,
Ye hirelings of a tyrant! dare advance
A foot, or raise an arm, or bend a brow,
And ye shall learn what two such arms can do
Amongst a thousand of you."
A brief altercation423 follows, and the mob are appeased424 and depart, leaving the two friends alone together. They proceed to unbosom themselves, fondly communing with each other, alike concerning the interests of the State and their private relations, especially the approaching marriage of Pythias with the beautiful Calanthe. The unstudied ease and loving confidence of the dialogue, in voice and manner, plainly revealing the history of love that joined their souls, their cherished luxury of interior trust and surrender to each other, formed an artistic and most pleasing contrast to the hot and rough passages which had preceded. And when the fair Calanthe herself breaks in upon them, and Damon, unbending still more from his senatorial absorption and philosophic426 solemnity, changes his affectionate familiarity with Pythias into a sporting playfulness with her, the colloquial427 lightness and tender banter428 were a delightful429 bit of skill and nature, carrying the previous contrast to a still higher pitch. It was a lifting and lighting430 of the scene as gracious and sweet as sunshine smiling on flowers where the tempest had been frowning on rocks.
Learning that the recreant431 servants of the State are about to confer the dictatorship of Syracuse on Dionysius, Damon speeds to the capitol, to resist, and, if possible, defeat, the purpose. Undaunted by the studious insolence432 of his reception, almost single-handed he maintains a long combat with the conspirators433, battling their design step by step. It was a most exciting scene on all accounts, and was steadily434 marked by delicate gradations to a climax of overwhelming power. He wielded435 by turns all the
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weapons of argument, invective436, persuasion437, command, and defiance, exhibiting magnificent specimens of impassioned declamation, towering among the meaner men around him, an illuminated438 mould of heroic manhood whereon every god did seem to have set his seal.
Finally, they pass the fatal vote, and cry,—
"All hail, then, Dionysius the king.
Damon. Oh, all ye gods, my country! my country!
Dionysius. And that we may have leisure to put on
With fitting dignity our garb of power,
We do now, first assuming our own right,
Command from this, that was the senate-house,
Those rash, tumultuous men, who still would tempt36
The city's peace with wild vociferation
And vain contentious440 rivalry. Away!
Damon. I stand,
A senator, within the senate-house!
Dion. Traitor413! and dost thou dare me to my face?
Damon. Traitor! to whom? to thee?—O Syracuse,
Is this thy registered doom441? To have no meaning
For the proud names of liberty and virtue,
But as some regal braggart442 sets it down
In his vocabulary? And the sense,
The broad, bright sense that Nature hath assigned them
In her infallible volume, interdicted443
Forever from thy knowledge; or if seen,
And known, and put in use, denounced as treasonable,
And treated thus?—No, Dionysius, no!
I am no traitor! But, in mine allegiance
To my lost country, I proclaim thee one!
Dion. My guards, there! Ho!
Damon. What! hast thou, then, invoked444
Thy satellites already?
Dion. Seize him!
Damon. Death's the best gift to one that never yet
Wished to survive his country. Here are men
Fit for the life a tyrant can bestow445!
Let such as these live on."
Forrest was so absolutely possessed446 by the sentiment of these passages, that if, instead of standing in the Senate of Syracuse and representing her little forlorn-hope of patriots447, he had been standing in the capitol of the whole republican world as a representative of collective humanity, his delivery could not have been more proudly befitting and competent. Such was the immense
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contagious flood of inspiration with which he was loaded, that repeatedly his audiences rose to their feet as one man and cheered him till the dust rose to the roof and the very walls seemed to quiver.
Damon is cast into prison and doomed448 to die. The curtain rises on him seated at a table, writing a last testament449 to be given to Pythias. The solitude450, the stillness, the heavy hour, the retrospect451 of his life, the separation from all he loves, the nearness of death, combine to make his meditations452 profound and sad. The picture of man and fate which he then drew—so calm and grave and chaste453, so relieved against the other scenes—was an exquisite masterpiece. He lays down his stylus. In an attitude of deep reflection—the left leg easily extended and the hand pendent by its side, the right leg drawn up even with the chair, his right elbow resting on the table, the hand supporting his slightly-bowed head, the opened eyes level and fixed, with a voice of manly and mournful music, every tone and accent faultless in its mellow454 and pellucid455 solemnity—he pronounces this soliloquy:
"Existence! what is that? a name for nothing!
It is a cloudy sky chased by the winds,—
Its fickle457 form no sooner chosen than changed!
It is the whirling of the mountain-flood,
Which, as we look upon it, keeps its shape,
Though what composed that shape, and what composes,
Hath passed—will pass—nay458, and is passing on
Even while we think to hold it in our eyes,
And deem it there. Fie! fie! a feverish459 vision,
A crude and crowded dream, unwilled, unbidden,
By the weak wretch68 that dreams it."
The effect was comparable to that of suddenly changing the scene from the clamorous460 multitude, bustle461, and struggle of a noonday square to the midnight sky, with its eternal stars and moon shining on a lonely lake, whose serenity462 not a ripple463 or a rustling464 leaf disturbs.
Pythias visits him in his dungeon465. The interview is conducted in a manner so unaffected, so true to the finest feelings of the human heart, that few and hard indeed were the beholders who could remain unmoved. On the lamentation468 of Damon that he is denied the satisfaction of pressing his wife and child to his
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bosom before he dies, Pythias proposes to gain that privilege for him by being his hostage, if the tyrant will consent. He makes the request.
"Dionysius. What wonder is this?
Is he thy brother?
Damon. Not in the fashion that the world puts on,
But brother in the heart.
Dion. Oh, by the wide world, Damocles,
I did not think the heart of man was moulded
To such a purpose."
Six hours are granted Damon in which to reach his villa469 on the mountain-side, four leagues distant, take his farewell, and return, assured that if he is not at the place of execution at the moment appointed the axe470 falls on his substitute.
The meeting with his Hermion and their boy in the garden of his villa, his resolute368 adaptation of his manner to the untimely innocent prattle471 of the child, the various transitions of tone and topic, the pathos of the intermittent472 upbreaking of his concealed473 struggle, the gradual unveiling of the awful announcement of his impending474 destiny, the determined efforts at firmness in himself and consolation475 for her, the clinging and agonized476 farewell,—all these were managed with a truthfulness477 and a distinct setting to be attained478 by no player without the utmost patience of study added to the deepest sincerity of nature.
He has lingered to the latest allowable moment. Hurrying out, he calls to his freedman, Lucullus, "Where is my horse?" and receives the following reply:
"When I beheld479 the means of saving you,
I could not hold my hand,—my heart was in it,
And in my heart the hope of giving life
And liberty to Damon—and—
Damon. Go on!
I am listening to thee.
Lucullus. And in hope to save you
I slew480 your steed.
Damon. Almighty481 heavens!"
An ordinary actor would have said "Almighty heavens," at once; but Forrest, seeming taken utterly483 by surprise, did not speak the words till he had for some time prepared the way for them by a display of bewildered astonishment484, which revealed the
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workings of his brain so clearly that the spectators could scarcely believe that the actor was acquainted with the plot in advance. The facts of the situation seemed presenting themselves to his inner gaze in so many pictures,—the calamity485, his broken promise, the disappointment and death of his friend, the dread dishonor,—and their expressions—wonder, rage, horror, despair, frenzy—visibly came out first in slow succession, then in chaotic486 mixture. At last the gathered tornado487 explodes in one burst of headlong wrath. Every rigid488 muscle swollen, his convulsed face livid, his dilated489 eyes emitting sparks, with the crouch and spring of an infuriated tiger he plunges490 on the hapless Lucullus and hoists492 him sheer in air. Vain are the cries of the unfortunate wretch, idle his struggles. Articulating with a terrible scream the words,—
"To the eternal river of the dead!
The way is shorter than to Syracuse,—
'Tis only far as yonder yawning gulf,—
I'll throw thee with one swing to Tartarus,
And follow after thee!"—
his enraged493 master disappears with him in his grasp. The feelings of the audience, wound to an intolerable pitch, audibly give way in a long, loosened breath, as they sink into their seats with a huge rustle494 all over the house.
Meanwhile, the fatal crisis nears, and Damon, delayed by the loss of his steed, comes not. The stroke of time on the dial-plate against the temple dedicated495 to the Goddess of Fidelity moves unrelentingly forward. All is ready. The tyrant, his skepticism confirmed, is there, indignant at the soul that in its fling of proud philosophy had made him feel so outsoared and humbled496. Pythias, agitated497 between a dreadful suspicion of his friend and the fear of some unforeseen obstacle, parts with Calanthe, and prepares for the beheading steel. A vast multitude on the hills stretch their long, blackening outline in the round of the blue heavens, and await the event.
"Mute expectation spreads its anxious hush498
O'er the wide city, that as silent stands
As its reflection in the quiet sea.
Behold, upon the roof what thousands gaze
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Toward the distant road that leads to Syracuse.
An hour ago a noise was heard afar,
Like to the pulses of the restless surge;
But as the time approaches, all grows still
As the wide dead of midnight!
A horse and rider in the distance,
By the gods! They wave their hats, and he returns it!
It is—no—that were too unlike—but there!"
Damon rushes in, looks around, exclaims, exultingly,—
"Ha! he is alive! untouched!"
and falls, with a hysterical499 laugh, exhausted500 by the superhuman exertions501 he has made to arrive in time. He soon rallies, and, when his name is pronounced, leaps upon the scaffold beside his friend; and all the god comes into him as, proudly erecting502 his form, he answers,—
"I am here upon the scaffold! look at me:
I am standing on my throne; as proud a one
As yon illumined mountain where the sun
Makes his last stand; let him look on me too;
He never did behold a spectacle
More full of natural glory. Death is— Ha!
All Syracuse starts up upon her hills,
And lifts her hundred thousand hands. She shouts,
Hark, how she shouts! O Dionysius!
When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal176
Of hearts and hands like that one? Shout again!
Again! until the mountains echo you,
And the great sea joins in that mighty482 voice,
And old Enceladus, the Son of Earth,
Stirs in his mighty caverns503. Tell me, slaves,
Where is your tyrant? Let me see him now;
Why stands he hence aloof504? Where is your master?
What is become of Dionysius?
I would behold and laugh at him!
Dionysius. Behold me!
Go, Damocles, and bid a herald16 cry
Wide through the city, from the eastern gate
Unto the most remote extremity505,
That Dionysius, tyrant as he is,
Gives back to Damon life and freedom."
Like one struggling out of a fearful dream, the phantom mists receding506, horror expiring and brightening into joy, the great actor lifts himself, relaxes, staggers into the arms of his Pythias, and the curtain sinks. The people, slowly scattering507 to their homes, do not easily or soon forget the mighty agitation they have undergone.
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BRUTUS.
The two celebrated characters of early Roman history, Brutus and Virginius, each the hero of a startling social revolution, as well as of an appalling508 domestic tragedy, in which personal affection is nobly sacrificed to public principle,—these imposing forms, each enveloped510 in his grand and solemn legend, stalking vivid and colossal511 in the shadows of antique time,—these sublime democratic idols512 of old Rome, men of tempestuous513 passion and iron solidity, whose civic514 heroism was mated with private tenderness and crowned with judicial515 severity,—like statues of rock clustered with ivy516 and their heads wreathed in retributive lightnings,—both these personages in all their accompaniments were singularly well fitted for the ethical, passionate, single-minded, and ponderous517 individuality of Forrest to impersonate with the highest sincerity and power. He achieved extraordinary success in them. There was in himself so much of the old Roman pride, independence, concentrated and tenacious518 feeling, majestic and imperious weight, that it was not hard for him to steal the keys of history, enter the chambers519 of the past, and reanimate the heroic and revengeful masks. He did so, to the astonishment and delight of those who beheld the spectacle.
The play of "Brutus, or the Fall of Tarquin," the best of the dramatic productions of John Howard Payne, has been greatly admired. Its title rôle was a favorite one with Kean, Cooper, Macready, Booth, and Forrest; and they all won laurels520 in it. The interest of the plot begins at once, and scarcely flags to the end. The murderous tyrant, Tarquin, has forced his way to the throne through treason, poison, and gore384, and holds remorseless rule, to the deep though muffled522 indignation and horror of the better citizens. His fears of the discontented patriots have led him to murder their master-spirit, Marcus Junius, and his eldest523 son. The younger son, Lucius, escaped, and affected to have lost his reason, playing the part of a fool, and meanwhile abiding524 his time to avenge87 his family and his country. He kept his disguise so shrewdly that he was allowed to be much at court, a harmless butt525 for the mirth of the tyrant and his fellows.
Forrest kept up the semblance526 of imbecility, the shambling gait, the dull eyes and vacant face, the sloppy, irresolute gestures, the apparent forgetfulness, with the closest truth. He had for
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years studied the traits and phases of these poor beings in visits to lunatic-asylums. But in the depicting527 of the fool there was some obvious unfitness of his heavy bearing, noble voice, and native majesty528 to the shallow and broken qualities of such a character. It did not appear quite spontaneous or natural. He clearly had to act it by will and effort. Yet there was a sort of propriety529 even in this, as the part was professedly an assumed and pretended one. But when he cast off the vile7 cloud of idiocy530 and broke forth in his own patrician531 person, the effect of the foregone foil was manifest, and the new and perfect picture stood in luminous532 relief. When Claudius and Aruns had been badgering him, and had received some such pointed64 repartees as a fool will seem now and then to hit on by chance, as they went out he followed them with a look of superb contempt, and said, in an intonation533 of intense scorn wonderfully effective,—
"Yet, 'tis not that which ruffles534 me,—the gibes535
And scornful mockeries of ill-governed youth,—
Or flouts536 of dastard537 sycophants538 and jesters,—
Reptiles539, who lay their bellies540 on the dust
Before the frown of majesty!"
And the house was always electrified541 by the sudden transformation542 with which then, passing from the words,
"All this
I but expect, nor grudge543 to bear; the face
I carry, courts it!"
he towered into prouder dimensions, and, as one inspired, delivered himself in an outbreak of declamatory grandeur:
"Son of Marcus Junius!
When will the tedious gods permit thy soul
To walk abroad in her own majesty,
And throw this visor of thy madness from thee,
To avenge my father's and my brother's murder?
Had this been all, a thousand opportunities
I've had to strike the blow—and my own life
I had not valued at a rush.—But still—
There's something nobler to be done!—My soul,
Enjoy the strong conception! Oh! 'tis glorious
To free a groaning544 country,—
To see Revenge
Spring like a lion from the den4, and tear
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These hunters of mankind! Grant but the time,
Grant but the moment, gods! If I am wanting,
May I drag out this idiot-feignéd life
To late old age, and may posterity545
Ne'er hear of Junius but as Tarquin's fool!"
The manner in which, in his fictitious546 rôle, in his interview with Tullia, the parricidal547 queen, whose prophetic soul is ominously549 alive to every alarming hint, he veered550 along the perilous551 edges of his feigned552 and his real character, the sinister553 alternation of jest and portent554, was a passage of exciting interest, sweeping555 the chords of the breast from sport to awe556 with facile and forceful hand. The same effect was produced in a still higher degree in the interview with his son Titus, whose patriotism and temper he tested by lifting a little his false garb of folly557 and letting some tentative gleams of his true nature and purposes appear.
"Brutus. I'll tell a secret to thee
Worth a whole city's ransom558. This it is:
Nay, ponder it and lock it in thy heart:—
There are more fools, my son, in this wise world,
Than the gods ever made.
Titus. Sayest thou? Expound559 this riddle560.
Would the kind gods restore thee to thy reason—
Brutus. Then, Titus, then I should be mad with reason.
Had I the sense to know myself a Roman,
This hand should tear this heart from out my ribs561,
Ere it should own allegiance to a tyrant.
If, therefore, thou dost love me, pray the gods
To keep me what I am. Where all are slaves,
None but the fool is happy.
Titus. We are Romans—
Not slaves—
Brutus. Not slaves? Why, what art thou?
Titus. Thy son.
Dost thou not know me?
Brutus. You abuse my folly.
I know thee not.—Wert thou my son, ye gods,
Thou wouldst tear off this sycophantic562 robe,
Tuck up thy tunic, trim these curléd locks
To the short warrior222-cut, vault563 on thy steed,
Then, scouring564 through the city, call to arms,
And shout for liberty!
Titus. [Starts.] Defend me, gods!
Brutus. Ha! does it stagger thee?"
The simulation had been dropped so gradually, the unconsciously waxing earnestness of purpose and self-betrayal were
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carried up over such invisible and exquisite steps, that, when the electric climax was touched, he who confronted Brutus on the stage did not affect to be more startled than those who gazed on him from before it really were.
Finding his son is in love with the sister of Sextus, and in no ripe mood for dangerous enterprise, he turns sorrowfully from him, murmuring,—
"Said I for liberty? I said it not.
My brain is weak, and wanders. You abuse it."
When left alone, he soliloquizes, beginning with sorrow, and passing in the succeeding parts from sadness to repulsion, then to anxiety, afterwards to hope, and ending with an air of proud joy.
"I was too sudden. I should have delayed
And watched a surer moment for my purpose.
He must be frighted from his dream of love.
What! shall the son of Junius wed77 a Tarquin?
As yet I've been no father to my son,—
I could be none; but, through the cloud that wraps me,
I've watched his mind with all a parent's fondness,
And hailed with joy the Junian glory there.
Could I once burst the chains which now enthrall565 him,
My son would prove the pillar of his country,—
Dear to her freedom as he is to me."
Few things in the history of the stage have been superior in its way to what Forrest made the opening of the third act in Brutus. It is deep night in Rome, thunder and lightning, the Capitol in the background, in front an equestrian566 statue of Tarquinius Superbus. Brutus enters, revolving567 in his breast the now nearly complete scheme for overthrowing568 the despot. Appearance, thoughts, words, voice, manner, all in strict keeping with the time and place, he speaks:
"Slumber569 forsakes570 me, and I court the horrors
Which night and tempest swell339 on every side.
Launch forth thy thunders, Capitolian Jove!
Put fire into the languid souls of men;
Let loose thy ministers of wrath amongst them,
And crush the vile oppressor! Strike him down,
Ye lightnings! Lay his trophies571 in the dust!
[Storm increases.
Ha! this is well! flash, ye blue-forkéd fires!
Loud-bursting thunders, roar! and tremble, earth!
[A violent crash of thunder, and the statue of Tarquin, struck
by a flash, is shattered to pieces.
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What! fallen at last, proud idol! struck to earth!
I thank you, gods! I thank you! When you point
Your shafts572 at human pride, it is not chance,
'Tis wisdom levels the commissioned blow.
But I,—a thing of no account—a slave,—
I to your forkéd lightnings bare my bosom
In vain,—for what's a slave—a dastard slave?
A fool, a Brutus? [Storm increases.] Hark! the storm rides on!
Strange hopes possess my soul. My thoughts grow wild.
I'll sit awhile and ruminate573."
Seating himself on a fragment of the fallen statue, in contemplative attitude, his great solitary574 presence, blending with the entire scene, presented a tableau575 of the most sombre and romantic beauty.
Valerius enters. Brutus cautiously probes his soul, and is rejoiced to find him worthy of confidence. As they commune on the degradation576 of their country, the crimes of the royal family, and the hopes of speedy redemption, we seem to feel the sultry smother577 and to hear the muffled rumble578 of the rising storm of an outraged people. As Valerius departs, Tarquin himself advances, and gives a new momentum to the movement for his own destruction. Still supposing Brutus to be an imbecile, with shameless garrulity579 he boasts of the fiendish violence he has done to Lucretia, the wife of Collatinus, and the near kinswoman of Brutus himself. This woman was of such transcendent loveliness and nobility of person and soul as to have become a poetic ideal of her sex throughout the civilized580 world in all the ages since. While Tarquin boastfully described his deed, the effect on his auditor581 was terrific to see. The inward struggle was fully218 pictured without, in the hands convulsively clutched, the eyes starting from their sockets, the blood threatening to burst through the swollen veins583 of the neck and temples. Finally, the quivering earthquake of passion broke in an explosion of maniacal584 abandonment.
"The fiends curse you, then! Lash157 you with snakes!
When forth you walk, may the red flaming sun
Strike you with livid plagues!
Vipers585, that die not, slowly gnaw586 your heart!
May earth be to you but one wilderness587!
May you hate yourself,—
For death pray hourly, yet be in tortures,
Millions of years expiring!"
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He shrieked588 this fearful curse upon the shrinking criminal with a frenzied589 energy which so amazed and stirred the audience that sometimes they gave vent to their excitement in a simultaneous shout of applause, sometimes by looking at one another in silence or whispering, "Wonderful!"
Lucretia, unwilling590 to survive the purity of her name, has stabbed herself. Collatinus rushes wildly in with the bloody591 steel in his hand, and tells the tale of horror:
"She's dead! Lucretia's dead! This is her blood!
Howl, howl, ye men of Rome.
Ye mighty gods, where are your thunders now?"
Brutus, the full gale592 of oratoric fire and splendor swelling his frame and lighting his features, seizes the dagger, lifts it aloft, and exclaims:
"Heroic matron!
Now, now, the hour is come! By this one blow
Her name's immortal594, and her country saved!
Hail, dawn of glory! Hail, thou sacred weapon!
Virtue's deliverer, hail! This fatal steel,
Empurpled with the purest blood on earth,
Shall cut your chains of slavery asunder595.
Hear, Romans, hear! did not the Sibyl tell you
A fool should set Rome free? I am that fool:
Brutus bids Rome be free!
Valerius. What can this mean?
Brutus. It means that Lucius Junius has thrown off
The mask of madness, and his soul rides forth
On the destroying whirlwind, to avenge
The wrongs of that bright excellence and Rome.
[Sinks on his knees.]
Hear me, great Jove! and thou, paternal596 Mars,
And spotless Vesta! To the death, I swear,
My burning vengeance shall pursue these Tarquins!
Ne'er shall my limbs know rest till they are swept
From off the earth which groans597 beneath their infamy598!
Valerius, Collatine, Lucretius, all,
Be partners in my oath."
The above apostrophe to the dagger was marvellously delivered. As he held it up with utmost stretch of arm and addressed it, it seemed to become a living thing, an avenging600 divinity.
The next scene was given with a contrast that came like enchantment601. A multitude of relatives and friends are celebrating
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the obsequies of Lucretia. Brutus, with solemn and gentle mien602, and a delivery of funereal603 gloom in which admiring love and pride gild604 the sorrow, pronounces her eulogy605. He paints her with a bright and sweet fondness, and bewails her fate with a closing cadence237 indescribably plaintive607.
"Such perfections
Might have called back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture608: such a mind
Might have abashed609 the boldest libertine610,
And turned desire to reverential love
And holiest affection. Oh, my countrymen!
You all can witness when that she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; old age
Forgot its crutch611, labor53 its task,—all ran;
And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,
'There, there's Lucretia!' Now, look ye, where she lies,
That beauteous flower by ruthless violence torn!
Gone! gone! gone!
All. Sextus shall die! But what for the king, his father?
Brutus. Seek you instruction? Ask yon conscious walls,
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry. Revenge!
Ask yon deserted612 street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife,
And the poor queen, who loved him as her son,
Their unappeaséd ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens,
The gods themselves, shall justify613 the cry,
And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge!"
The instant change, in that presence of death, from the subdued614, mournful manner to this tremendous burst of blazing eloquence was a consummate marvel599 of oratoric effect, in which art and nature were at odds615 which was the greater element. It might be said of Forrest in this scene,—as Corunna in the play itself described to Horatius the action of Brutus,—
"He waved aloft the bloody dagger,
And spoke as if he held the souls of men
In his own hand and moulded them at pleasure.
They looked on him as they would view a god.
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Who, from a darkness which invested him,
Sprang forth, and, knitting his stern brow in frowns,
Proclaimed the vengeful will of angry Jove."
The throng272 are so possessed with him that they propose to make him king in place of Tarquin; but the patriot, his unselfish soul breathing from his countenance616 and audible in his accent, convinces them of his personal purity:
"No, fellow-citizens!
If mad ambition in this guilty frame
Had strung one kingly fibre,—yea, but one,—
By all the gods, this dagger which I hold
Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart.
Now take the body up. Bear it before us
To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches,
And, in the blazing conflagration617, rear
A pile for these chaste relics618, that shall send
Her soul amongst the stars. On!"
They sweep away to their victims, deliver the State, and seal an ample vengeance.
The primary climax of the play has thus been reached. Brutus has emerged from his idiot concealment and vindicated619 himself as the successful champion of liberty and his country. He is next to appear in a second climax, of still greater intensity and height, by the personal sacrifice of himself as the martyr620 of duty. The first action has the superior national significance, but the second action has the superior human significance, and therefore properly succeeds. Titus, the only son of the liberator621, corrupted by his love of power and pleasure, has, in a measure, joined the party of the Tarquins. He is therefore regarded by the victor patriots as a traitor to Rome. Brutus, torn between his parental affection and his public duty, is profoundly agitated, yet resolute. He spares the life of Tarquinia, the betrothed of Titus, at the same time warning him,—
"This I concede; but more if thou attemptest,—
By all the gods!—Nay, if thou dost not take
Her image, though with smiling Cupids decked,
And pluck it from thy heart, there to receive
Rome and her glories in without a rival,
Thou art no son of mine, thou art no Roman!"
For the defective622 treatment of the theme of the love of Brutus for his son by the author the actor made the very best amends623 in
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his power by improving every opportunity to suggest the depth and fervor624 of the tie, in look and gesture and tone, in order to exalt625 the coming catastrophe. Seated calmly in the curule chair as Consul626, robed with purple, the lictors with their uplifted axes before him, a messenger announces the seizure627 of a young man at the head of an insurgent628 band. Valerius whispers to Brutus,—
"Oh, my friend, horror invades my heart.
I know thy soul, and pray the gods to put
Thee to no trial beyond a mortal bearing."
Mastering his agitation by a mighty effort, Brutus responds,—
"No, they will not,—they cannot."
The unhappy Titus is brought in guarded. The father, all his convulsed soul visible in his countenance and motions, turns from him, rises, walks to his colleague, and says, with tremulous, sobbing629 voice,—
"That youth, my Titus, was my age's hope,—
I loved him more than language can express,—
I thought him born to dignify630 the world."
The culprit kneels to him, and begs for clemency631:
"A word for pity's sake. Before thy feet,
Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels.
Love is my plea: a father is my judge;
Nature my advocate!—I can no more:
If these will not appease425 a parent's heart,
Strike through them all, and lodge632 thy vengeance here!"
Almost overpowered, Brutus hesitates a moment, rallies, straightens himself up, and exclaims, with lofty dignity,—
"Break off! I will not, cannot hear thee further!
The affliction nature hath imposed on Brutus,
Brutus will suffer as he may.—Enough!
Lictors, secure your prisoner. Point your axes.
To the Senate—On!"
The last scene shows the Senate in the temple of Mars, Brutus in the Consular633 seat. He speaks, beginning with solemn air and tones of ringing firmness:
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"Romans the blood which hath been shed this day
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire634
Against mature societies, may urge
Their acts as bold and daring; and though villains635,
Yet they are manly villains. But to stab
The cradled innocent, as these have done,—
To strike their country in the mother-pangs
Of struggling childbirth, and direct the dagger
To freedom's infant throat,—is a deed so black
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name."
Here he pauses, falters638 a little, then slowly adds,—
"There is one criminal still left for judgment639:
Let him approach."
Titus is led in by the lictors, with the edges of their axes turned towards him. He kneels.
"Oh, Brutus! Brutus! must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness?
Brutus. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Romans, forgive this agony of grief,—
My heart is bursting,—Nature must have way.
I will perform all that a Roman should,—
I cannot feel less than a father ought!"
The piteous look and choking accents with which he said to his son, "Think that I love thee by my present passion," were irresistible. They seemed to betoken640 that his heart was breaking. The sound of weeping was usually audible in the audience, and hundreds might be seen wiping the tears from their cheeks.
Justice holds its course, and the Consul sentences the guilty citizen to the block:
"Brutus. The sovereign magistrate641 of injured Rome
Condemns642
A crime, thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go,—meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
Farewell!
Titus. Farewell forever!
Brutus. Forever! Lictors, lead your prisoner forth.
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My hand shall wave the signal for the axe;
Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim its fall.
Poor youth! Thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice643, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom644. Justice now
Demands her victim! A little moment,
And I am childless.—One effort, and 'tis past!—
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free!"
Forrest made the finale an artistic climax of superlative originality, finish, and power. He climbs the steps of the tribune to wave his hand, as agreed, in signal for the execution. His face grows pale. He struggles to lift his arm. Then, when the trumpet announces that the deed is done, he absently wraps his head up in his toga, as if it were something separate from his body which must not know what has taken place. Suddenly his whole form relaxes and sinks heavily on the stage.
VIRGINIUS.
The rôle of Virginius, as filled by Forrest, had, with many resemblances to that of Brutus, also many important differences. In the domestic pictures of the first part, the sacred innocence645 and artless ways of the motherless daughter and the overflowing fondness of the widowed father, an element of more varied and tender beauty is introduced. The play has a wider range of interest than that of Brutus, and, while more attractive in some portions, is quite as terrible in others. To the perfecting of his performance of it Forrest devoted646 as much study and labor as to any part he ever acted. It obtained a commensurate recognition and approval from the general public. In its outlines as a piece of physical realism his rendering647 of Virginius was as pronounced as that of his Brutus, and in its artistic finish as an example of imaginative portraiture it was unquestionably far superior. In addition to the exceptional power with which the central motives were presented, there were incidental features of extreme felicity. For instance, the vein582 of sarcasm83 which Virginius displays towards the Decemvirs and their party was worked with a master-hand, and the friendship for the crabbed648 but brave and good old Dentatus was exhibited with a careless and bluff649 cordiality direct from nature. As a complete picture of the antique passion and sublime
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strength of the Roman character, the whole performance stood forth in pre-eminent distinctness and vitality.
W. G. Jackman
EDWIN FORREST AS
VIRGINIUS.
Sometimes, as an artist is lifting the curtain to expose his picture to view, with the removal of the first corner of drapery the connoisseur650 catches a glimpse of an exquisite bit of drawing and color which convinces him that the entire work is a great and beautiful one. When Forrest made his entrance in Virginius, with an irritated and impetuous air, the earliest sound of his voice, so deep and resonant651, coining and propelling its words in air with such easy and percussive652 precision, seized the attention of the auditory and gave assurance that something uncommon653 was to come. With a quick articulation654 and an expostulating tone he said, "Why did you make him Decemvir, and first Decemvir, too?" He refers to the shameless Appius Claudius, and the key-note of the play is struck by his inflection of the words.
He is not displeased655 on seeing reason for suspecting that his daughter—an only and idolized child left him by his dead wife—is in love with the noble young Lucius Icilius, for whom he has an excellent liking656. He sends for Virginia, who is still a schoolgirl, that he may question her. She comes in, and sits upon his knee, saying, "Well, father, what is your will?" At the sight of her his face lights as if a sunbeam had suddenly fallen on it, and his voice has a sweet, low, half-smothered tone, as if the words were spoken in his heart, and only their softened657 echoes came forth:
"Virginius. I wished to see you,
To ask you of your tasks,—how they go on,—
And what your masters say of you,—what last
You did. I hope you never play
The truant658?
Virginia. The truant! No, indeed, Virginius.
Virginius. I am sure you do not. Kiss me!
Virginia. Oh! my father,
I am so happy when you are kind to me!
Virginius. You are so happy when I'm kind to you!
Am I not always kind? I never spoke
An angry word to you in all my life,
Virginia! You are happy when I'm kind!
That's strange; and makes me think you have some reason
To fear I may be otherwise than kind."
The parental tenderness of his manner, his speech, his kiss, seemed to combine the love of a father and a mother in one. His
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hand meanwhile was playing with her tresses in a way suggestive of unpurposed instinctive fondness, exquisitely659 touching.
The transition was perfect when, meeting Icilius, after scrutinizing660 him earnestly, as though to read his very soul, the rough soldier and honest man succeeds to the adoring father:
"Icilius!
Thou seest this hand? It is a Roman's, boy;
'Tis sworn to liberty,—it is the friend,
Of honor. Dost thou think so?
Icilius. Do I think
Virginius owns that hand?
Virginius. Then you'll believe
It has an oath deadly to tyranny,
And is the foe of falsehood! By the gods,
Knew it the lurking-place of treason, though
It were a brother's heart, 'twould drag the caitiff
Forth. Dar'st thou take this hand?"
And when, a little later, he led his daughter to her lover and formally betrothed them in these eloquent words, his whole frame betraying the struggle at composure, it was a consummate moral painting of humanity in one of its most sacred aspects:
"Didst thou but know, young man,
How fondly I have watched her, since the day
Her mother died, and left me to a charge
Of double duty bound,—how she hath been
My pondered thought by day, my dream by night,
My prayer, my vow661, my offering, my praise,
My sweet companion, pupil, tutor, child!—
Thou wouldst not wonder that my drowning eye
And choking utterance662 upbraid421 my tongue
That tells thee she is thine!"
The plot progresses, and the air is thick with the clamor and strife of Rome, the hates of parties and the reverberation663 of war. Virginius is called to a distance with the army. His daughter is left under the guardianship664 of her uncle. One day the lustful665 Appius has a sight of her passing in the street.
"Her young beauty,
Trembling and blushing 'twixt the striving kisses
Of parting spring and meeting summer,"
inflames666 him. He charges one of his minions667 to seize her, under
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the pretext that she is the child of one of his slaves, sold to Virginius and falsely proclaimed his daughter. With details of cruel atrocity668 the deed is accomplished, in spite of the desperate interference of Icilius. Lucius is sent as a messenger to the camp to inform Virginius. Lucius tells him he is wanted immediately at Rome. With a start and a look of dread anxiety he demands to know wherefore. The messenger prevaricates670 and delays, but, on being chided and commanded to speak out, says, "Hear me, then, with patience." Virginius replies, while his restless fingers and the working of his toes, seen through the openings of his sandals, most effectually contradict the words, "Well, I am patient."
"Lucius. Your Virginia—
Virginius. Stop, my Lucius!
I am cold in every member of my frame!
If 'tis prophetic, Lucius, of thy news,
Give me such token as her tomb would,—silence.
I'll bear it better.
Lucius. You are still—
Virginius. I thank thee, Jupiter, I am still a father!"
The change of his countenance while uttering the word "father," from the expression it wore on the word "silence," was like an unexpected sunburst through a gloomy cloud. As Lucius went on in his narration671, the breathing of the listener thickened with intensity of suspense, his heart beat with remittent throb, and he started at each point in the outrage327 like one receiving electric shocks.
He departed for Rome, where his poor daughter was guarded in the house of her uncle, Numitorius, in the deepest distress672 and terror. He entered; and such was his expression as he cried, "My child! my child!" and she rushed into his arms, that there were scarcely ever many dry eyes in the theatre at that moment. Then it was something divine to be seen, and never to be forgotten, to behold how he turned from his blistering673 and disdainful apostrophe to the villain636 who had dared set his panders675 after her, and, taking her precious head in his hands, gazed in her face, saying,—
"I never saw you look so like your mother
In all my life!
Virginia. You'll be advised, dear father?
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Virginius. It was her soul,—her soul, that played just then
About the features of her child, and lit them
Into the likeness676 of her own. When first
She placed thee in my arms,—I recollect677 it
As a thing of yesterday!—she wished, she said,
That it had been a man. I answered her,
It was the mother of a race of men.
And paid her for thee with a kiss. Her lips
Are cold now,—could they but be warmed again,
How they would clamor for thee!
Virginia. My dear father,
You do not answer me! Will you not be advised?
Virginius. I will not take him by the throat and strangle him!
But I COULD do it! I could DO IT!"
They go to the Forum678, where Appius is seated on the tribunal, supported by the lictors and an armed troop. The acting of Forrest in the trial-scene that followed was as genuine and moving, set in as bold relief, as anything the American theatre has known. Who that saw him can ever forget the imperial front with which, bearing Virginia on his arm, he advanced before the judgment-seat,—the firm step, the indomitable face, the parental love that seemed to throw a thousand invisible tendrils around his child to hold her up! The tableau caused a silence that was absolute, and was maintained so long that the suspense had begun to be painful, when the kingly voice of Virginius broke the spell:
"Does no one speak? I am defendant679 here!
Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent
To plead a cause too foul680 for speech! What brow
Shameless, gives front to this most valiant681 cause,
That tries its prowess 'gainst the honor of
A girl, yet lacks the wit to know that they
Who cast off shame should likewise cast off fear!"
The strong, lucid456, cutting tones in which these words were spoken went vibrating into the breasts of the listeners, and thrilled them with sympathetic echoes. The perjured682 witness was summoned by the recreant judge. And the next passage of the play had a moral meaning deep enough, and was represented with a truth and power grand enough, to turn the stage for the time being into a pulpit and make the world tremble at its preaching.
"Virginius. And are you the man
That claims my daughter for his slave?—Look at me,
And I will give her to thee.
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Claudius. She is mine, then:
Do I not look at you?
Virginius. Your eye does, truly,
But not your soul.—I see it, through your eye,
Shifting and shrinking,—turning every way
To shun683 me. You surprise me, that your eye,
So long the bully684 of its master, knows not
To put a proper face upon a lie,
But gives the port of impudence685 to falsehood
When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul
Dares as soon show its face to me!"
Now the interest grows yet intenser and the influence of the actor yet more penetrating377 in its simplicity and terrible beauty. Virginius finds that nothing can save his daughter from the last profanation686 of the tyrant except her immediate669 immolation687 by himself. For a moment he is lost in a reverie, striving to think what he can do. By chance he perceives a knife lying on the stall of a butcher. At the sight of this providential instrument an electric change passes over his face, revealing all his purpose with a grim joy, like the lightning-flash at night illumining the murky688 sky and giving an instantaneous outline of the clouds loaded with the coming storm. He moves gradually towards the stall, smiling on Virginia a tender smile, full of the consolation he sees in the prospect689 of her deliverance even by death. He pats her lovingly on the shoulder while changing her from his left arm, that with it he may reach the knife. He stealthily seizes it and passes it behind him from the left hand to the right. With deep fondness he breathes, "My dear Virginia," and gives her quick and fervent690 kisses, which he appears striving to press into her very soul. Tears seem to moisten his words,—
"There is one only way to save thine honor,—
'Tis this!"
And, swift as motion of the human arm can make it, the knife pierces her heart. The storm has burst, the lightning has wreathed its folds around the consecrated691 instrument of the work, and now the thunder-tones of his voice crash through the theatre in the awful exclamation,—
"Lo, Appius! with this innocent blood
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I do devote thee to the infernal gods!
Make way there!
If they dare
To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened
With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them.
Thus, thus it rushes in amongst them. Way, there!"
His exit here used to excite the wildest huzzas, the men in the pit standing with their hats in their uplifted hands, and the women in the boxes waving their handkerchiefs.
Virginius heads the revolution, in which the revolted troops and the commons join. The tyranny is hurled to the dust, the people freed, and Appius lodged692 in prison. But the wronged and wretched father is broken down by the preternatural horror and excitement he has undergone, and loses his reason. He is next seen in his own desolate693 home, with a pale and haggard face, and a look half wild, half dreamy, talking to himself:
"'Tis ease! 'tis ease! I am content! 'Tis peace,—
'Tis anything that is most soft and quiet.
And after such a dream! I want my daughter.
Send me my daughter! Will she come, or not?
I'll call myself. Virginia!"
His call of Virginia was a call dictated694 by a dethroned mind. It was a sound that appeared to come from a mysterious vault. There was a kind of semi-wakefulness in it, like the utterance of a thought in a dream. It had a touch of pity. It was an inverted695 form of sound, that turned back whence it issued and fell dead where it was born, feeling that there was no reply for it to keep it alive. Yet, after a pause, he fancies he hears her answering; and he rapidly asks,—
"Is it a voice, or nothing, answers me?
I hear a sound so fine there's nothing lives
'Twixt it and silence."
And then, with an entranced listening, he follows the illusory voice around to different parts of the room, in the vain attempt to find its source. An apathetic696 stare, a blank, miserable697 stupor698, succeeds, soon broken by the fancy that he hears her shrieking699 in the prison for rescue from Appius,—and he darts700 away. Appius, meanwhile, is planning an escape, and gloatingly counting over in imagination the victims he will pick out to expiate701 for his
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present shame, when the shattered Virginius, appalling even in his ruins, rushes in upon him, wildly crying, "Give me my daughter!" The affrighted prisoner replies,—
"I know nothing of her, Virginius, nothing.
Virginius. Do you tell me so?
Vile tyrant! Think you, shall I not believe
My own eyes before your tongue? Why, there she is!
There at your back,—her locks dishevelled, and
Her vestment torn,—her cheeks all faded with
Her pouring tears.
Villain! is this a sight to show a father?
And have I not a weapon to requite702 thee?"
In his distraught fury, feeling over his body for some weapon he discovers his own hands. A wild and eager delight shudders703 through him as, holding these naked instruments before him, he springs on the terrified Appius and strangles him to death. Lucius, Icilius, and Numitorius enter, bearing the urn60 of Virginia. The wronged father and sufferer looks up, and sighs, with a bewildered gaze,—
"What a load my heart has heaved off! Where is he?
I thought I had done it."
They call him by name. He makes no response. Icilius places the urn in his right hand, with the single word, "Virginia." He looks at Icilius and the urn, at Numitorius and Lucius, seems struck by their mourning garb, looks again at the urn, breaks into a passion of tears, and falls on the neck of Icilius, exclaiming, "Virginia!"
METAMORA.
Jas Bannister
EDWIN FORREST AS
METAMORA.
The famous prize-play of Metamora, by John Augustus Stone, is not a work of much genius, and if published would have no literary rank; yet it had all that was essential, in the striking merit of furnishing the genius of the enactor704 of its leading character the conditions for compassing a popular success of the most remarkable description. With his performance of Metamora, Forrest impressed the masses of the American people in a degree rarely precedented, and won a continental705 celebrity706 full of idiomatic707 enthusiasm. Of course there were good reasons for this warm favor from the surrendered many, despite the disdain674 of the squeamish few, who can generally enjoy nothing, only conceitedly709 criticise710 everything.
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In the first place, the subject was indigenous, and thus came home to the American heart and curiosity. In the imagination of our people for more than a century the race of the aborigines of the land were clothed with romantic associations and regretted with a sort of national remorse521. The disinterestedness711 of the fancy and the soul, relieved from all proximity712 to their squalor, ferocity, and vice, with a beautiful pity lamented713 their wrongs, their evanescence, and the rapid disappearance714 of the wigwam and papoose and war-dance and canoe of the painted tribes from hill and glen and wood and lake. In this wide-spread sentimental interest the play took hold of powerful chords. Although prosaic715 research and experience have so largely divested716 the character of the Indian of its old romance and made his actual presence a nuisance, nevertheless so long as the memories of our primeval settlements and of our bloody and adventurous717 frontier traditions shall live, so long will the American Indian be remembered with a sigh as the lost human poetry of the nature wherein he was cradled.
Furthermore, the play was stocked with fresh suggestions and images of nature,—a store-house of those simple metaphors718 drawn direct from the great objects of the universe, full of a rude pathos and sublimity719, and so natural to the genius of Indian chief and orator593 in their talk. There was a piquance of novelty and a refreshing720 charm to people—hived in towns and cities, and, stifled721 with artificial customs, almost oblivious722 of any direct contact of their senses with the solemn elementary phenomena of the surrounding universe—in hearing Metamora speak, in a voice that echoed and painted them, of the woods, the winds, the sun, the cliffs, the torrents, the lakes, the sea, the stars, the thunder, the meadows and the clouds, the wild animals and the singing birds. The meaning of the words so fitly intoned by the player awoke in the nerves of the audience dim reminiscences of ancestral experiences reverberating723 out of far ages forgotten long ago, and they were bound by a spell themselves understood not.
And then there was the interest of a style of character and life, of an idealized historic picture of a vanished form of human nature and society, all whose elements stood in strange and fascinating contrast with the personal experience of the beholders. It was the first time the American Indian had ever been dramatized and put on the stage; and this was done in a theme based on
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one of the romantic episodes of his history embodied in a chieftain of tragic greatness.
In a production of art whose subject and materials lie in the domain724 of unreclaimed nature, genius is not, indeed, permitted to falsify any fundamental principle or fact, but is free to modify and add. Otherwise, the creative function of art is gone, and only imitation left. In this respect of combined truth and originality, the acted Metamora of Forrest was a wonder never surpassed, in its own kind, in the long story of the stage. He appeared the kingly incarnation of the spirit of the scene, both of the outward landscape and of the taciturn tribe that peopled it with their gliding725 shapes. He appeared the human lord of the dark wood and the rocky shore, and the natural ruler of their untutored tenants726; the soul of the eloquent recital, the noble appeal, and the fiery727 harangue728; the embodiment of a rude magnanimity, a deep domestic love, an unquivering courage and fortitude729, an instinctive patriotism and sense of justice, and a relentless730 revenge. He appeared, too, the votary731 of a superstition of singular attractiveness, blooming with the native wild-flowers of the human mind, a faith so unaffected and open that it seemed to be read by the stars of the Great Spirit as they looked down on the lone106 Indian kneeling by the mound732 of his fathers, the hunted patriot lying in ambush733 for his foes734. Through all this physically-realized, wondrous735 portraiture of the poetic, the tender, the noble, the awful, the reverential, was mingled736 the glare of the crouching737 tiger. It was thus that Forrest in his great creation of Metamora rendered all that there was in the naturalistic poem of Indian life, to all that there was justly adding an infusion738 of that ideal quality by which art appeals to the nobler feelings of admiration and sympathy in preference to the meaner ones of hate and scorn. In this performance he elaborated a picture of the legendary and historic American Indian which to this day stands alone beyond all rivalry.
Never did an actor more thoroughly739 identify and merge294 himself with his part than Forrest did in Metamora. He was completely transformed from what he appeared in other characters, and seemed Indian in every particular, all through and all over, from the crown of his scalp to the sole of his foot. The carriage of his body, the inflections of his voice, his facial expressions, the
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very pose of his head and neck on his shoulders, were new. For he had recalled all his observations while on his visit with Push-ma-ta-ha among the Choctaws, when he had adopted their habits, eaten their food, slept in their tents, echoed the crack of his rifle over the surface of their lakes, and left the print of his moccasins on their hunting-grounds. He had also patiently studied their characteristics from all other available sources. Accordingly, when he came to impersonate Metamora, or the Last of the Wampanoags, modelled by the author of the play after that celebrated New England Sachem, the son of Massasoit, known in history as King Philip of Pokanoket, it was the genuine Indian who was brought upon the stage, merely idealized a little in some of his moral features. The attributes unnoticed by careless observers were distinctly shown,—the sudden muscular movements, the repressed emotion, the peculiar24 mode of breathing, the deep and vigorous gutturals flung out from the muscular base of the abdomen740, and the straight or slightly inward-pointing line of the footfall. With a profound truth to fact, the general bearing of Metamora on ordinary occasions was marked by a dull monotony of manner, broken with awkward abruptness, and his grand poses were limited to those times of great excitement when the human organism, if in a state of dynamic surcharge, is spontaneously electrified with heroic lines, and becomes an instrument with which impersonal741 passions or the laws of nature gesticulate.
With the single and very proper exception of this partially742 heightened moral refinement118, the counterfeit743 was so cunningly copied that it might have deceived nature herself. Many a time delegations744 of Indian tribes who chanced to be visiting the cities where he acted this character—Boston, New York, Washington, Baltimore, Cincinnati, New Orleans—attended the performance, adding a most picturesque feature by their presence, and their pleasure and approval were unqualified. A large delegation745 of Western Indians, seated in the boxes of the old Tremont Theatre on such an occasion, were so excited by the performance that in the closing scene they rose and chanted a dirge746 in honor of the death of the great chief.
This incident recalls one which happened in the earliest theatre in Philadelphia, when Mrs. Whitelock, the sister of Mrs. Siddons, was playing, and when Washington was present. At the begin
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ning of the performance a group of Indians, who had come from the wilderness to conclude a treaty, made their appearance in the pit in their native costume. The dark, tall, gaunt figures glided747 in, and, without noticing the audience or seeming to hear the claps of welcome which greeted them, seated themselves, and fixed their eyes on the stage, as unchangingly as if they were petrified748. They sat through the chief play like statues, with immovable tranquillity749. But in the after-piece an artificial elephant was introduced, which so electrified these sons of the forest that they suddenly sprang up with a cry. They said there had once been a great beast like this in their land. The next day they called on the manager, inspected the mammoth750 of sticks, pasteboard, and cloth, and asked to see by daylight the heavenly women who had appeared on the stage the previous night.
The opening scene of Metamora was a glen, with ledges751 of stone, trees, bushes, running vines, and flowers, the leading character seen, in his picturesque, aboriginal752 costume, standing on the highest rock in an attitude that charmed the eye. Leaning forward on his firmly-planted right foot, the left foot thrown easily back on its tip, he had a bow in his hands, with the arrow sprung to its head. As the arrow sped from the twanging string he raised his eyes with eager gaze after it, gave a deep interjection, "Hah!" bounded upon a rock below, and vanished. In a few moments he re-entered, with his left arm bleeding, as if it had been bitten in a struggle with a wild beast. Oceana, a white maiden753, passing, sees his wound and offers him her scarf to bind754 it up. The mother of Oceana had once befriended Massasoit when he was sick. Metamora, in his gratitude755, had visited her grave with offerings for the dead, and, on such an occasion, had rescued Oceana from a panther. He hesitates before accepting, and fills the delay with a by-play of pantomime so true to Indian nature, so new and strange to the spectators, that it was invested with an absorbing interest. At length he says, "Metamora will take the white maiden's gift." He then gives her an eagle's feather, bids her wear it in her hair, and if she is ever in danger he will fly to her rescue at the sight of this pledge of his friendship.
As the play moves on, the audience are gradually borne back to the early days of their fathers, and their dread struggle to
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establish themselves on these Western shores. We see the thin and thriving settlements constantly augmenting756 with reinforcements, and pushing the natives before them. We are taken within the homes of the Indians, shown their better qualities, their hopeless efforts, their mixed resolution and misgiving before their coming fate. Our sympathies are enlisted757, before we know it, with the defeated party against ourselves; and thus the author and actor won their just victory. For the English are made to represent power and fraud, the Indians truth and patriotism; and when their fugitive758 king pauses on a lofty cliff in the light of the setting sun, gazes mournfully on the lost hunting-grounds and desecrated346 graves of his forefathers759, and launches his curse on their destroyers, every heart beats with sorrow for him.
The class of speeches in which the instinctive love of nature that unconsciously saturated the Indian soul is expressed, and the closeness of their daily life to the elements of the landscape and the phenomena of the seasons is revealed, were delivered with matchless effect. Metamora, poised like the bronze statue of some god of the antique, says, "I have been upon the high mountain-top when the gray mists were beneath my feet, and the Great Spirit passed by me in wrath. He spoke in anger, and the rocks crumbled760 beneath the flash of his spear. Then I felt proud and smiled. The white man trembles, but Metamora is not afraid."
And again: "The war and the chase are the red man's brother and sister. The storm-cloud in its fury frights him not; and when the stream is wild and broken his canoe is like a feather, that cannot drown."
Another class of speeches, equally unique in character, and breathing with compressed passion, were those in which the relative positions of the intruding761 race and the native lords of the soil were described. The style with which these were pronounced made the form of the actor seem a new tenement762 in which the departed Sachem of the Pequots lived and spoke again. "Your lands?" he exclaims, with sarcastic disdain. "They are mine. Climb upon the rock and look to the sunrise and to the sunset,—all that you see is the land of the Wampanoags, the land of Metamora. I am the white man's friend; but when my friendship is over I will not ask the white man if I have the right to be his
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foe. Metamora will love and hate, smoke the pipe of peace or draw the hatchet763 of battle, as seems good to him. He will not wrong his white brother, but he owns no master save Manito, Master of Heaven."
And at another time: "The pale-faces are around me thicker than the leaves of summer. I chase the hart in the hunting-grounds; he leads me to the white man's village. I drive my canoe into the rivers; they are full of the white man's ships. I visit the graves of my fathers; they are lost in the white man's corn-fields. They come like the waves of the ocean forever rolling upon the shores. Surge after surge, they dash upon the beach, and every foam-drop is a white man. They swarm764 over the land like the doves of winter, and the red men are dropping like withered765 leaves."
In these passages his declamation seemed to make the whole tragedy of the story of the American Indians breathe and swell and tremble.
A wonderful interest, too, was concentrated in the personal traits of Metamora himself as an individual; so true to his word, so faithful to his friend, so devoted to his wife and child, so proud of his land and his fathers, so fearless of his foe, so reverential before his God. "To his friend Metamora is like the willow,—he bends ever at the breath of those that love him. To others he is an oak. Until with your single arm you can rive the strongest tree of the forest from its earth, think not to stir Metamora when his heart says No."
In the earliest scene with his wife, when ready to start on a hunt, he lingered, and directed her to take her child from its couch on the earth. He then lifted it in his hands, and stood for several seconds in an attitude so superbly defined in its outlines of strength and grace that several pictures of it were published at the time. He asked, with a look of fondness, suppressing his stern reserve, "Dost thou not love this little one, Nahmeokee?" "Ah, yes!" she replied. He then continued, in a caressing767 murmur360 like the runneling music of a brook768, "When first his little eyes unclosed, thou saidst that they were like to mine." The expression of human love was so simple and complete, and so exquisitely set in the wild seclusion769 of nature, suggestive of the self-sufficingness of this little nest of affection embosomed in the
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wood and forgetful of all else in the world, that it made many a soft heart beat fast with an aching wish that stayed long after the scene was gone.
In a later scene he describes to his wife a vision he has had in the night. He relates it in a rich, subdued undertone, waxing intenser, and giving the hearer a mixed feeling of mysterious reverie and prophetic inspiration. "Nahmeokee, the power of dreams has been on me, and the shadows of things to be have passed before me. My heart is big with great thoughts. When I sleep, I think the knife is red in my hand and the scalp of the white man is streaming." Here he gave an additional height to his figure, a slight downward inclination770 to his head and eyes, dropped his left arm listlessly, and, while the two halves of his whole form were seen finely distinguished along the median line, with his right hand, extended to its fullest distance straight from the shoulder, grasped his bow, which stood perfectly771 erect from the ground. It was a posture772 of beautiful artistic precision and meaning, expressive of reflection with a quality of earnest listening in it, as if waiting for a reply. The words of Nahmeokee, not fitting his mood, slightly ruffled773 his temper, and then, with a crisp tone of voice which in its change of quality and accent was so unexpected that it was like a sudden sweep of the wind that rustles774 the dry leaves and hums through the wood, he said, "Yes, when our fires are no longer red in the high places of our fathers,—when the bones of our kindred make fruitful the fields the stranger has planted amid the ashes of our wigwams,—when we are hunted back like the wounded elk775 far towards the going down of the sun,—our hatchets776 broken, our bows unstrung, and our war-whoops hushed,—then will the stranger spare; for we shall be too small for his eye to see!"
The controversy between the natives and the new settlers having reached a perilous height, the latter dispatch a messenger asking Metamora to meet them in council. Very angry, and deeming all talk useless, he yet concludes to go. Unannounced, abruptly777, he makes his peremptory778 appearance amidst them. Settling strongly back on his right leg, his left advanced at ease with bent knee, his right side half presented, his face turned squarely towards them, he says, with Spartan779 curtness780, and in a manner not insolent781, and yet indescribably defiant782, "You sent for
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me, and I have come." His action was so wonderfully expressive in speaking these few words that they became a popular phrase, circulating in the mouths of men in all parts of the country.
The same result also followed in another and simpler scene. He had promised to meet the English at a certain time and place. They demanded of him, "Will you come?" By mere force of manner he gave an immense impressiveness to the simple reply, "Metamora cannot lie." The very boys in the streets were seen trying to imitate his posture and look, swelling their little throats to make the words sound big, as they repeated, "Metamora cannot lie."
In an interview with the English, after deadly hostilities783 have begun to rage, Aganemo, a subject of Metamora, who, for some supposed wrong, has turned against him, is called in, and bears testimony784 against his chief and his tribe. Metamora cries, "Let me see his eyes;" and, going close in front of him, addresses the cowering recreant: "Look me in the face, Aganemo. Thou turnest away. The spirit of a dog has entered thee, and thou crouchest. Dost thou come here with a lie in thy heart to witness against me? Thine eye cannot rest on thy chieftain. White men, can he speak words of truth who has been false to his nation and false to his friends?" Fitz Arnold says, "Send him hence." Metamora interposes with an imperial mien full of dread import, "I will do that," and strikes him dead on the spot, exclaiming, "Slave of the whites, follow Sassamon,"—Sassamon being the name of another traitor whom he had previously785 slain786 in the midst of his own braves.
Fitz Arnold orders his men to seize the high-handed executioner of their witness. Towering alone in solitary and solid grandeur, with accents and gestures whose impassioned sincerity painted every thought as a visible reality and made the excited audience lean out of their seats, Metamora hurled back his electric defiance:
"Come! my knife has drunk the blood of the traitor, but it is not satisfied. Men of the pale race, beware! The mighty spirits of the Wampanoags are hovering787 over your heads. They stretch their shadowy arms and call for vengeance. They shall have it. Tremble! From East to West, from the South to the North, the tribes have roused from their slumbers788. They grasp the
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hatchet. The pale-faces shall wither766 under their power. White men. Metamora is your foe!"
The soldiers level their guns at him. He suddenly seizes a white man and places him before himself. The living shield thus extemporized789 falls, perforated with bullets. Metamora hurls790 his tomahawk to the floor, where it sticks quivering, while he cries, "Thus do I defy your power!" and darts away, leaving them dumb with astonishment.
The pathos with which Forrest rendered portions of the play of Metamora was one of its most remarkable excellences and one of his most distinctive27 trophies as a dramatic artist. No theory of the passions or mere mechanical drill in their expression can ever teach a man to be pathetic. Only a disagreeable mockery of it can thus come. Pathos is the one particular affection that knows no deceit, but comes in truth direct from the soul and goes direct to the soul. It may lie dormant791 in us, as music lies in the strings792 of a silent harp74, till a touch gives it life. Speaking more or less in all, it speaks most in those who cherish it most; and when it speaks it is felt by all,—red man and white man, barbarian198 and philosopher. The pathos of Metamora was not like that of Damon when he parted with his family to go to his execution, not like that of Brutus when he sentenced his son to death, not like that of Virginius when he slew his daughter. It was a pathos without tears or gesture. The Indian warrior never weeps. It was almost solely793 a pathos of the voice, and was as broad and primitive794 as the unperverted faith and affection of man. The supreme example of this quality in the play was finely set off by the contrast that immediately foreran it, its soft, sad shades following a scene of lurid795 fury and grandeur.
A peace-runner brings Metamora the news that Nahmeokee is a captive in the power of his enemies. Leaving fifty white men bound as hostages to secure his own safety, he starts alone to deliver her. As he approaches the English camp, he hears Nahmeokee shriek. With one bound he bursts in upon them, levels his gun, and thunders,—
"Which of you has lived too long? Dogs of white men, do you lift your hands against a woman?" "Seize him!" they cry, but shrink from his movement. "Hah!" he scornfully exclaims, "it is now a warrior who stands before you, the fire-weapon in
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his hands. Who, then, shall seize him? Go, Nahmeokee; I will follow thee." Then, reminding them of his hostages, he turns on his heel and departs.
He is next discovered, with a slow and heavy step, approaching his wigwam, where his rescued wife waits to receive him. He has seen that the too unequal struggle of his countrymen is hopeless, and he appears sad and gloomy. Telling Nahmeokee, who looks broken with grief, that he is weary with the strife of blood, he says, "Bring me thy little one, that I may press him to my burning heart to quiet its tumult439." Without his knowledge, the child had been killed by the white men a few hours previous. The mother goes where the child is lying upon the ground, lifts the skin that covers him, points at him, and drops her head in tears. Metamora looks at the child, at the mother, stoops, and, with rapid motions, feels the little face, arms, and legs. Suppressing the start of horror and the cry of grief a white man would have given, he sinks his chin slowly upon his breast and heaves a deep sigh, and then utters the simple words, "Dead! cold!" in a tone low as if to be heard by himself alone, and sounding like the wail606 of a sorrow in some far-away world. Having lifted the dead child and fondled it in his bosom and laid it tenderly back, he walks slowly to the weeping Nahmeokee, places his hand on her shoulder, and says, in a soft voice quivering with the tears not suffered to mount in the eyes, "Well, is he not happy? Better that he should die by the stranger's hand than live to be his slave. Do not bow down thy head. Thou wilt see him again in the happy land of the spirits; and he will look smilingly as—as—as I do now." Here the quality of smilingness was in the tones of the voice only, while his face wore the impress of intense grief. The voice and face thus contradicting each other presented a pathos so overwhelming that it seemed as if nothing human could surpass it or resist it.
His manner now changes. Some great resolution seems to have arisen in him. His words have a tender yet ominous548 meaning in their inflection as he asks Nahmeokee, "Do you not fear the power of the white man? He might seize thee and bear thee off to his far country, bind those arms that have so often clasped me, and make thee his slave. We cannot fly: our foes are all about us. We cannot fight, for this [drawing his long
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knife] is the only weapon I have saved unbroken from the strife. It has tasted the white man's blood and reached the cold heart of the traitor. It has been our best friend, and it is now our only treasure." Here he drew her still closer, and placed her head on his bosom, and, with the long knife in his hand, pointed upwards796, and with an alluring797, indescribably sweet and aerial falsetto tone, painted a picture that seemed to take form and color in the very atmosphere. There was a weird798 dreaminess in his voice and a visionary abstractness in his gaze, as with the words "long path in the thin air," he indicated the heavenward journey of his dead child, that seemed actually to dissolve the whole scene, theatre, actor, spectators, and all, into a passing vapor799, an ethereal enchantment.
"I look through the long path in the thin air, and think I see our little one borne to the land of the happy, where the fair hunting-grounds never know snows or storms, and where the immortal brave feast under the eyes of the Giver of Good. Look upward, Nahmeokee! See, thy child looks back to thee, and beckons800 thee to follow." Drawing her closer with his left arm, and lowering his right, he whispers, "Hark! In the distant wood I faintly hear the tread of the white men. They are upon us! The home of the happy is made ready for thee!" While this picture of fear and hope is vivid before her mind, he strikes the blow, and in an instant she is dead in his arms. He clasps her to his breast, presses his lips on her forehead, and gently places her beside the dead child. He then shudders, and draws forth the knife sheathed in her side, and kisses its blade in a sudden transport, exclaiming, "She knew no bondage802 to the white men. Pure as the snow she lived, free as the air she died!"
At this moment the hills are covered with the white men, pointing their rifles at his heart. "Hah!" he cries. Their leader shouts, "Metamora is our prisoner!" "No," he proudly responds, dilating with the haughtiest803 port of defiance. "I live, the last of my race, live to defy you still, though numbers and treachery overpower me. Come to me, come singly, come all, and this knife, which has drunk the foul blood of your nation, and is now red with the purest of mine, will feel a grasp as strong as when it flashed in the glare of your burning dwellings805 or was lifted terribly over the fallen in battle."
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The order is given to fire upon him; and he replies, "Do so. I am weary of the world; for ye are dwellers806 in it. I would not turn on my heel to save my life." They shoot, and he staggers, but in his dying agonies launches on them his awful malediction808:
"My curses on ye, white men! May the Great Spirit curse ye when he speaks in his war-voice from the clouds! May his words be like the forked lightnings, to blast and desolate! May the loud winds and the fierce red flames be loosed in vengeance upon ye, tigers! May the angry Spirit of the Waters in his wrath sweep over your dwellings! May your graves and the graves of your children be in the path where the red man shall tread, and may the wolf and the panther howl over your fleshless bones! I go. My fathers beckon801 from the green lakes and the broad hills. The Great Spirit calls me. I go,—but the curses of Metamora stay with the white men!"
He crawls painfully to the bodies of his wife and child, and, in a vain effort to kiss them, expires, with his last gasp mixing the words, "I die—my wife, my queen—my Nahmeokee!"
SPARTACUS.
F. Halpin
EDWIN FORREST AS
THE GLADIATOR.
"The Gladiator," written by Robert Montgomery Bird, was another prize-play, in which Forrest acquired a popularity which, if less general, was more intense, than that secured for his Metamora. If the admiration and applause given to it were drawn less universally from men and women, from old and young, they were more fervent and sustained, being fed by those elementary instincts which are strongest in the robust multitude. The Spartacus of Forrest was more abused and satirized809 by hostile critics than any of his other parts, because it was the most "physical" and "melodramatic" of them all. Muscular exertion and ferocious810 passion were carried to their greatest pitch in it, though neither of these was displayed in a degree beyond sincerity and fitness or the demands of the given situations on the given embodiment of the character. There are actual types of men and actual scenes of life which are transcendently "physical" and "melodramatic." No actor can truly represent such specimens of human nature and such conjunctures of human history without being highly "physical" and profoundly "melodramatic." Is it not the office of the player, the very aim of his art, correctly to depict180 the truth of man
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and life? And, recollecting811 what sort of a person the veritable Thracian gladiator was, and what sort of a part he played, one may well ask how he can be justly impersonated on the stage if not invested with the attributes of brawny812 muscularity, terrific indignation, stentorian813 speech, and merciless revenge. Forrest was blamed and ridiculed815 by a coterie816 because he did exactly what, as an artist cast in such a rôle, he ought to do, and any deviation817 from which would have been a gross violation818 of propriety. He simply exhibited tremendous mental and physical realities with tremendous mental and physical realism. What else would the demurrer have?
The fact is, the cant303 words "physical" and "melodramatic," as demeaningly used in dramatic criticism, express a vulgar prejudice too prevalent among the educated and refined,—a prejudice infinitely819 more harmful than any related prejudice of the ignorant and coarse. They seem to fancy the body something vile, to be ashamed of, to receive as little attention and be kept as much out of sight as possible. But since God created the body as truly as he did the spirit, and decreed its uses as much as he did those of the spirit, the perfecting and glorifying820 of the former are just as legitimate821 as the perfecting and glorifying of the latter. The ecclesiastical interpretation822 of Christianity for these fifteen hundred years is responsible, in common with kindred ascetic823 superstitions824 of other and elder religions, for an incalculable amount of disease, deformity, vice, crime, and untimely death. The contempt for bodily power and its material conditions in a superbly-developed and trained physical organism, the foul and dishonoring notion of the superior sanctity of the celibate825 state, the teaching that chastity is the one thing that allies us to the angels, with which every other sin may be forgiven, without which no other virtue is to be recognized,—these and associated errors—discords, distortions, and inversions827 of nature—have been prolific828 sources of evil. They lie at the root of the so common prejudice against a magnificent and glowing condition of the physical organism, a prejudice which feeds the conceit708 of the votaries829 of the present mental forcing system, and causes so many dawdling830 idlers to neglect all use of those vigorous measures of gymnastic hygiene831 which would raise the power and splendor of body and soul together to their maximum.
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The type of man produced by the Athenians in their best age, its unrivalled combination of health and strength, energy and grace, acumen832 and sensibility, organic harmony of mental peace and vital joy, was very largely the fruit of their unrivalled system of gymnastics regulated by music. Free America, with this example and so much subsequent experience, with all the conquests of modern science at her command, should inaugurate a system of popular training which will acknowledge the equal sanctity of body and soul and render them worthy of each other, a union of athletic and æsthetic culture making the body the temporary illuminated temple of its indwelling immortal divinity.
The separating of human nature into opposed parts whose respective highest welfare is incompatible must ever be productive of all kinds of morbidity833, monstrosity, and horror, through the final reactions of the violated harmony of truth. Leading to the enforced culture of one side, the mental, and the enforced neglect of the other, the material, it is fatal to that rounded wholeness of the entire man which is the synonym140 of both health and virtue. For the helpless subsidence of the soul in the body is brutality834 or idiocy; the insurrectionary sway of the body over the soul is insanity835; the remorseless subdual of the body by the soul is egotistic asceticism836 or murderous ferocity; but the parallel development and exaltation of accordant body and soul give us the ideal of health and happiness fulfilled in beauty, or the enthronement of divine order in man. Therefore such a stimulating837 instance of organic glory, extraordinary outward poise93 and inward passion, as the people, thrilled in their most instinctive depths of enthusiasm, used to shout at when they saw Forrest in his early assumptions of the rôle of Spartacus, is not to be stigmatized838 as something offensive, but to be hailed as something admirable.
In those happy and glowing years of his prime and of his fresh celebrity, what a glorious image of unperverted manhood, of personified health and strength and beauty, he presented! What a grand form he had! What a grand face! What a grand voice! And, the living base of all, what a grand blood! the rich flowing seed-bed of his human thunder and lightning. As he stepped upon the stage in his naked fighting-trim, his muscular coating unified839 all over him and quivering with vital power, his skin polished by exercise and friction to a smooth and marble hardness, conscious
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of his enormous potency840, fearless of anything on the earth, proudly aware of the impression he knew his mere appearance, backed by his fame, would make on the audience who impatiently awaited him,—he used to stand and receive the long, tumultuous cheering that greeted him, as immovable as a planted statue of Hercules. In the rank and state of his physical organism and its feelings he had the superiority of a god over common men. The spectacle, let it be repeated, was worthy the admiration it won. And had the personal imitation of the care and training he gave himself been but equal to the admiration lavished841 on their result, the benefit to the American people would have been beyond estimate. But in this, as in the other lessons of the drama, the example was relatively842 fruitless, because shown to spectators who applaud without copying, seeking entertainment instead of instruction. This, however, is clearly the fault of the people, and not of the stage.
The play of "The Gladiator" is founded on that dark and frightful episode in the history of Rome, the famous servile war headed by the gladiators under the lead of Spartacus. Our sympathies are skilfully844 enlisted on the side of the insurgents845, who are goaded846 to their desperate enterprise by insufferable wrongs and cruelties. It abounds in pictures of insolent tyranny on one side, and with eloquent denunciation and fearless resistance on the other, and the chief character is a powerful presentation of a deep and generous manhood, outraged in every fibre, lashed804 to fury by his injuries, and, after superhuman efforts of revenge, expiring in monumental despair and appeal to the gods. The horrors of oppression, the irrepressible dignity of human nature, the reckless luxury of the rulers, the suffering of the slaves, the revolting arrogance847 of despotism, and the burning passion of liberty, are set against one another; and all through it the mighty figure of Spartacus is made to fill the central place. It was just the part for a democrat, who, despising what is factitious, gloried in the ineradicable attributes of free manhood; and Forrest made the most of it. For instance, it is easy for those who knew him to imagine the energy and relish with which he would utter the following lines when he came to them in his part:
"I thank the gods, I am barbarian;
For I can better teach the grace-begot
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And heaven-supported masters of the earth,
How a mere dweller807 of a desert rock
Can bow their crowned heads to his chariot-wheels.
Man is heaven's work, and beggars' brats848 may herit
A soul to mount them up the steeps of fortune,
With regal necks to be their stepping-blocks."
In the intense sincerity and elaborate as well as spontaneous truth of his performance, it was not a play that the spectators saw, but a history; not a history, but a resurrection. Entering in the garb of a slave, bound and whipped, his mighty frame and terrible aspect made the abuse seem more awful. Tortured with insulting questions, his proud spirit stung by wrong on wrong, he broke forth in desperation, and carried the passions of the audience by storm, as with clenched850 hands, and half erect from their seats, while the blood ran quicker through their veins, they saw him rush into combat with his enemies and chase them from the stage. They delighted to see the cruel subduer of the world humbled by her own captive, who held her haughty851 prætors by the heart and called on Thrace, on Africa, on the oppressed of all nations, to pour the flood of their united hates on the detested852 city. They rejoiced to hear him recite with bitter eloquence the story of her degradation, and heap on her with hot scorn the recollection of the time when Tiber ran blood and Hannibal hung over her like a cloud charged with ruin. Every step, every word, vibrated on their feelings, and when he fell their hearts swelled853 with a pang637. For the actor had been lost in the slave, the insurgent, the conqueror854, the victim.
His first appearance as a captive in imperial Rome was deeply affecting. "Is it a thousand leagues to Thrace?" he said, with a whispered agony, the deadly lament467 of hopeless exile. He has been purchased by Lentulus, an exhibitor of gladiators, on the strength of the report that he was the most desperate, skilful843, and unconquerable fighter in the province. Bracchius, another proprietor855 of gladiators, owns one Phasarius, a Thracian, who has always been victorious856 in his combats. Phasarius was a younger and favorite brother of Spartacus, supposed to have been killed in battle years before, but really taken captive and brought to Rome. Now Bracchius and Lentulus propose a combat between their two slaves. Spartacus, chained, is ordered in. He asks, "Is not this Rome, the great city?" Bracchius replies,
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"Ay, and thou shouldst thank the gods that they have suffered thee to see it. What think'st thou of it?"
"Spartacus. That if the Romans had not been fiends, Rome had never been great. Whence came this greatness but from the miseries857 of subjugated858 nations? How many myriads859 of happy people that had not wronged Rome, for they knew not Rome,—how many myriads of these were slain, like the beasts of the field, that Rome might fatten860 upon their blood, and become great? Look ye, Roman, there is not a palace upon these hills that cost not the lives of a thousand innocent men; there is no deed of greatness ye can boast, but it was achieved by the ruin of a nation; there is no joy ye can feel, but its ingredients are blood and tears."
Lentulus breaks in, "Now, marry, villain, thou wert bought not to prate861, but to fight."
"Spartacus. I will not fight. I will contend with mine enemy, when there is strife between us; and if that enemy be one of these same fiends, a Roman, I will give him the advantage of weapon and place; he shall take a helmet and buckler, while I, with my head bare and my breast naked, and nothing in my hand but my shepherd's staff, will beat him to my feet and slay254 him. But I will not slay a man for the diversion of Romans."
His master threatens to have him lashed if he refuses to contend in the arena862. The fearful attitude and fixed look with which Spartacus received this threat, suggesting that he would strike the speaker dead with a glance, were a masterpiece of expressive art not easily forgotten by any one who saw it. Its possessing power seemed to freeze the gazer while he gazed. Still refusing to fight, in moody863 despair he bewails the destruction of his home by the Romans, and their murder of his wife and young child. The female slaves of Bracchius here pass by, and, to his amazement, among them Spartacus sees his lost Senona and her boy. After a touching interview of contending joy and grief with them, he agrees to enter the arena, on condition that if he is victorious his reward shall be their liberation.
The next act opens with a view of the great Roman amphitheatre, crowded with the people gathered to see those bloody games which were their horrid but favorite amusement. The first adversary864 brought against Spartacus is a Gaul. He soon slays
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him, though with great reluctance865, and only as moved to it by the prospect of freedom for his wife and child. Then they propose as a second champion a renowned866 Thracian. He flings down his sword and refuses to fight with one of his own countrymen. But at last, on learning that liberty is to be had in no other way, he suddenly yields. The Thracian is introduced. It is Phasarius. A scene of intense pathetic power follows, as little by little the brothers are struck with each other's appearance, suspect, inquire, respond, are satisfied, and rush into a loving embrace. The prætor treats their recognition and their transport of fraternal affection as a trick to escape the combat, and orders them to begin. Spartacus proposes to his brother to die sword in hand rather than obey the unnatural command. In reply, Phasarius rapidly informs him that he has already organized the elements of a revolt among his comrades, and that it awaits but his signal to break out. Crassus angrily calls on his guards to enter the amphitheatre and punish the dilatory867 combatants. The manner in which Spartacus retorted, "Let them come in,—we are armed!" never failed to stir the deepest excitement in the theatre, causing the whole assembly to join in enthusiastic applause. Port, look, gesture, tone, accent, combined to make it a signal example of the sovereign potency of manner in revealing a master-spirit and swaying subject-spirits.
On the entrance of the guards, Phasarius gives a shout, and the confederate gladiators also plunge491 in, and a general conflict begins. In this scene the acting of Forrest absorbed his whole heart. He was so thoroughly imbued868 with the spirit of it that everything he did was perfectly natural, full of that genuine fire which is so much beyond all exertion by rule. It was universally agreed that more spirited and admirable fighting was hardly to be conceived, the varied postures869 into which he threw his massive form being worthy to be taken as studies for the sculptor870.
The rebellion grows apace in success and numbers. Spartacus rescues his wife and child from the Roman camp, and seizes the niece of the prætor. Phasarius falls in love with this young woman, and demands her of his brother. Being refused because she is affianced to a youth in Rome, he insists on his demand. In the altercation occurs one of the finest and loftiest passages in the play, and it was rendered with a sublime eloquence:
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"Spartacus. Come, look me in the face,
And let me see how bad desires have changed thee.
Phasarius. I claim the captive.
Spar. Set thine eye on her:
Lo, you! she weeps, and she is fatherless.
Thou couldst not harm an orphan871? What, I say,
Art thou, whom I have carried in my arms
To mountain-tops to worship the great God,
Art thou a man to plot a wrong and sorrow
'Gainst such as have no father left but Him?"
Phasarius revolts, and takes off more than half the army. Disastrously872 defeated by Crassus, he returns with a broken fragment of his forces, and is generously forgiven and restored to favor by Spartacus, who intrusts him with an important separate command, and confides873 Senona and her boy to his keeping, with the solemn charge that he shall avoid all collision with the enemy. Phasarius, however, thirsting for Roman blood, seeks an engagement, and is totally routed, his force cut in pieces, and the mother and child both slain. The unhappy man, then, mortally wounded, presents himself before his brother, tells his fearful tale, and expires at his feet. In this interview the emotions of anxiety, deprecation, grief, wrath, and horror, were depicted in all their most forcible language in the person of Spartacus. One action in particular was effective in the highest degree. Phasarius described the crucifixion by the Romans of six thousand of their Thracian captives. The highway on both sides, he said, was lined with crosses, and on each cross was nailed a gladiator.
"I crept
Thro' the trenched army to that road, and saw
The executed multitude uplifted
Upon the horrid engines. Many lived:
Some moaned and writhed874 in stupid agony;
Some howled and prayed for death, and cursed the gods;
Some turned to lunatics, and laughed at horror;
And some with fierce and hellish strength had torn
Their arms free from the beams, and so had died
Grasping headlong the air."
The agitations875 of the soul of the listener up to this point had been delineated with fearful distinctness. But when told that his wife and child had been killed, his head suddenly fell forward on his breast and rested there, after vibrating four or five times
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in lessening876 degrees on the pivot877 of the neck, as if utterly abandoned to itself. It was marvellously expressive of the exhausted state, the woe-begone despair, of one who had received a shock too great to be borne, a shock which, had it been a little severer, would have prostrated his whole figure, but, as it was, simply prostrated his head.
Deprived of all his kindred and of all hope, alone on the flinty earth, rage and recklessness now seize the desolate Thracian, and he resolves to sacrifice his captive, the niece of the prætor, in retaliation878 for the slaughter196 of his own family; but a nobler sentiment restrains him, and he dismisses her to her father. In this passage he displayed the agony of generous grief subduing879 the desire of vengeance with a power which, as a prominent English critic said, reminded the beholder466 of the head of Laocoön struggling in the folds of the serpent, or of the head of Hercules writhing880 under the torture of the poisoned shirt.
The prætor in return for his daughter sends Spartacus an offer of pardon if he will surrender. Disdainfully rejecting the overture881, he has the horses in his camp slain, and sets everything on the chance of one more battle, but against such odds as he knows can result only in his defeat. With a frenzied thirst for vengeance he fights his way to the presence of the Roman general, and, in the very act of striking him down, exhausted from the accumulated wounds received in his passage of blood, grows faint, reels, falls in the exact attitude of the immortal statue of the Dying Gladiator, and expires.
A most remarkable proof of the histrionic genius of Forrest was given in the profoundly discriminated manner with which the same mass and fury of revengeful passion, the same rude breadth and tenderness of affection and pathos, were shown by him in the two characters of Metamora and Spartacus. In the Indian there was a stoical compression of the emotions out of their revealing channels, an organic suppression of starts and surprises and lamentations, a profound impassibility of demeanor, an exterior882 of slow, stubborn, monotonous883 self-possession, through which the volcanic884 ferocity of the interior crept in words of slow lava885, or flared886 as fire through a smouldering heap of cinders887. In the Thracian there was more variety as well as incomparably more freedom and impulsiveness888 of expression. The exterior and in
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terior corresponded with each other and mutually reflected instead of contradicting each other. In different exigencies889 the gladiator exhibited in his whole person, limbs, torso, face, eyes, and voice, the extremes of sullen890 stolidity891, pining sorrow, convulsive grief, ambitious pride, pity, anger, resolution, and despair, each well shaded from the others. He had a wider gamut892, as civilization is more comprehensive than barbarism. The movements and expressions of Metamora seemed to be instinctive, and originate in the nervous centres of the physique; those of Spartacus to be volitional893, originating in the cerebral894 centres. In civilized life the body tends to be the reflex of the brain; in savage life the brain to be the reflex of the body. This historic and physiological895 truth Forrest knew nothing about, but the practical results of the fact he intuitively observed.
The seven characters, now described as fully as the writer can do it with the data at his command, were the favorite ones in which Forrest had gained his greenest laurels at the time of his visit to Europe. Jaffier, Octavian, Sir Edward Mortimer, Sir Giles Overreach, Iago, and other kindred parts, which he often acted with distinguished ability and acceptance, he liked less and less, and gradually dropped them altogether. In Febro, Cade, Melnotte, and Richelieu he had not yet appeared. His Richard, Macbeth, Othello, Lear, Hamlet, and Coriolanus will be more appropriately treated in a later chapter of his life, when he had elaborated his conceptions of them to the highest finish in his power. But his performances at the time now under consideration were, in their spiritual substance, their general treatment and outlines, what they remained to the end. The subsequent changes were merely improvements in details, in gradual climax, in grouping, in symmetry and unity. With his advancing years and experience and study, more and more the parts were made to grow before the audience, so to speak, from their roots upward, gaining strength and expansion as they rose. Gusty896 irregularity, crudity, misproportion, discord826, were carefully struck out, and harmony secured by the just blending of light and shade. But from first to last his style was consistent, and, like his personality, knew no revolutions, only development.
In the practice of his profession it was a noble characteristic of
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Forrest that he disliked to impersonate essentially bad or ignoble897 characters. He hated to set forth passions, thoughts, or sentiments meant to be regarded as base and repulsive, unless, indeed, it was to make them odious and hold them up to detestation. Into this work he threw himself with a gusto that was extreme. He was but too vehement in the utterance of sarcastic denunciations of every form of meanness or cruelty, his relish of the excoriation898 being often too keen, his inflection of tone too widely sweeping, and his emphasis too prolonged for the measure of any average sympathy. All was sincere with him in it, but his expression was pitched in the scale of reality, while the appreciation of the listeners was only pitched in the calmer scale of ideality.
He loved to stand out in some commanding form of virtue, heroism, or struggle, battling with trials that would appall509 common souls, setting a great example, and evoking899 enthusiasm. This was his glory. The zeal399 with which he ever regarded this phase of his profession, the delight with which he revelled900 in the contemplation of ideal strength, fortitude, courage, devotion, was a grand attribute of his soul. Accordingly, all his favorite parts were expressions of a high-souled manhood, reverential towards God, truth, and justice, and fearing nothing; a proud integrity and hardiness901 competent to every emergency of life and death; an unbending will, based on right and entwined with the central virtues of honor, friendship, domestic love, and patriotic ardor902. And surely these are the qualities best deserving universal respect, the democratic ideals most wholesome to be cultivated. This is what he most innately903 loved and stood on the stage to represent. He did it with immense earnestness and immense individuality. He did it also with a conscientious devotion to his chosen art and profession that never faltered904. In none of his performances was there ever anything in the least degree savoring905 of pruriency906 or indelicacy. Never, after his boyhood was past, could he be induced to appear in any trivial or unmeaning role, destitute907 of moral purpose and dignity. With not one of those many innovations which have detracted so much from the rank and purity of the drama was his name ever associated. He was ever strongly averse908 in his own person to touching in any way any play which was not enriched and elevated by some imaginative romantic or heroic creation. And, with a world
[Pg 260]
-wide removal from the so common frivolity909 and carelessness of his associates on the boards, he approached every one of his performances with a studious sobriety, and went through it with an undeniable dignity and earnestness, which should have lifted him beyond the reach of ridicule814, whatever were the faults an honorable criticism might affirm.
The substance of the honest objections made to his acting may be designated as ascribing to it two faults, an excess and a defect. The excess was too much display of physical and spiritual force in the expression of contemptuous or revengeful and destructive passion. There was a basis for this charge, though the accusation910 was grossly exaggerated. The muscular and passional strength and intensity of Forrest, both by constitution and by culture, were so much beyond those of ordinary men that a manifestation of them which was entirely911 natural and within the bounds to him often seemed to them a huge extravagance, a wilful912 overdoing913 for the sake of making a sensation. In him it was perfectly genuine and not immoderate by the tests of nature, while to them it appeared far to transgress914 the modest limits of truth. Of course such explosions repelled915 and pained, sometimes revolted, the sensibilities of the delicate and fastidious, while the more ungirdled and terrific they were, so much the greater was the pleased and wondering approval of those whose sympathies were stormed and self-surrendered. Such was the histrionic fault of excess in Forrest, if it may not rather be called the fault of those whose natures were keyed so much below his that they could not come into tune849 with him.
The defect corresponding to this excess was lack of souplesse, physical and spiritual mobility916. He was unquestionably deficient917, when tried by a severe standard, in bright, alert, expectant, rich freedom of play in nerves and faculties. His disposition was comparatively obstinate918 in its pertinacity919, and his body adhesive920 in its heaviness. This gave him the ponderous weight of unity, the antique port of the gods, but it robbed him in a degree of that supreme grace which is the ability to compass the largest effects of impression with the smallest expenditure921 of energy. It cannot be denied that he needed exactly what Garrick had in such perfection, namely, that detached personality, that quicksilver liberty and rapidity of motion, which made the great Eng
[Pg 261]
lish actor such a memorable922 paragon923 of variety and charm. Yet, when these abatements are all allowed, enough remains amply to justify his large historic claim in the honest massiveness and glow of his delineations, set off alike by the imposing physique fit to take the club and pose for a Farnesian Hercules, by a studious and manly art unmarred with any insincere trickery, and by a powerful mellow voice of vast compass and flexible intonation, whose declamation, modelled on nature, and without theatrical affectation, ever did full justice to noble thoughts and beautiful words.
Cibber said, in allusion924 to Betterton, "Pity it is that the momentary925 beauties from an harmonious elocution cannot be their own record, that the animated926 graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best but faintly glimmer927 through the memory or imperfect attestation928 of a few surviving spectators." Could the author of this biography paint in their true forms and colors and with full completeness the once vivid and vigorous achievements of the buried master, had he with sufficient knowledge and memory command of some notation929 whereby he could record every light and shade of each great rôle so that they might be revived from the dead symbols in all the lustre930 of their original reality, even as a musician translates from the dormant score into living music an overture of Mozart or a symphony of Beethoven, then were there a deathless Forrest breathing in these pages who should stir the souls of generations of readers to rise and mutiny against the depreciating931 estimates of his forgotten foes and the encroachments of literary oblivion. But, alas932! to such a task the pen that essays the tribute is unequal, and the writer must be content with the pale presentments he can but imperfectly produce, sighing to think how true is the refrain of regret taken up in every age by those who have mourned a departed actor, and never better worded, perhaps, than in the famous lines by Garrick:
"The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye;
While taste survives, his fame can never die.
But he who struts933 his hour upon the stage
Can scarce extend his fame for half an age.
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save,—
The art and artist share one common grave."
In the practice of his profession it was a noble characteristic of
[Pg 259]
Forrest that he disliked to impersonate essentially bad or ignoble897 characters. He hated to set forth passions, thoughts, or sentiments meant to be regarded as base and repulsive, unless, indeed, it was to make them odious and hold them up to detestation. Into this work he threw himself with a gusto that was extreme. He was but too vehement in the utterance of sarcastic denunciations of every form of meanness or cruelty, his relish of the excoriation898 being often too keen, his inflection of tone too widely sweeping, and his emphasis too prolonged for the measure of any average sympathy. All was sincere with him in it, but his expression was pitched in the scale of reality, while the appreciation of the listeners was only pitched in the calmer scale of ideality.
He loved to stand out in some commanding form of virtue, heroism, or struggle, battling with trials that would appall509 common souls, setting a great example, and evoking899 enthusiasm. This was his glory. The zeal399 with which he ever regarded this phase of his profession, the delight with which he revelled900 in the contemplation of ideal strength, fortitude, courage, devotion, was a grand attribute of his soul. Accordingly, all his favorite parts were expressions of a high-souled manhood, reverential towards God, truth, and justice, and fearing nothing; a proud integrity and hardiness901 competent to every emergency of life and death; an unbending will, based on right and entwined with the central virtues of honor, friendship, domestic love, and patriotic ardor902. And surely these are the qualities best deserving universal respect, the democratic ideals most wholesome to be cultivated. This is what he most innately903 loved and stood on the stage to represent. He did it with immense earnestness and immense individuality. He did it also with a conscientious devotion to his chosen art and profession that never faltered904. In none of his performances was there ever anything in the least degree savoring905 of pruriency906 or indelicacy. Never, after his boyhood was past, could he be induced to appear in any trivial or unmeaning role, destitute907 of moral purpose and dignity. With not one of those many innovations which have detracted so much from the rank and purity of the drama was his name ever associated. He was ever strongly averse908 in his own person to touching in any way any play which was not enriched and elevated by some imaginative romantic or heroic creation. And, with a world
[Pg 260]
-wide removal from the so common frivolity909 and carelessness of his associates on the boards, he approached every one of his performances with a studious sobriety, and went through it with an undeniable dignity and earnestness, which should have lifted him beyond the reach of ridicule814, whatever were the faults an honorable criticism might affirm.
The substance of the honest objections made to his acting may be designated as ascribing to it two faults, an excess and a defect. The excess was too much display of physical and spiritual force in the expression of contemptuous or revengeful and destructive passion. There was a basis for this charge, though the accusation910 was grossly exaggerated. The muscular and passional strength and intensity of Forrest, both by constitution and by culture, were so much beyond those of ordinary men that a manifestation of them which was entirely911 natural and within the bounds to him often seemed to them a huge extravagance, a wilful912 overdoing913 for the sake of making a sensation. In him it was perfectly genuine and not immoderate by the tests of nature, while to them it appeared far to transgress914 the modest limits of truth. Of course such explosions repelled915 and pained, sometimes revolted, the sensibilities of the delicate and fastidious, while the more ungirdled and terrific they were, so much the greater was the pleased and wondering approval of those whose sympathies were stormed and self-surrendered. Such was the histrionic fault of excess in Forrest, if it may not rather be called the fault of those whose natures were keyed so much below his that they could not come into tune849 with him.
The defect corresponding to this excess was lack of souplesse, physical and spiritual mobility916. He was unquestionably deficient917, when tried by a severe standard, in bright, alert, expectant, rich freedom of play in nerves and faculties. His disposition was comparatively obstinate918 in its pertinacity919, and his body adhesive920 in its heaviness. This gave him the ponderous weight of unity, the antique port of the gods, but it robbed him in a degree of that supreme grace which is the ability to compass the largest effects of impression with the smallest expenditure921 of energy. It cannot be denied that he needed exactly what Garrick had in such perfection, namely, that detached personality, that quicksilver liberty and rapidity of motion, which made the great Eng
[Pg 261]
lish actor such a memorable922 paragon923 of variety and charm. Yet, when these abatements are all allowed, enough remains amply to justify his large historic claim in the honest massiveness and glow of his delineations, set off alike by the imposing physique fit to take the club and pose for a Farnesian Hercules, by a studious and manly art unmarred with any insincere trickery, and by a powerful mellow voice of vast compass and flexible intonation, whose declamation, modelled on nature, and without theatrical affectation, ever did full justice to noble thoughts and beautiful words.
Cibber said, in allusion924 to Betterton, "Pity it is that the momentary925 beauties from an harmonious elocution cannot be their own record, that the animated926 graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best but faintly glimmer927 through the memory or imperfect attestation928 of a few surviving spectators." Could the author of this biography paint in their true forms and colors and with full completeness the once vivid and vigorous achievements of the buried master, had he with sufficient knowledge and memory command of some notation929 whereby he could record every light and shade of each great rôle so that they might be revived from the dead symbols in all the lustre930 of their original reality, even as a musician translates from the dormant score into living music an overture of Mozart or a symphony of Beethoven, then were there a deathless Forrest breathing in these pages who should stir the souls of generations of readers to rise and mutiny against the depreciating931 estimates of his forgotten foes and the encroachments of literary oblivion. But, alas932! to such a task the pen that essays the tribute is unequal, and the writer must be content with the pale presentments he can but imperfectly produce, sighing to think how true is the refrain of regret taken up in every age by those who have mourned a departed actor, and never better worded, perhaps, than in the famous lines by Garrick:
"The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye;
While taste survives, his fame can never die.
But he who struts933 his hour upon the stage
Can scarce extend his fame for half an age.
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save,—
The art and artist share one common grave."
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1 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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2 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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3 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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4 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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5 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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6 dependence | |
n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
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7 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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8 repudiated | |
v.(正式地)否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 );拒绝接受;拒绝与…往来;拒不履行(法律义务) | |
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9 imp | |
n.顽童 | |
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10 renown | |
n.声誉,名望 | |
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11 leavening | |
n.酵母,发酵,发酵物v.使(面团)发酵( leaven的现在分词 );在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
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12 indigenous | |
adj.土产的,土生土长的,本地的 | |
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13 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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14 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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15 brilliance | |
n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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16 herald | |
vt.预示...的来临,预告,宣布,欢迎 | |
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17 heralded | |
v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 );宣布(好或重要) | |
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18 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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19 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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20 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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21 subservience | |
n.有利,有益;从属(地位),附属性;屈从,恭顺;媚态 | |
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22 loyalty | |
n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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23 deduction | |
n.减除,扣除,减除额;推论,推理,演绎 | |
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24 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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25 kindling | |
n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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26 distinctively | |
adv.特殊地,区别地 | |
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27 distinctive | |
adj.特别的,有特色的,与众不同的 | |
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28 calamitous | |
adj.灾难的,悲惨的;多灾多难;惨重 | |
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29 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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30 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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31 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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32 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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33 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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34 epithet | |
n.(用于褒贬人物等的)表述形容词,修饰语 | |
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35 democrat | |
n.民主主义者,民主人士;民主党党员 | |
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36 tempt | |
vt.引诱,勾引,吸引,引起…的兴趣 | |
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37 titular | |
adj.名义上的,有名无实的;n.只有名义(或头衔)的人 | |
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38 extrinsic | |
adj.外部的;不紧要的 | |
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39 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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40 pretences | |
n.假装( pretence的名词复数 );作假;自命;自称 | |
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41 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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42 skeptical | |
adj.怀疑的,多疑的 | |
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43 sneering | |
嘲笑的,轻蔑的 | |
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44 sneer | |
v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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45 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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46 volition | |
n.意志;决意 | |
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47 preponderated | |
v.超过,胜过( preponderate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48 antipathies | |
反感( antipathy的名词复数 ); 引起反感的事物; 憎恶的对象; (在本性、倾向等方面的)不相容 | |
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49 badinage | |
n.开玩笑,打趣 | |
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50 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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51 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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52 reverence | |
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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53 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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54 labored | |
adj.吃力的,谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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55 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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56 recital | |
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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57 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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58 patriot | |
n.爱国者,爱国主义者 | |
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59 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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60 urn | |
n.(有座脚的)瓮;坟墓;骨灰瓮 | |
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61 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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62 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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63 vapid | |
adj.无味的;无生气的 | |
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64 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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65 aspirants | |
n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的,有抱负的,追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 );有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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66 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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67 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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68 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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69 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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70 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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71 throb | |
v.震颤,颤动;(急速强烈地)跳动,搏动 | |
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72 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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73 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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74 harp | |
n.竖琴;天琴座 | |
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75 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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76 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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77 wed | |
v.娶,嫁,与…结婚 | |
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78 overflowing | |
n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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79 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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81 illustrates | |
给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 ); 说明; 表明; (用示例、图画等)说明 | |
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82 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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83 sarcasm | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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84 sarcasms | |
n.讥讽,讽刺,挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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85 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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86 avenger | |
n. 复仇者 | |
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87 avenge | |
v.为...复仇,为...报仇 | |
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88 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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89 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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90 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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91 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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92 poised | |
a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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93 poise | |
vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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94 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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95 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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96 modulated | |
已调整[制]的,被调的 | |
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97 penetrates | |
v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 );刺入;了解;渗透 | |
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98 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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99 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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100 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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101 discriminated | |
分别,辨别,区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 ); 歧视,有差别地对待 | |
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102 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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103 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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104 portraiture | |
n.肖像画法 | |
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105 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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106 lone | |
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的 | |
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107 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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108 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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109 portrays | |
v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 );描述;描绘;描画 | |
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110 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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111 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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112 systematic | |
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
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113 permeates | |
弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 ); 遍布; 渗入; 渗透 | |
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114 consistency | |
n.一贯性,前后一致,稳定性;(液体的)浓度 | |
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115 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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116 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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117 abounds | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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119 refinements | |
n.(生活)风雅;精炼( refinement的名词复数 );改良品;细微的改良;优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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120 predecessors | |
n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 );前辈;(被取代的)原有事物;前身 | |
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121 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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122 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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123 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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124 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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125 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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126 demonstrations | |
证明( demonstration的名词复数 ); 表明; 表达; 游行示威 | |
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127 unprecedented | |
adj.无前例的,新奇的 | |
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128 intervention | |
n.介入,干涉,干预 | |
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129 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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130 mimic | |
v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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131 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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132 oversight | |
n.勘漏,失察,疏忽 | |
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133 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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134 laborious | |
adj.吃力的,努力的,不流畅 | |
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135 lamed | |
希伯莱语第十二个字母 | |
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136 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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137 friction | |
n.摩擦,摩擦力 | |
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138 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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139 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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140 synonym | |
n.同义词,换喻词 | |
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141 crudity | |
n.粗糙,生硬;adj.粗略的 | |
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142 artifices | |
n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 );诡计;巧妙办法;虚伪行为 | |
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143 harmonious | |
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
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144 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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145 congruity | |
n.全等,一致 | |
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146 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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147 incompatible | |
adj.不相容的,不协调的,不相配的 | |
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148 tributary | |
n.支流;纳贡国;adj.附庸的;辅助的;支流的 | |
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149 stagnate | |
v.停止 | |
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150 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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151 electrify | |
v.使充电;使电气化;使触电;使震惊;使兴奋 | |
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152 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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153 curdle | |
v.使凝结,变稠 | |
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154 marrow | |
n.骨髓;精华;活力 | |
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155 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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156 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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157 lash | |
v.系牢;鞭打;猛烈抨击;n.鞭打;眼睫毛 | |
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158 crouch | |
v.蹲伏,蜷缩,低头弯腰;n.蹲伏 | |
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159 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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160 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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161 swooping | |
俯冲,猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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162 prance | |
v.(马)腾跃,(人)神气活现地走 | |
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163 incarnate | |
adj.化身的,人体化的,肉色的 | |
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164 banished | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165 paraphrase | |
vt.将…释义,改写;n.释义,意义 | |
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166 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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167 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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168 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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169 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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170 bombastic | |
adj.夸夸其谈的,言过其实的 | |
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171 ethical | |
adj.伦理的,道德的,合乎道德的 | |
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172 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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173 inflated | |
adj.(价格)飞涨的;(通货)膨胀的;言过其实的;充了气的v.使充气(于轮胎、气球等)( inflate的过去式和过去分词 );(使)膨胀;(使)通货膨胀;物价上涨 | |
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174 censors | |
删剪(书籍、电影等中被认为犯忌、违反道德或政治上危险的内容)( censor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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175 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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176 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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177 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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178 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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179 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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180 depict | |
vt.描画,描绘;描写,描述 | |
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181 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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182 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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183 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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184 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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185 curbed | |
v.限制,克制,抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186 nil | |
n.无,全无,零 | |
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187 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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188 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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189 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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190 tyrants | |
专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 ); 暴君似的人; (古希腊的)僭主; 严酷的事物 | |
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191 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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192 assailing | |
v.攻击( assail的现在分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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193 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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194 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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195 slaughtering | |
v.屠杀,杀戮,屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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196 slaughter | |
n.屠杀,屠宰;vt.屠杀,宰杀 | |
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197 alienated | |
adj.感到孤独的,不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 );使不友好;转让;让渡(财产等) | |
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198 barbarian | |
n.野蛮人;adj.野蛮(人)的;未开化的 | |
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199 barbarians | |
n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 );外国人;粗野的人;无教养的人 | |
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200 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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201 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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202 atrocities | |
n.邪恶,暴行( atrocity的名词复数 );滔天大罪 | |
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203 kinsman | |
n.男亲属 | |
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204 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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205 betrothed | |
n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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206 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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207 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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208 martial | |
adj.战争的,军事的,尚武的,威武的 | |
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209 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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210 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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211 mantling | |
覆巾 | |
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212 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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213 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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214 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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215 bliss | |
n.狂喜,福佑,天赐的福 | |
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216 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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217 imprinted | |
v.盖印(imprint的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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218 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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219 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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220 portrayal | |
n.饰演;描画 | |
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221 pigment | |
n.天然色素,干粉颜料 | |
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222 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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223 warriors | |
武士,勇士,战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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224 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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225 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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226 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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227 declamation | |
n. 雄辩,高调 | |
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228 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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229 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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230 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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231 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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232 innovator | |
n.改革者;创新者 | |
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233 inveterate | |
adj.积习已深的,根深蒂固的 | |
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234 mannerism | |
n.特殊习惯,怪癖 | |
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235 embodied | |
v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 );象征;包括;包含 | |
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236 torpid | |
adj.麻痹的,麻木的,迟钝的 | |
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237 cadence | |
n.(说话声调的)抑扬顿挫 | |
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238 cadences | |
n.(声音的)抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 );节奏;韵律;调子 | |
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239 abruptness | |
n. 突然,唐突 | |
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240 conversational | |
adj.对话的,会话的 | |
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241 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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242 excellences | |
n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 );(只用于所修饰的名词后)杰出的;卓越的;出类拔萃的 | |
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243 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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244 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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245 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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246 mortified | |
v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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247 bribe | |
n.贿赂;v.向…行贿,买通 | |
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248 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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249 controversy | |
n.争论,辩论,争吵 | |
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250 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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251 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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252 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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253 slaying | |
杀戮。 | |
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254 slay | |
v.杀死,宰杀,杀戮 | |
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255 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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256 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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257 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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258 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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259 culmination | |
n.顶点;最高潮 | |
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260 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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261 prostrates | |
v.使俯伏,使拜倒( prostrate的第三人称单数 );(指疾病、天气等)使某人无能为力 | |
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262 wilt | |
v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎;(指人)疲倦,衰弱 | |
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263 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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264 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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265 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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266 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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267 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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268 clarion | |
n.尖音小号声;尖音小号 | |
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269 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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270 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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271 attested | |
adj.经检验证明无病的,经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 );证实;声称…属实;使宣誓 | |
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272 throng | |
n.人群,群众;v.拥挤,群集 | |
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273 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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274 patriotic | |
adj.爱国的,有爱国心的 | |
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275 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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276 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
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277 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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278 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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279 analyzing | |
v.分析;分析( analyze的现在分词 );分解;解释;对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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280 saturated | |
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
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281 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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282 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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283 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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284 sloppy | |
adj.邋遢的,不整洁的 | |
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285 vascular | |
adj.血管的,脉管的 | |
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286 tunic | |
n.束腰外衣 | |
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287 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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288 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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289 sinewy | |
adj.多腱的,强壮有力的 | |
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290 archer | |
n.射手,弓箭手 | |
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291 legendary | |
adj.传奇(中)的,闻名遐迩的;n.传奇(文学) | |
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292 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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293 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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294 merge | |
v.(使)结合,(使)合并,(使)合为一体 | |
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295 quarry | |
n.采石场;v.采石;费力地找 | |
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296 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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297 gall | |
v.使烦恼,使焦躁,难堪;n.磨难 | |
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298 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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299 vocal | |
adj.直言不讳的;嗓音的;n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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300 gorge | |
n.咽喉,胃,暴食,山峡;v.塞饱,狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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301 jutting | |
v.(使)突出( jut的现在分词 );伸出;(从…)突出;高出 | |
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302 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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303 cant | |
n.斜穿,黑话,猛扔 | |
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304 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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305 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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306 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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307 thraldom | |
n.奴隶的身份,奴役,束缚 | |
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308 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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309 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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310 buoyed | |
v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 );支持;为…设浮标;振奋…的精神 | |
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311 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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312 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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313 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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314 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
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315 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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316 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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317 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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318 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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319 profaned | |
v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 );亵渎,玷污 | |
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320 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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321 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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322 specimens | |
n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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323 enact | |
vt.制定(法律);上演,扮演 | |
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324 trenchant | |
adj.尖刻的,清晰的 | |
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325 sarcastic | |
adj.讥讽的,讽刺的,嘲弄的 | |
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326 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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327 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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328 loathsome | |
adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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329 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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330 inciting | |
刺激的,煽动的 | |
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331 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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332 onlooking | |
n.目击,旁观adj.旁观的 | |
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333 smiter | |
打击者 | |
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334 inflict | |
vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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335 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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336 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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337 cowering | |
v.畏缩,抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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338 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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339 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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340 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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341 usurper | |
n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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342 vouchers | |
n.凭证( voucher的名词复数 );证人;证件;收据 | |
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343 swerving | |
v.(使)改变方向,改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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344 abetting | |
v.教唆(犯罪)( abet的现在分词 );煽动;怂恿;支持 | |
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345 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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346 desecrated | |
毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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347 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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348 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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349 comeliness | |
n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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350 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
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351 rife | |
adj.(指坏事情)充斥的,流行的,普遍的 | |
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352 tarnish | |
n.晦暗,污点;vt.使失去光泽;玷污 | |
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353 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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354 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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355 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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356 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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357 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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358 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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359 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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360 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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361 mightily | |
ad.强烈地;非常地 | |
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362 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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363 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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364 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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365 demeanor | |
n.行为;风度 | |
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366 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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367 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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368 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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369 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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370 braced | |
adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 );撑牢;使自己站稳;振作起来 | |
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371 slays | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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372 dilating | |
v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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373 prostrated | |
v.使俯伏,使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 );(指疾病、天气等)使某人无能为力 | |
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374 sheathed | |
adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的;覆盖的;铠装的;装鞘了的v.将(刀、剑等)插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 );包,覆盖 | |
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375 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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376 diffusion | |
n.流布;普及;散漫 | |
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377 penetrating | |
adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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378 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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379 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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380 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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381 concealment | |
n.隐藏, 掩盖,隐瞒 | |
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382 rivalry | |
n.竞争,竞赛,对抗 | |
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383 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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384 gore | |
n.凝血,血污;v.(动物)用角撞伤,用牙刺破;缝以补裆;顶 | |
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385 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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386 disciple | |
n.信徒,门徒,追随者 | |
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387 forerunner | |
n.前身,先驱(者),预兆,祖先 | |
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388 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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389 overthrow | |
v.推翻,打倒,颠覆;n.推翻,瓦解,颠覆 | |
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390 fanatic | |
n.狂热者,入迷者;adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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391 embedded | |
a.扎牢的 | |
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392 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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393 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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394 reposing | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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395 spouting | |
n.水落管系统v.(指液体)喷出( spout的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地讲;喋喋不休地说;喷水 | |
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396 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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397 slur | |
v.含糊地说;诋毁;连唱;n.诋毁;含糊的发音 | |
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398 zealous | |
adj.狂热的,热心的 | |
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399 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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400 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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401 venal | |
adj.唯利是图的,贪脏枉法的 | |
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402 thronging | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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403 citadel | |
n.城堡;堡垒;避难所 | |
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404 brandishing | |
v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 );炫耀 | |
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405 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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406 degenerate | |
v.退步,堕落;adj.退步的,堕落的;n.堕落者 | |
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407 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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408 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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409 barter | |
n.物物交换,以货易货,实物交易 | |
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410 devouring | |
吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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411 obstreperous | |
adj.喧闹的,不守秩序的 | |
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412 traitors | |
卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 ); 叛徒; 背叛者; 背信弃义的人 | |
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413 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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414 knaves | |
n.恶棍,无赖( knave的名词复数 );(纸牌中的)杰克 | |
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415 momentum | |
n.动力,冲力,势头;动量 | |
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416 magnetism | |
n.磁性,吸引力,磁学 | |
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417 pedant | |
n.迂儒;卖弄学问的人 | |
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418 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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419 precept | |
n.戒律;格言 | |
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420 hew | |
v.砍;伐;削 | |
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421 upbraid | |
v.斥责,责骂,责备 | |
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422 halved | |
v.把…分成两半( halve的过去式和过去分词 );把…减半;对分;平摊 | |
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423 altercation | |
n.争吵,争论 | |
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424 appeased | |
安抚,抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 ); 绥靖(满足另一国的要求以避免战争) | |
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425 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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426 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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427 colloquial | |
adj.口语的,会话的 | |
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428 banter | |
n.嘲弄,戏谑;v.取笑,逗弄,开玩笑 | |
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429 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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430 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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431 recreant | |
n.懦夫;adj.胆怯的 | |
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432 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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433 conspirators | |
n.共谋者,阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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434 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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435 wielded | |
手持着使用(武器、工具等)( wield的过去式和过去分词 ); 具有; 运用(权力); 施加(影响) | |
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436 invective | |
n.痛骂,恶意抨击 | |
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437 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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438 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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439 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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440 contentious | |
adj.好辩的,善争吵的 | |
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441 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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442 braggart | |
n.吹牛者;adj.吹牛的,自夸的 | |
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443 interdicted | |
v.禁止(行动)( interdict的过去式和过去分词 );禁用;限制 | |
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444 invoked | |
v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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445 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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446 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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447 patriots | |
爱国者,爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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448 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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449 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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450 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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451 retrospect | |
n.回顾,追溯;v.回顾,回想,追溯 | |
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452 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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453 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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454 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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455 pellucid | |
adj.透明的,简单的 | |
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456 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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457 fickle | |
adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的,不坚定的 | |
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458 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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459 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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460 clamorous | |
adj.吵闹的,喧哗的 | |
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461 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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462 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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463 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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464 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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465 dungeon | |
n.地牢,土牢 | |
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466 beholder | |
n.观看者,旁观者 | |
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467 lament | |
n.悲叹,悔恨,恸哭;v.哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 | |
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468 lamentation | |
n.悲叹,哀悼 | |
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469 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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470 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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471 prattle | |
n.闲谈;v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话;发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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472 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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473 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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474 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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475 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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476 agonized | |
v.使(极度)痛苦,折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 );苦斗;苦苦思索;感到极度痛苦 | |
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477 truthfulness | |
n. 符合实际 | |
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478 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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479 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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480 slew | |
v.(使)旋转;n.大量,许多 | |
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481 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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482 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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483 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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484 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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485 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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486 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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487 tornado | |
n.飓风,龙卷风 | |
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488 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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489 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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490 plunges | |
n.跳进,投入vt.使投入,使插入,使陷入vi.投入,跳进,陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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491 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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492 hoists | |
把…吊起,升起( hoist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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493 enraged | |
使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 ); 歜; 激愤 | |
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494 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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495 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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496 humbled | |
adj. 卑下的,谦逊的,粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下,贬低 | |
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497 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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498 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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499 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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500 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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501 exertions | |
n.努力( exertion的名词复数 );费力;(能力、权力等的)运用;行使 | |
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502 erecting | |
v.使直立,竖起( erect的现在分词 );建立 | |
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503 caverns | |
大山洞,大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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504 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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505 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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506 receding | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 );向后倾斜;自原处后退或避开别人的注视;尤指问题 | |
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507 scattering | |
n.[物]散射;散乱,分散;在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的;分散在不同范围的;广泛扩散的;(选票)数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式);散布;驱散 | |
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508 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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509 appall | |
vt.使惊骇,使大吃一惊 | |
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510 enveloped | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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511 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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512 idols | |
偶像( idol的名词复数 ); 受崇拜的人或物; 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物; 神像 | |
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513 tempestuous | |
adj.狂暴的 | |
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514 civic | |
adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
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515 judicial | |
adj.司法的,法庭的,审判的,明断的,公正的 | |
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516 ivy | |
n.常青藤,常春藤 | |
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517 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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518 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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519 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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520 laurels | |
n.桂冠,荣誉 | |
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521 remorse | |
n.痛恨,悔恨,自责 | |
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522 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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523 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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524 abiding | |
adj.永久的,持久的,不变的 | |
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525 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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526 semblance | |
n.外貌,外表 | |
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527 depicting | |
描绘,描画( depict的现在分词 ); 描述 | |
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528 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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529 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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530 idiocy | |
n.愚蠢 | |
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531 patrician | |
adj.贵族的,显贵的;n.贵族;有教养的人;罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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532 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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533 intonation | |
n.语调,声调;发声 | |
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534 ruffles | |
褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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535 gibes | |
vi.嘲笑,嘲弄(gibe的第三人称单数形式) | |
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536 flouts | |
v.藐视,轻视( flout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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537 dastard | |
n.卑怯之人,懦夫;adj.怯懦的,畏缩的 | |
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538 sycophants | |
n.谄媚者,拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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539 reptiles | |
n.爬行动物,爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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540 bellies | |
n.肚子( belly的名词复数 );腹部;(物体的)圆形或凸起部份;腹部…形的 | |
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541 electrified | |
v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 );使兴奋 | |
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542 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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543 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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544 groaning | |
adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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545 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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546 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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547 parricidal | |
adj.杀父母的,杀长上者 | |
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548 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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549 ominously | |
adv.恶兆地,不吉利地;预示地 | |
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|
550 veered | |
v.(尤指交通工具)改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 );(指谈话内容、人的行为或观点)突然改变;(指风) (在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向)逐渐转向;风向顺时针转 | |
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551 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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552 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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553 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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554 portent | |
n.预兆;恶兆;怪事 | |
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555 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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556 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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557 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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558 ransom | |
n.赎金,赎身;v.赎回,解救 | |
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559 expound | |
v.详述;解释;阐述 | |
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560 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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561 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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562 sycophantic | |
adj.阿谀奉承的 | |
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563 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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564 scouring | |
擦[洗]净,冲刷,洗涤 | |
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565 enthrall | |
vt.迷住,吸引住;使感到非常愉快 | |
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566 equestrian | |
adj.骑马的;n.马术 | |
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567 revolving | |
adj.旋转的,轮转式的;循环的v.(使)旋转( revolve的现在分词 );细想 | |
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568 overthrowing | |
v.打倒,推翻( overthrow的现在分词 );使终止 | |
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569 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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570 forsakes | |
放弃( forsake的第三人称单数 ); 弃绝; 抛弃; 摒弃 | |
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571 trophies | |
n.(为竞赛获胜者颁发的)奖品( trophy的名词复数 );奖杯;(尤指狩猎或战争中获得的)纪念品;(用于比赛或赛跑名称)奖 | |
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572 shafts | |
n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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573 ruminate | |
v.反刍;沉思 | |
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574 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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575 tableau | |
n.画面,活人画(舞台上活人扮的静态画面) | |
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576 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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577 smother | |
vt./vi.使窒息;抑制;闷死;n.浓烟;窒息 | |
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578 rumble | |
n.隆隆声;吵嚷;v.隆隆响;低沉地说 | |
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579 garrulity | |
n.饶舌,多嘴 | |
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580 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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581 auditor | |
n.审计员,旁听着 | |
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582 vein | |
n.血管,静脉;叶脉,纹理;情绪;vt.使成脉络 | |
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583 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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584 maniacal | |
adj.发疯的 | |
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585 vipers | |
n.蝰蛇( viper的名词复数 );毒蛇;阴险恶毒的人;奸诈者 | |
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586 gnaw | |
v.不断地啃、咬;使苦恼,折磨 | |
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587 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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588 shrieked | |
v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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589 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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590 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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591 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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592 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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593 orator | |
n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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594 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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595 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
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596 paternal | |
adj.父亲的,像父亲的,父系的,父方的 | |
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597 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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598 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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599 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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600 avenging | |
adj.报仇的,复仇的v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 );为…报复 | |
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601 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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602 mien | |
n.风采;态度 | |
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603 funereal | |
adj.悲哀的;送葬的 | |
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604 gild | |
vt.给…镀金,把…漆成金色,使呈金色 | |
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605 eulogy | |
n.颂词;颂扬 | |
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606 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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607 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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608 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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609 abashed | |
adj.窘迫的,尴尬的v.使羞愧,使局促,使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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610 libertine | |
n.淫荡者;adj.放荡的,自由思想的 | |
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611 crutch | |
n.T字形拐杖;支持,依靠,精神支柱 | |
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612 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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613 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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614 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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615 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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616 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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617 conflagration | |
n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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618 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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619 vindicated | |
v.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护 | |
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620 martyr | |
n.烈士,殉难者;vt.杀害,折磨,牺牲 | |
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621 liberator | |
解放者 | |
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622 defective | |
adj.有毛病的,有问题的,有瑕疵的 | |
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623 amends | |
n. 赔偿 | |
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624 fervor | |
n.热诚;热心;炽热 | |
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625 exalt | |
v.赞扬,歌颂,晋升,提升 | |
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626 consul | |
n.领事;执政官 | |
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627 seizure | |
n.没收;占有;抵押 | |
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628 insurgent | |
adj.叛乱的,起事的;n.叛乱分子 | |
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629 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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630 dignify | |
vt.使有尊严;使崇高;给增光 | |
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631 clemency | |
n.温和,仁慈,宽厚 | |
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632 lodge | |
v.临时住宿,寄宿,寄存,容纳;n.传达室,小旅馆 | |
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633 consular | |
a.领事的 | |
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634 conspire | |
v.密谋,(事件等)巧合,共同导致 | |
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635 villains | |
n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 );罪犯;(小说、戏剧等中的)反面人物;淘气鬼 | |
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636 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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637 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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638 falters | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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639 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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640 betoken | |
v.预示 | |
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641 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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642 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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643 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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644 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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645 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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646 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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647 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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648 crabbed | |
adj.脾气坏的;易怒的;(指字迹)难辨认的;(字迹等)难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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649 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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650 connoisseur | |
n.鉴赏家,行家,内行 | |
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651 resonant | |
adj.(声音)洪亮的,共鸣的 | |
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652 percussive | |
adj.敲击的 | |
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653 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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654 articulation | |
n.(清楚的)发音;清晰度,咬合 | |
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655 displeased | |
a.不快的 | |
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656 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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657 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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658 truant | |
n.懒惰鬼,旷课者;adj.偷懒的,旷课的,游荡的;v.偷懒,旷课 | |
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659 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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660 scrutinizing | |
v.仔细检查,详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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661 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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662 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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663 reverberation | |
反响; 回响; 反射; 反射物 | |
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664 guardianship | |
n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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665 lustful | |
a.贪婪的;渴望的 | |
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666 inflames | |
v.(使)变红,发怒,过热( inflame的第三人称单数 ) | |
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667 minions | |
n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 );走狗;宠儿;受人崇拜者 | |
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668 atrocity | |
n.残暴,暴行 | |
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669 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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670 prevaricates | |
v.支吾( prevaricate的第三人称单数 );搪塞;说谎 | |
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671 narration | |
n.讲述,叙述;故事;记叙体 | |
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672 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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673 blistering | |
adj.酷热的;猛烈的;使起疱的;可恶的v.起水疱;起气泡;使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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674 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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675 panders | |
v.迎合(他人的低级趣味或淫欲)( pander的第三人称单数 );纵容某人;迁就某事物 | |
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676 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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677 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
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678 forum | |
n.论坛,讨论会 | |
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679 defendant | |
n.被告;adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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680 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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681 valiant | |
adj.勇敢的,英勇的;n.勇士,勇敢的人 | |
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682 perjured | |
adj.伪证的,犯伪证罪的v.发假誓,作伪证( perjure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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683 shun | |
vt.避开,回避,避免 | |
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684 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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685 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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686 profanation | |
n.亵渎 | |
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687 immolation | |
n.牺牲品 | |
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688 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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689 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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690 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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691 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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692 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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693 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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694 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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695 inverted | |
adj.反向的,倒转的v.使倒置,使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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696 apathetic | |
adj.冷漠的,无动于衷的 | |
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697 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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698 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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699 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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700 darts | |
n.掷飞镖游戏;飞镖( dart的名词复数 );急驰,飞奔v.投掷,投射( dart的第三人称单数 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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701 expiate | |
v.抵补,赎罪 | |
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702 requite | |
v.报酬,报答 | |
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703 shudders | |
n.颤动,打颤,战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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704 enactor | |
制定法律的 | |
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705 continental | |
adj.大陆的,大陆性的,欧洲大陆的 | |
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706 celebrity | |
n.名人,名流;著名,名声,名望 | |
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707 idiomatic | |
adj.成语的,符合语言习惯的 | |
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708 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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709 conceitedly | |
自满地 | |
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710 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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711 disinterestedness | |
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712 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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713 lamented | |
adj.被哀悼的,令人遗憾的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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714 disappearance | |
n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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715 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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716 divested | |
v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 );脱去(衣服);2。从…取去…;1。(给某人)脱衣服 | |
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717 adventurous | |
adj.爱冒险的;惊心动魄的,惊险的,刺激的 | |
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718 metaphors | |
隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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719 sublimity | |
崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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720 refreshing | |
adj.使精神振作的,使人清爽的,使人喜欢的 | |
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721 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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722 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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723 reverberating | |
回响,回荡( reverberate的现在分词 ); 使反响,使回荡,使反射 | |
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724 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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725 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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726 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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727 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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728 harangue | |
n.慷慨冗长的训话,言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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729 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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730 relentless | |
adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
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|
731 votary | |
n.崇拜者;爱好者;adj.誓约的,立誓任圣职的 | |
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|
732 mound | |
n.土墩,堤,小山;v.筑堤,用土堆防卫 | |
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|
733 ambush | |
n.埋伏(地点);伏兵;v.埋伏;伏击 | |
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|
734 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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735 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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|
736 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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|
737 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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|
|
738 infusion | |
n.灌输 | |
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|
739 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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|
740 abdomen | |
n.腹,下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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|
741 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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|
742 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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|
743 counterfeit | |
vt.伪造,仿造;adj.伪造的,假冒的 | |
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|
744 delegations | |
n.代表团( delegation的名词复数 );委托,委派 | |
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|
745 delegation | |
n.代表团;派遣 | |
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|
746 dirge | |
n.哀乐,挽歌,庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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|
747 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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|
748 petrified | |
adj.惊呆的;目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆,使惊呆;变僵硬;使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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|
749 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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|
750 mammoth | |
n.长毛象;adj.长毛象似的,巨大的 | |
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|
751 ledges | |
n.(墙壁,悬崖等)突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 );(平窄的)壁架;横档;(尤指)窗台 | |
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|
752 aboriginal | |
adj.(指动植物)土生的,原产地的,土著的 | |
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|
753 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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|
754 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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|
755 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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|
756 augmenting | |
使扩张 | |
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|
757 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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|
758 fugitive | |
adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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|
759 forefathers | |
n.祖先,先人;祖先,祖宗( forefather的名词复数 );列祖列宗;前人 | |
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|
760 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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|
761 intruding | |
v.侵入,侵扰,打扰( intrude的现在分词);把…强加于 | |
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|
762 tenement | |
n.公寓;房屋 | |
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|
763 hatchet | |
n.短柄小斧;v.扼杀 | |
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|
764 swarm | |
n.(昆虫)等一大群;vi.成群飞舞;蜂拥而入 | |
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|
765 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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766 wither | |
vt.使凋谢,使衰退,(用眼神气势等)使畏缩;vi.枯萎,衰退,消亡 | |
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767 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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768 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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|
769 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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770 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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|
771 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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772 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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773 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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|
774 rustles | |
n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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775 elk | |
n.麋鹿 | |
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|
776 hatchets | |
n.短柄小斧( hatchet的名词复数 );恶毒攻击;诽谤;休战 | |
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|
777 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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|
778 peremptory | |
adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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|
779 spartan | |
adj.简朴的,刻苦的;n.斯巴达;斯巴达式的人 | |
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|
780 curtness | |
n.简短;草率;简略 | |
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|
781 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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|
782 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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783 hostilities | |
n.战争;敌意(hostility的复数);敌对状态;战事 | |
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|
784 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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|
785 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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|
786 slain | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的过去分词 ); (slay的过去分词) | |
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|
787 hovering | |
鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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|
788 slumbers | |
睡眠,安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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|
789 extemporized | |
v.即兴创作,即席演奏( extemporize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
790 hurls | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 );大声叫骂 | |
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|
791 dormant | |
adj.暂停活动的;休眠的;潜伏的 | |
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|
792 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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|
793 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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|
794 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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|
795 lurid | |
adj.可怕的;血红的;苍白的 | |
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|
796 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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797 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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798 weird | |
adj.古怪的,离奇的;怪诞的,神秘而可怕的 | |
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|
799 vapor | |
n.蒸汽,雾气 | |
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|
800 beckons | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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|
801 beckon | |
v.(以点头或打手势)向...示意,召唤 | |
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|
802 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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|
803 haughtiest | |
haughty(傲慢的,骄傲的)的最高级形式 | |
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|
804 lashed | |
adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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|
805 dwellings | |
n.住处,处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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|
806 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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|
807 dweller | |
n.居住者,住客 | |
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|
808 malediction | |
n.诅咒 | |
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|
809 satirized | |
v.讽刺,讥讽( satirize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
810 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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|
|
811 recollecting | |
v.记起,想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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812 brawny | |
adj.强壮的 | |
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|
813 stentorian | |
adj.大声的,响亮的 | |
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|
814 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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|
|
815 ridiculed | |
v.嘲笑,嘲弄,奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
|
816 coterie | |
n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体,小圈子 | |
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|
817 deviation | |
n.背离,偏离;偏差,偏向;离题 | |
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|
818 violation | |
n.违反(行为),违背(行为),侵犯 | |
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|
|
819 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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|
820 glorifying | |
赞美( glorify的现在分词 ); 颂扬; 美化; 使光荣 | |
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|
821 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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|
822 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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|
823 ascetic | |
adj.禁欲的;严肃的 | |
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|
824 superstitions | |
迷信,迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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|
825 celibate | |
adj.独身的,独身主义的;n.独身者 | |
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|
|
826 discord | |
n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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|
827 inversions | |
倒置( inversion的名词复数 ); (尤指词序)倒装; 转化; (染色体的)倒位 | |
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|
828 prolific | |
adj.丰富的,大量的;多产的,富有创造力的 | |
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|
|
829 votaries | |
n.信徒( votary的名词复数 );追随者;(天主教)修士;修女 | |
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|
|
830 dawdling | |
adj.闲逛的,懒散的v.混(时间)( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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|
|
831 hygiene | |
n.健康法,卫生学 (a.hygienic) | |
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|
|
832 acumen | |
n.敏锐,聪明 | |
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|
833 morbidity | |
n.病态;不健全;发病;发病率 | |
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|
834 brutality | |
n.野蛮的行为,残忍,野蛮 | |
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|
835 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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|
836 asceticism | |
n.禁欲主义 | |
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837 stimulating | |
adj.有启发性的,能激发人思考的 | |
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|
838 stigmatized | |
v.使受耻辱,指责,污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
839 unified | |
(unify 的过去式和过去分词); 统一的; 统一标准的; 一元化的 | |
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|
840 potency | |
n. 效力,潜能 | |
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|
841 lavished | |
v.过分给予,滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
842 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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843 skilful | |
(=skillful)adj.灵巧的,熟练的 | |
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|
|
844 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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|
|
845 insurgents | |
n.起义,暴动,造反( insurgent的名词复数 ) | |
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|
846 goaded | |
v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 );激励;(用尖棒)驱赶;驱使(或怂恿、刺激)某人 | |
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|
|
847 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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|
848 brats | |
n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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|
849 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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|
850 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
851 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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852 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
853 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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|
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854 conqueror | |
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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|
855 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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856 victorious | |
adj.胜利的,得胜的 | |
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|
857 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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|
858 subjugated | |
v.征服,降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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859 myriads | |
n.无数,极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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|
860 fatten | |
v.使肥,变肥 | |
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861 prate | |
v.瞎扯,胡说 | |
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862 arena | |
n.竞技场,运动场所;竞争场所,舞台 | |
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|
863 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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|
|
864 adversary | |
adj.敌手,对手 | |
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|
|
865 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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|
866 renowned | |
adj.著名的,有名望的,声誉鹊起的 | |
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|
|
867 dilatory | |
adj.迟缓的,不慌不忙的 | |
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|
|
868 imbued | |
v.使(某人/某事)充满或激起(感情等)( imbue的过去式和过去分词 );使充满;灌输;激发(强烈感情或品质等) | |
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|
|
869 postures | |
姿势( posture的名词复数 ); 看法; 态度; 立场 | |
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|
870 sculptor | |
n.雕刻家,雕刻家 | |
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|
871 orphan | |
n.孤儿;adj.无父母的 | |
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|
872 disastrously | |
ad.灾难性地 | |
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|
873 confides | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的第三人称单数 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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874 writhed | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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|
|
875 agitations | |
(液体等的)摇动( agitation的名词复数 ); 鼓动; 激烈争论; (情绪等的)纷乱 | |
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|
876 lessening | |
减轻,减少,变小 | |
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|
877 pivot | |
v.在枢轴上转动;装枢轴,枢轴;adj.枢轴的 | |
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|
|
878 retaliation | |
n.报复,反击 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
879 subduing | |
征服( subdue的现在分词 ); 克制; 制服; 色变暗 | |
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|
|
880 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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|
|
881 overture | |
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
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|
882 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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|
|
883 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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|
|
884 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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|
885 lava | |
n.熔岩,火山岩 | |
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|
|
886 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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|
|
887 cinders | |
n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 );炭渣;煤渣路;煤渣跑道 | |
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888 impulsiveness | |
n.冲动 | |
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|
889 exigencies | |
n.急切需要 | |
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|
|
890 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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|
891 stolidity | |
n.迟钝,感觉麻木 | |
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|
892 gamut | |
n.全音阶,(一领域的)全部知识 | |
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893 volitional | |
adj.意志的,凭意志的,有意志的 | |
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894 cerebral | |
adj.脑的,大脑的;有智力的,理智型的 | |
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895 physiological | |
adj.生理学的,生理学上的 | |
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896 gusty | |
adj.起大风的 | |
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897 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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898 excoriation | |
n.严厉的责难;苛责;表皮脱落;抓痕 | |
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899 evoking | |
产生,引起,唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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900 revelled | |
v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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901 hardiness | |
n.耐劳性,强壮;勇气,胆子 | |
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902 ardor | |
n.热情,狂热 | |
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903 innately | |
adv.天赋地;内在地,固有地 | |
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904 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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905 savoring | |
v.意味,带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 );给…加调味品;使有风味;品尝 | |
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906 pruriency | |
n.好色;迷恋;淫欲;(焦躁等的)渴望 | |
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907 destitute | |
adj.缺乏的;穷困的 | |
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908 averse | |
adj.厌恶的;反对的,不乐意的 | |
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909 frivolity | |
n.轻松的乐事,兴高采烈;轻浮的举止 | |
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910 accusation | |
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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911 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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912 wilful | |
adj.任性的,故意的 | |
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913 overdoing | |
v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 );太夸张;把…煮得太久;(工作等)过度 | |
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914 transgress | |
vt.违反,逾越 | |
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915 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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916 mobility | |
n.可动性,变动性,情感不定 | |
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917 deficient | |
adj.不足的,不充份的,有缺陷的 | |
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918 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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919 pertinacity | |
n.执拗,顽固 | |
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920 adhesive | |
n.粘合剂;adj.可粘着的,粘性的 | |
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921 expenditure | |
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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922 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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923 paragon | |
n.模范,典型 | |
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924 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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925 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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926 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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927 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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928 attestation | |
n.证词 | |
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929 notation | |
n.记号法,表示法,注释;[计算机]记法 | |
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930 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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931 depreciating | |
v.贬值,跌价,减价( depreciate的现在分词 );贬低,蔑视,轻视 | |
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932 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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933 struts | |
(框架的)支杆( strut的名词复数 ); 支柱; 趾高气扬的步态; (尤指跳舞或表演时)卖弄 | |
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