In the course of those nights, I finished my education in a fair amateur experience of houselessness. My principal object being to get through the night, the pursuit of it brought me into sympathetic relations with people who have no other object every night in the year.
The month was March, and the weather damp, cloudy, and cold. The sun not rising before half-past five, the night perspective looked sufficiently3 long at half-past twelve: which was about my time for confronting it.
The restlessness of a great city, and the way in which it tumbles and tosses before it can get to sleep, formed one of the first entertainments offered to the contemplation of us houseless people. It lasted about two hours. We lost a great deal of companionship when the late public-houses turned their lamps out, and when the potmen thrust the last brawling4 drunkards into the street; but stray vehicles and stray people were left us, after that. If we were very lucky, a policeman’s rattle5 sprang and a fray6 turned up; but, in general, surprisingly little of this diversion was provided. Except in the Haymarket, which is the worst kept part of London, and about Kent-street in the Borough7, and along a portion of the line of the Old Kent-road, the peace was seldom violently broken. But, it was always the case that London, as if in imitation of individual citizens belonging to it, had expiring fits and starts of restlessness. After all seemed quiet, if one cab rattled8 by, half-a-dozen would surely follow; and Houselessness even observed that intoxicated9 people appeared to be magnetically attracted towards each other; so that we knew when we saw one drunken object staggering against the shutters10 of a shop, that another drunken object would stagger up before five minutes were out, to fraternise or fight with it. When we made a divergence11 from the regular species of drunkard, the thin-armed, puff-faced, leaden-lipped gin-drinker, and encountered a rarer specimen12 of a more decent appearance, fifty to one but that specimen was dressed in soiled mourning. As the street experience in the night, so the street experience in the day; the common folk who come unexpectedly into a little property, come unexpectedly into a deal of liquor.
At length these flickering13 sparks would die away, worn out — the last veritable sparks of waking life trailed from some late pieman or hot-potato man — and London would sink to rest. And then the yearning14 of the houseless mind would be for any sign of company, any lighted place, any movement, anything suggestive of any one being up — nay15, even so much as awake, for the houseless eye looked out for lights in windows.
Walking the streets under the pattering rain, Houselessness would walk and walk and walk, seeing nothing but the interminable tangle16 of streets, save at a corner, here and there, two policemen in conversation, or the sergeant17 or inspector18 looking after his men. Now and then in the night — but rarely — Houselessness would become aware of a furtive19 head peering out of a doorway20 a few yards before him, and, coming up with the head, would find a man standing21 bolt upright to keep within the doorway’s shadow, and evidently intent upon no particular service to society. Under a kind of fascination23, and in a ghostly silence suitable to the time, Houselessness and this gentleman would eye one another from head to foot, and so, without exchange of speech, part, mutually suspicious. Drip, drip, drip, from ledge24 and coping, splash from pipes and water-spouts, and by-and-by the houseless shadow would fall upon the stones that pave the way to Waterloo-bridge; it being in the houseless mind to have a halfpenny worth of excuse for saying ‘Good-night’ to the toll-keeper, and catching25 a glimpse of his fire. A good fire and a good great-coat and a good woollen neck-shawl, were comfortable things to see in conjunction with the toll-keeper; also his brisk wakefulness was excellent company when he rattled the change of halfpence down upon that metal table of his, like a man who defied the night, with all its sorrowful thoughts, and didn’t care for the coming of dawn. There was need of encouragement on the threshold of the bridge, for the bridge was dreary26. The chopped-up murdered man, had not been lowered with a rope over the parapet when those nights were; he was alive, and slept then quietly enough most likely, and undisturbed by any dream of where he was to come. But the river had an awful look, the buildings on the banks were muffled27 in black shrouds28, and the reflected lights seemed to originate deep in the water, as if the spectres of suicides were holding them to show where they went down. The wild moon and clouds were as restless as an evil conscience in a tumbled bed, and the very shadow of the immensity of London seemed to lie oppressively upon the river.
Between the bridge and the two great theatres, there was but the distance of a few hundred paces, so the theatres came next. Grim and black within, at night, those great dry Wells, and lonesome to imagine, with the rows of faces faded out, the lights extinguished, and the seats all empty. One would think that nothing in them knew itself at such a time but Yorick’s skull29. In one of my night walks, as the church steeples were shaking the March winds and rain with the strokes of Four, I passed the outer boundary of one of these great deserts, and entered it. With a dim lantern in my hand, I groped my well-known way to the stage and looked over the orchestra — which was like a great grave dug for a time of pestilence30 — into the void beyond. A dismal31 cavern32 of an immense aspect, with the chandelier gone dead like everything else, and nothing visible through mist and fog and space, but tiers of winding-sheets. The ground at my feet where, when last there, I had seen the peasantry of Naples dancing among the vines, reckless of the burning mountain which threatened to overwhelm them, was now in possession of a strong serpent of engine-hose, watchfully33 lying in wait for the serpent Fire, and ready to fly at it if it showed its forked tongue. A ghost of a watchman, carrying a faint corpse34 candle, haunted the distant upper gallery and flitted away. Retiring within the proscenium, and holding my light above my head towards the rolled-up curtain — green no more, but black as ebony — my sight lost itself in a gloomy vault35, showing faint indications in it of a shipwreck36 of canvas and cordage. Methought I felt much as a diver might, at the bottom of the sea.
In those small hours when there was no movement in the streets, it afforded matter for reflection to take Newgate in the way, and, touching37 its rough stone, to think of the prisoners in their sleep, and then to glance in at the lodge38 over the spiked39 wicket, and see the fire and light of the watching turnkeys, on the white wall. Not an inappropriate time either, to linger by that wicked little Debtors’ Door — shutting tighter than any other door one ever saw — which has been Death’s Door to so many. In the days of the uttering of forged one-pound notes by people tempted40 up from the country, how many hundreds of wretched creatures of both sexes — many quite innocent — swung out of a pitiless and inconsistent world, with the tower of yonder Christian41 church of Saint Sepulchre monstrously42 before their eyes! Is there any haunting of the Bank Parlour, by the remorseful43 souls of old directors, in the nights of these later days, I wonder, or is it as quiet as this degenerate44 Aceldama of an Old Bailey?
To walk on to the Bank, lamenting45 the good old times and bemoaning46 the present evil period, would be an easy next step, so I would take it, and would make my houseless circuit of the Bank, and give a thought to the treasure within; likewise to the guard of soldiers passing the night there, and nodding over the fire. Next, I went to Billingsgate, in some hope of market-people, but it proving as yet too early, crossed London-bridge and got down by the water-side on the Surrey shore among the buildings of the great brewery47. There was plenty going on at the brewery; and the reek48, and the smell of grains, and the rattling49 of the plump dray horses at their mangers, were capital company. Quite refreshed by having mingled50 with this good society, I made a new start with a new heart, setting the old King’s Bench prison before me for my next object, and resolving, when I should come to the wall, to think of poor Horace Kinch, and the Dry Rot in men.
A very curious disease the Dry Rot in men, and difficult to detect the beginning of. It had carried Horace Kinch inside the wall of the old King’s Bench prison, and it had carried him out with his feet foremost. He was a likely man to look at, in the prime of life, well to do, as clever as he needed to be, and popular among many friends. He was suitably married, and had healthy and pretty children. But, like some fair-looking houses or fair-looking ships, he took the Dry Rot. The first strong external revelation of the Dry Rot in men, is a tendency to lurk51 and lounge; to be at street-corners without intelligible52 reason; to be going anywhere when met; to be about many places rather than at any; to do nothing tangible53, but to have an intention of performing a variety of intangible duties to-morrow or the day after. When this manifestation54 of the disease is observed, the observer will usually connect it with a vague impression once formed or received, that the patient was living a little too hard. He will scarcely have had leisure to turn it over in his mind and form the terrible suspicion ‘Dry Rot,’ when he will notice a change for the worse in the patient’s appearance: a certain slovenliness55 and deterioration56, which is not poverty, nor dirt, nor intoxication57, nor ill-health, but simply Dry Rot. To this, succeeds a smell as of strong waters, in the morning; to that, a looseness respecting money; to that, a stronger smell as of strong waters, at all times; to that, a looseness respecting everything; to that, a trembling of the limbs, somnolency58, misery59, and crumbling60 to pieces. As it is in wood, so it is in men. Dry Rot advances at a compound usury61 quite incalculable. A plank62 is found infected with it, and the whole structure is devoted63. Thus it had been with the unhappy Horace Kinch, lately buried by a small subscription64. Those who knew him had not nigh done saying, ‘So well off, so comfortably established, with such hope before him — and yet, it is feared, with a slight touch of Dry Rot!’ when lo! the man was all Dry Rot and dust.
From the dead wall associated on those houseless nights with this too common story, I chose next to wander by Bethlehem Hospital; partly, because it lay on my road round to Westminster; partly, because I had a night fancy in my head which could be best pursued within sight of its walls and dome65. And the fancy was this: Are not the sane66 and the insane equal at night as the sane lie a dreaming? Are not all of us outside this hospital, who dream, more or less in the condition of those inside it, every night of our lives? Are we not nightly persuaded, as they daily are, that we associate preposterously67 with kings and queens, emperors and empresses, and notabilities of all sorts? Do we not nightly jumble68 events and personages and times and places, as these do daily? Are we not sometimes troubled by our own sleeping inconsistencies, and do we not vexedly try to account for them or excuse them, just as these do sometimes in respect of their waking delusions69? Said an afflicted70 man to me, when I was last in a hospital like this, ‘Sir, I can frequently fly.’ I was half ashamed to reflect that so could I— by night. Said a woman to me on the same occasion, ‘Queen Victoria frequently comes to dine with me, and her Majesty71 and I dine off peaches and maccaroni in our night-gowns, and his Royal Highness the Prince Consort72 does us the honour to make a third on horseback in a Field-Marshal’s uniform.’ Could I refrain from reddening with consciousness when I remembered the amazing royal parties I myself had given (at night), the unaccountable viands73 I had put on table, and my extraordinary manner of conducting myself on those distinguished74 occasions? I wonder that the great master who knew everything, when he called Sleep the death of each day’s life, did not call Dreams the insanity75 of each day’s sanity76.
By this time I had left the Hospital behind me, and was again setting towards the river; and in a short breathing space I was on Westminster-bridge, regaling my houseless eyes with the external walls of the British Parliament — the perfection of a stupendous institution, I know, and the admiration77 of all surrounding nations and succeeding ages, I do not doubt, but perhaps a little the better now and then for being pricked78 up to its work. Turning off into Old Palace-yard, the Courts of Law kept me company for a quarter of an hour; hinting in low whispers what numbers of people they were keeping awake, and how intensely wretched and horrible they were rendering79 the small hours to unfortunate suitors. Westminster Abbey was fine gloomy society for another quarter of an hour; suggesting a wonderful procession of its dead among the dark arches and pillars, each century more amazed by the century following it than by all the centuries going before. And indeed in those houseless night walks — which even included cemeteries80 where watchmen went round among the graves at stated times, and moved the tell-tale handle of an index which recorded that they had touched it at such an hour — it was a solemn consideration what enormous hosts of dead belong to one old great city, and how, if they were raised while the living slept, there would not be the space of a pin’s point in all the streets and ways for the living to come out into. Not only that, but the vast armies of dead would overflow81 the hills and valleys beyond the city, and would stretch away all round it, God knows how far.
When a church clock strikes, on houseless ears in the dead of the night, it may be at first mistaken for company and hailed as such. But, as the spreading circles of vibration82, which you may perceive at such a time with great clearness, go opening out, for ever and ever afterwards widening perhaps (as the philosopher has suggested) in eternal space, the mistake is rectified83 and the sense of loneliness is profounder. Once — it was after leaving the Abbey and turning my face north — I came to the great steps of St. Martin’s church as the clock was striking Three. Suddenly, a thing that in a moment more I should have trodden upon without seeing, rose up at my feet with a cry of loneliness and houselessness, struck out of it by the bell, the like of which I never heard. We then stood face to face looking at one another, frightened by one another. The creature was like a beetle-browed hair-lipped youth of twenty, and it had a loose bundle of rags on, which it held together with one of its hands. It shivered from head to foot, and its teeth chattered84, and as it stared at me — persecutor85, devil, ghost, whatever it thought me — it made with its whining86 mouth as if it were snapping at me, like a worried dog. Intending to give this ugly object money, I put out my hand to stay it — for it recoiled87 as it whined88 and snapped — and laid my hand upon its shoulder. Instantly, it twisted out of its garment, like the young man in the New Testament89, and left me standing alone with its rags in my hands.
Covent-garden Market, when it was market morning, was wonderful company. The great waggons90 of cabbages, with growers’ men and boys lying asleep under them, and with sharp dogs from market-garden neighbourhoods looking after the whole, were as good as a party. But one of the worst night sights I know in London, is to be found in the children who prowl about this place; who sleep in the baskets, fight for the offal, dart91 at any object they think they can lay their their thieving hands on, dive under the carts and barrows, dodge92 the constables93, and are perpetually making a blunt pattering on the pavement of the Piazza94 with the rain of their naked feet. A painful and unnatural95 result comes of the comparison one is forced to institute between the growth of corruption96 as displayed in the so much improved and cared for fruits of the earth, and the growth of corruption as displayed in these all uncared for (except inasmuch as ever-hunted) savages97.
There was early coffee to be got about Covent-garden Market, and that was more company — warm company, too, which was better. Toast of a very substantial quality, was likewise procurable98: though the towzled-headed man who made it, in an inner chamber99 within the coffee-room, hadn’t got his coat on yet, and was so heavy with sleep that in every interval100 of toast and coffee he went off anew behind the partition into complicated cross-roads of choke and snore, and lost his way directly. Into one of these establishments (among the earliest) near Bow-street, there came one morning as I sat over my houseless cup, pondering where to go next, a man in a high and long snuff-coloured coat, and shoes, and, to the best of my belief, nothing else but a hat, who took out of his hat a large cold meat pudding; a meat pudding so large that it was a very tight fit, and brought the lining101 of the hat out with it. This mysterious man was known by his pudding, for on his entering, the man of sleep brought him a pint102 of hot tea, a small loaf, and a large knife and fork and plate. Left to himself in his box, he stood the pudding on the bare table, and, instead of cutting it, stabbed it, overhand, with the knife, like a mortal enemy; then took the knife out, wiped it on his sleeve, tore the pudding asunder103 with his fingers, and ate it all up. The remembrance of this man with the pudding remains104 with me as the remembrance of the most spectral105 person my houselessness encountered. Twice only was I in that establishment, and twice I saw him stalk in (as I should say, just out of bed, and presently going back to bed), take out his pudding, stab his pudding, wipe the dagger106, and eat his pudding all up. He was a man whose figure promised cadaverousness, but who had an excessively red face, though shaped like a horse’s. On the second occasion of my seeing him, he said huskily to the man of sleep, ‘Am I red to-night?’ ‘You are,’ he uncompromisingly answered. ‘My mother,’ said the spectre, ‘was a red-faced woman that liked drink, and I looked at her hard when she laid in her coffin107, and I took the complexion108.’ Somehow, the pudding seemed an unwholesome pudding after that, and I put myself in its way no more.
When there was no market, or when I wanted variety, a railway terminus with the morning mails coming in, was remunerative109 company. But like most of the company to be had in this world, it lasted only a very short time. The station lamps would burst out ablaze110, the porters would emerge from places of concealment111, the cabs and trucks would rattle to their places (the post-office carts were already in theirs), and, finally, the bell would strike up, and the train would come banging in. But there were few passengers and little luggage, and everything scuttled112 away with the greatest expedition. The locomotive post-offices, with their great nets — as if they had been dragging the country for bodies — would fly open as to their doors, and would disgorge a smell of lamp, an exhausted113 clerk, a guard in a red coat, and their bags of letters; the engine would blow and heave and perspire114, like an engine wiping its forehead and saying what a run it had had; and within ten minutes the lamps were out, and I was houseless and alone again.
But now, there were driven cattle on the high road near, wanting (as cattle always do) to turn into the midst of stone walls, and squeeze themselves through six inches’ width of iron railing, and getting their heads down (also as cattle always do) for tossing-purchase at quite imaginary dogs, and giving themselves and every devoted creature associated with them a most extraordinary amount of unnecessary trouble. Now, too, the conscious gas began to grow pale with the knowledge that daylight was coming, and straggling workpeople were already in the streets, and, as waking life had become extinguished with the last pieman’s sparks, so it began to be rekindled115 with the fires of the first street-corner breakfast-sellers. And so by faster and faster degrees, until the last degrees were very fast, the day came, and I was tired and could sleep. And it is not, as I used to think, going home at such times, the least wonderful thing in London, that in the real desert region of the night, the houseless wanderer is alone there. I knew well enough where to find Vice22 and Misfortune of all kinds, if I had chosen; but they were put out of sight, and my houselessness had many miles upon miles of streets in which it could, and did, have its own solitary116 way.
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1
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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muffled
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| 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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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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watchfully
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| 警惕地，留心地 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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monstrously
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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mingled
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| 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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51
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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52
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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53
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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55
slovenliness
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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57
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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58
somnolency
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| n.想睡，梦幻 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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61
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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preposterously
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| adv.反常地；荒谬地；荒谬可笑地；不合理地 | |
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68
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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73
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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80
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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85
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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101
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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102
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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103
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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104
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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105
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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106
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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107
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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108
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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109
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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110
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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111
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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112
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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113
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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114
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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115
rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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