The Arabian author, with that quaint1 particularity of touch which our translation usually praetermits, here registers a somewhat interesting detail. Zero pronounced the word ‘boom;’ and the reader, if but for the nonce, will possibly consent to follow him.
I dined by appointment with one of our most trusted agents, in a private chamber2 at St. James’s Hall. You have seen the man: it was M’Guire, the most chivalrous3 of creatures, but not himself expert in our contrivances. Hence the necessity of our meeting; for I need not remind you what enormous issues depend upon the nice adjustment of the engine. I set our little petard for half an hour, the scene of action being hard by; and the better to avert4 miscarriage5, employed a device, a recent invention of my own, by which the opening of the Gladstone bag in which the bomb was carried, should instantly determine the explosion. M’Guire was somewhat dashed by this arrangement, which was new to him: and pointed6 out, with excellent, clear good sense, that should he be arrested, it would probably involve him in the fall of our opponents. But I was not to be moved, made a strong appeal to his patriotism8, gave him a good glass of whisky, and despatched him on his glorious errand.
Our objective was the effigy10 of Shakespeare in Leicester Square: a spot, I think, admirably chosen; not only for the sake of the dramatist, still very foolishly claimed as a glory by the English race, in spite of his disgusting political opinions; but from the fact that the seats in the immediate11 neighbourhood are often thronged12 by children, errand-boys, unfortunate young ladies of the poorer class and infirm old men — all classes making a direct appeal to public pity, and therefore suitable with our designs. As M’Guire drew near his heart was inflamed13 by the most noble sentiment of triumph. Never had he seen the garden so crowded; children, still stumbling in the impotence of youth, ran to and fro, shouting and playing, round the pedestal; an old, sick pensioner14 sat upon the nearest bench, a medal on his breast, a stick with which he walked (for he was disabled by wounds) reclining on his knee. Guilty England would thus be stabbed in the most delicate quarters; the moment had, indeed, been well selected; and M’Guire, with a radiant provision of the event, drew merrily nearer. Suddenly his eye alighted on the burly form of a policeman, standing15 hard by the effigy in an attitude of watch. My bold companion paused; he looked about him closely; here and there, at different points of the enclosure, other men stood or loitered, affecting an abstraction, feigning16 to gaze upon the shrubs17, feigning to talk, feigning to be weary and to rest upon the benches. M’Guire was no child in these affairs; he instantly divined one of the plots of the Machiavellian18 Gladstone.
A chief difficulty with which we have to deal, is a certain nervousness in the subaltern branches of the corps19; as the hour of some design draws near, these chicken-souled conspirators20 appear to suffer some revulsion of intent; and frequently despatch9 to the authorities, not indeed specific denunciations, but vague anonymous21 warnings. But for this purely22 accidental circumstance, England had long ago been an historical expression. On the receipt of such a letter, the Government lay a trap for their adversaries23, and surround the threatened spot with hirelings. My blood sometimes boils in my veins24, when I consider the case of those who sell themselves for money in such a cause. True, thanks to the generosity25 of our supporters, we patriots26 receive a very comfortable stipend27; I myself, of course, touch a salary which puts me quite beyond the reach of any peddling28, mercenary thoughts; M’Guire, again, ere he joined our ranks, was on the brink29 of starving, and now, thank God! receives a decent income. That is as it should be; the patriot7 must not be diverted from his task by any base consideration; and the distinction between our position and that of the police is too obvious to be stated.
Plainly, however, our Leicester Square design had been divulged30; the Government had craftily31 filled the place with minions32; even the pensioner was not improbably a hireling in disguise; and our emissary, without other aid or protection than the simple apparatus33 in his bag, found himself confronted by force; brutal34 force; that strong hand which was a character of the ages of oppression. Should he venture to deposit the machine, it was almost certain that he would be observed and arrested; a cry would arise; and there was just a fear that the police might not be present in sufficient force, to protect him from the savagery35 of the mob. The scheme must be delayed. He stood with his bag on his arm, pretending to survey the front of the Alhambra, when there flashed into his mind a thought to appal36 the bravest. The machine was set; at the appointed hour, it must explode; and how, in the interval37, was he to be rid of it?
Put yourself, I beseech38 you, into the body of that patriot. There he was, friendless and helpless; a man in the very flower of life, for he is not yet forty; with long years of happiness before him; and now condemned39, in one moment, to a cruel and revolting death by dynamite40! The square, he said, went round him like a thaumatrope; he saw the Alhambra leap into the air like a balloon; and reeled against the railing. It is probable he fainted.
When he came to himself, a constable41 had him by the arm.
‘My God!’ he cried.
‘You seem to be unwell, sir,’ said the hireling.
‘I feel better now,’ cried poor M’Guire: and with uneven42 steps, for the pavement of the square seemed to lurch43 and reel under his footing, he fled from the scene of this disaster. Fled? Alas44, from what was he fleeing? Did he not carry that from which he fled along with him? and had he the wings of the eagle, had he the swiftness of the ocean winds, could he have been rapt into the uttermost quarters of the earth, how should he escape the ruin that he carried? We have heard of living men who have been fettered45 to the dead; the grievance46, soberly considered, is no more than sentimental47; the case is but a flea-bite to that of him who should be linked, like poor M’Guire, to an explosive bomb.
A thought struck him in Green Street, like a dart48 through his liver: suppose it were the hour already. He stopped as though he had been shot, and plucked his watch out. There was a howling in his ears, as loud as a winter tempest; his sight was now obscured as if by a cloud, now, as by a lightning flash, would show him the very dust upon the street. But so brief were these intervals49 of vision, and so violently did the watch vibrate in his hands, that it was impossible to distinguish the numbers on the dial. He covered his eyes for a few seconds; and in that space, it seemed to him that he had fallen to be a man of ninety. When he looked again, the watch-plate had grown legible: he had twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, and no plan!
Green Street, at that time, was very empty; and he now observed a little girl of about six drawing near to him, and as she came, kicking in front of her, as children will, a piece of wood. She sang, too; and something in her accent recalling him to the past, produced a sudden clearness in his mind. Here was a God-sent opportunity!
‘My dear,’ said he, ‘would you like a present of a pretty bag?’
The child cried aloud with joy and put out her hands to take it. She had looked first at the bag, like a true child; but most unfortunately, before she had yet received the fatal gift, her eyes fell directly on M’Guire; and no sooner had she seen the poor gentleman’s face, than she screamed out and leaped backward, as though she had seen the devil. Almost at the same moment a woman appeared upon the threshold of a neighbouring shop, and called upon the child in anger. ‘Come here, colleen,’ she said, ‘and don’t be plaguing the poor old gentleman!’ With that she re-entered the house, and the child followed her, sobbing50 aloud.
With the loss of this hope M’Guire’s reason swooned within him. When next he awoke to consciousness, he was standing before St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields, wavering like a drunken man; the passers-by regarding him with eyes in which he read, as in a glass, an image of the terror and horror that dwelt within his own.
‘I am afraid you are very ill, sir,’ observed a woman, stopping and gazing hard in his face. ‘Can I do anything to help you?’
‘Ill?’ said M’Guire. ‘O God!’ And then, recovering some shadow of his self-command, ‘Chronic, madam,’ said he: ‘a long course of the dumb ague. But since you are so compassionate51 — an errand that I lack the strength to carry out,’ he gasped52 —‘this bag to Portman Square. Oh, compassionate woman, as you hope to be saved, as you are a mother, in the name of your babes that wait to welcome you at home, oh, take this bag to Portman Square! I have a mother, too,’ he added, with a broken voice. ‘Number 19, Portman Square.’
I suppose he had expressed himself with too much energy of voice; for the woman was plainly taken with a certain fear of him. ‘Poor gentleman!’ said she. ‘If I were you, I would go home.’ And she left him standing there in his distress53.
‘Home!’ thought M’Guire, ‘what a derision!’ What home was there for him, the victim of philanthropy? He thought of his old mother, of his happy youth; of the hideous54, rending55 pang56 of the explosion; of the possibility that he might not be killed, that he might be cruelly mangled57, crippled for life, condemned to lifelong pains, blinded perhaps, and almost surely deafened58. Ah, you spoke59 lightly of the dynamiter’s peril60; but even waiving61 death, have you realised what it is for a fine, brave young man of forty, to be smitten62 suddenly with deafness, cut off from all the music of life, and from the voice of friendship, and love? How little do we realise the sufferings of others! Even your brutal Government, in the heyday63 of its lust64 for cruelty, though it scruples65 not to hound the patriot with spies, to pack the corrupt66 jury, to bribe67 the hangman, and to erect68 the infamous69 gallows70, would hesitate to inflict71 so horrible a doom72: not, I am well aware, from virtue73, not from philanthropy, but with the fear before it of the withering74 scorn of the good.
But I wander from M’Guire. From this dread75 glance into the past and future, his thoughts returned at a bound upon the present. How had he wandered there? and how long — oh, heavens! how long had he been about it? He pulled out his watch; and found that but three minutes had elapsed. It seemed too bright a thing to be believed. He glanced at the church clock; and sure enough, it marked an hour four minutes faster than the watch.
Of all that he endured, M’Guire declares that pang was the most desolate76. Till then, he had had one friend, one counsellor, in whom he plenarily trusted; by whose advertisement, he numbered the minutes that remained to him of life; on whose sure testimony77, he could tell when the time was come to risk the last adventure, to cast the bag away from him, and take to flight. And now in what was he to place reliance? His watch was slow; it might be losing time; if so, in what degree? What limit could he set to its derangement78? and how much was it possible for a watch to lose in thirty minutes? Five? ten? fifteen? It might be so; already, it seemed years since he had left St. James’s Hall on this so promising79 enterprise; at any moment, then, the blow was to be looked for.
In the face of this new distress, the wild disorder80 of his pulses settled down; and a broken weariness succeeded, as though he had lived for centuries and for centuries been dead. The buildings and the people in the street became incredibly small, and far-away, and bright; London sounded in his ears stilly, like a whisper; and the rattle81 of the cab that nearly charged him down, was like a sound from Africa. Meanwhile, he was conscious of a strange abstraction from himself; and heard and felt his footfalls on the ground, as those of a very old, small, debile and tragically82 fortuned man, whom he sincerely pitied.
As he was thus moving forward past the National Gallery, in a medium, it seemed, of greater rarity and quiet than ordinary air, there slipped into his mind the recollection of a certain entry in Whitcomb Street hard by, where he might perhaps lay down his tragic83 cargo84 unremarked. Thither85, then, he bent86 his steps, seeming, as he went, to float above the pavement; and there, in the mouth of the entry, he found a man in a sleeved waistcoat, gravely chewing a straw. He passed him by, and twice patrolled the entry, scouting87 for the barest chance; but the man had faced about and continued to observe him curiously88.
Another hope was gone. M’Guire reissued from the entry, still followed by the wondering eyes of the man in the sleeved waistcoat. He once more consulted his watch: there were but fourteen minutes left to him. At that, it seemed as if a sudden, genial89 heat were spread about his brain; for a second or two, he saw the world as red as blood; and thereafter entered into a complete possession of himself, with an incredible cheerfulness of spirits, prompting him to sing and chuckle90 as he walked. And yet this mirth seemed to belong to things external; and within, like a black and leaden-heavy kernel91, he was conscious of the weight upon his soul.
I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me,
he sang, and laughed at the appropriate burthen, so that the passengers stared upon him on the street. And still the warmth seemed to increase and to become more genial. What was life? he considered, and what he, M’Guire? What even Erin, our green Erin? All seemed so incalculably little that he smiled as he looked down upon it. He would have given years, had he possessed92 them, for a glass of spirits; but time failed, and he must deny himself this last indulgence.
At the corner of the Haymarket, he very jauntily93 hailed a hansom cab; jumped in; bade the fellow drive him to a part of the Embankment, which he named; and as soon as the vehicle was in motion, concealed94 the bag as completely as he could under the vantage of the apron95, and once more drew out his watch. So he rode for five interminable minutes, his heart in his mouth at every jolt96, scarce able to possess his terrors, yet fearing to wake the attention of the driver by too obvious a change of plan, and willing, if possible, to leave him time to forget the Gladstone bag.
At length, at the head of some stairs on the Embankment, he hailed; the cab was stopped; and he alighted — with how glad a heart! He thrust his hand into his pocket. All was now over; he had saved his life; nor that alone, but he had engineered a striking act of dynamite; for what could be more pictorial97, what more effective, than the explosion of a hansom cab, as it sped rapidly along the streets of London. He felt in one pocket; then in another. The most crushing seizure98 of despair descended99 on his soul; and struck into abject100 dumbness, he stared upon the driver. He had not one penny.
‘Hillo,’ said the driver, ‘don’t seem well.’
‘Lost my money,’ said M’Guire, in tones so faint and strange that they surprised his hearing.
The man looked through the trap. ‘I dessay,’ said he: ‘you’ve left your bag.’
M’Guire half unconsciously fetched it out; and looking on that black continent at arm’s length, withered101 inwardly and felt his features sharpen as with mortal sickness.
‘This is not mine,’ said he. ‘Your last fare must have left it. You had better take it to the station.’
‘Now look here,’ returned the cabman: ‘are you off your chump? or am I?’
‘Well, then, I’ll tell you what,’ exclaimed M’Guire; ‘you take it for your fare!’
‘Oh, I dessay,’ replied the driver. ‘Anything else? What’s IN your bag? Open it, and let me see.’
‘No, no,’ returned M’Guire. ‘Oh no, not that. It’s a surprise; it’s prepared expressly: a surprise for honest cabmen.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said the man, alighting from his perch102, and coming very close to the unhappy patriot. ‘You’re either going to pay my fare, or get in again and drive to the office.’
It was at this supreme103 hour of his distress, that M’Guire spied the stout104 figure of one Godall, a tobacconist of Rupert Street, drawing near along the Embankment. The man was not unknown to him; he had bought of his wares105, and heard him quoted for the soul of liberality; and such was now the nearness of his peril, that even at such a straw of hope, he clutched with gratitude106.
‘Thank God!’ he cried. ‘Here comes a friend of mine. I’ll borrow.’ And he dashed to meet the tradesman. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘Mr. Godall, I have dealt with you — you doubtless know my face — calamities107 for which I cannot blame myself have overwhelmed me. Oh, sir, for the love of innocence108, for the sake of the bonds of humanity, and as you hope for mercy at the throne of grace, lend me two-and-six!’
‘I do not recognise your face,’ replied Mr. Godall; ‘but I remember the cut of your beard, which I have the misfortune to dislike. Here, sir, is a sovereign; which I very willingly advance to you, on the single condition that you shave your chin.’
M’Guire grasped the coin without a word; cast it to the cabman, calling out to him to keep the change; bounded down the steps, flung the bag far forth109 into the river, and fell headlong after it. He was plucked from a watery110 grave, it is believed, by the hands of Mr. Godall. Even as he was being hoisted111 dripping to the shore, a dull and choked explosion shook the solid masonry112 of the Embankment, and far out in the river a momentary113 fountain rose and disappeared.
收听单词发音 |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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machiavellian
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| adj.权谋的，狡诈的 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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stipend
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| n.薪贴；奖学金；养老金 | |
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peddling
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| 忙于琐事的，无关紧要的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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minions
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| 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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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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appal
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| vt.使胆寒，使惊骇 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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spoke
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| 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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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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waiving
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的现在分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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63
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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64
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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67
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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68
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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69
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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70
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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71
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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72
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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73
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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74
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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75
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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77
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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78
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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79
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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80
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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81
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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82
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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83
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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84
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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85
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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86
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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87
scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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88
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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90
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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96
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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98
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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99
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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100
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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101
withered
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| 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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102
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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103
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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105
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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106
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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107
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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108
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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109
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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110
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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111
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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113
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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