I began, as was natural, with the Chambers I had just left. They were an upper set on a rotten staircase, with a mysterious bunk5 or bulkhead on the landing outside them, of a rather nautical6 and Screw Collier-like appearance than otherwise, and painted an intense black. Many dusty years have passed since the appropriation7 of this Davy Jones’s locker8 to any purpose, and during the whole period within the memory of living man, it has been hasped and padlocked. I cannot quite satisfy my mind whether it was originally meant for the reception of coals, or bodies, or as a place of temporary security for the plunder9 ‘looted’ by laundresses; but I incline to the last opinion. It is about breast high, and usually serves as a bulk for defendants10 in reduced circumstances to lean against and ponder at, when they come on the hopeful errand of trying to make an arrangement without money — under which auspicious11 circumstances it mostly happens that the legal gentleman they want to see, is much engaged, and they pervade12 the staircase for a considerable period. Against this opposing bulk, in the absurdest manner, the tomb-like outer door of the solicitor’s chambers (which is also of an intense black) stands in dark ambush13, half open, and half shut, all day. The solicitor’s apartments are three in number; consisting of a slice, a cell, and a wedge. The slice is assigned to the two clerks, the cell is occupied by the principal, and the wedge is devoted14 to stray papers, old game baskets from the country, a washing-stand, and a model of a patent Ship’s Caboose which was exhibited in Chancery at the commencement of the present century on an application for an injunction to restrain infringement16. At about half-past nine on every week-day morning, the younger of the two clerks (who, I have reason to believe, leads the fashion at Pentonville in the articles of pipes and shirts) may be found knocking the dust out of his official door-key on the bunk or locker before mentioned; and so exceedingly subject to dust is his key, and so very retentive17 of that superfluity, that in exceptional summer weather when a ray of sunlight has fallen on the locker in my presence, I have noticed its inexpressive countenance18 to be deeply marked by a kind of Bramah erysipelas or small-pox.
This set of chambers (as I have gradually discovered, when I have had restless occasion to make inquiries19 or leave messages, after office hours) is under the charge of a lady named Sweeney, in figure extremely like an old family-umbrella: whose dwelling20 confronts a dead wall in a court off Gray’s Inn-lane, and who is usually fetched into the passage of that bower21, when wanted, from some neighbouring home of industry, which has the curious property of imparting an inflammatory appearance to her visage. Mrs. Sweeney is one of the race of professed22 laundresses, and is the compiler of a remarkable23 manuscript volume entitled ‘Mrs. Sweeney’s Book,’ from which much curious statistical24 information may be gathered respecting the high prices and small uses of soda25, soap, sand, firewood, and other such articles. I have created a legend in my mind — and consequently I believe it with the utmost pertinacity26 — that the late Mr. Sweeney was a ticket-porter under the Honourable27 Society of Gray’s Inn, and that, in consideration of his long and valuable services, Mrs. Sweeney was appointed to her present post. For, though devoid28 of personal charms, I have observed this lady to exercise a fascination29 over the elderly ticker-porter mind (particularly under the gateway30, and in corners and entries), which I can only refer to her being one of the fraternity, yet not competing with it. All that need be said concerning this set of chambers, is said, when I have added that it is in a large double house in Gray’s Inn-square, very much out of repair, and that the outer portal is ornamented31 in a hideous32 manner with certain stone remains33, which have the appearance of the dismembered bust34, torso, and limbs of a petrified35 bencher.
Indeed, I look upon Gray’s Inn generally as one of the most depressing institutions in brick and mortar36, known to the children of men. Can anything be more dreary37 than its arid38 Square, Sahara Desert of the law, with the ugly old tiled-topped tenements39, the dirty windows, the bills To Let, To Let, the door-posts inscribed40 like gravestones, the crazy gateway giving upon the filthy41 Lane, the scowling42, iron-barred prison-like passage into Verulam-buildings, the mouldy red-nosed ticket-porters with little coffin43 plates, and why with aprons44, the dry, hard, atomy-like appearance of the whole dust-heap? When my uncommercial travels tend to this dismal45 spot, my comfort is its rickety state. Imagination gloats over the fulness of time when the staircases shall have quite tumbled down — they are daily wearing into an ill-savoured powder, but have not quite tumbled down yet — when the last old prolix46 bencher all of the olden time, shall have been got out of an upper window by means of a Fire Ladder, and carried off to the Holborn union; when the last clerk shall have engrossed47 the last parchment behind the last splash on the last of the mud-stained windows, which, all through the miry year, are pilloried48 out of recognition in Gray’s Inn-lane. Then, shall a squalid little trench49, with rank grass and a pump in it, lying between the coffee-house and South-square, be wholly given up to cats and rats, and not, as now, have its empire divided between those animals and a few briefless bipeds — surely called to the Bar by voices of deceiving spirits, seeing that they are wanted there by no mortal — who glance down, with eyes better glazed50 than their casements51, from their dreary and lacklustre rooms. Then shall the way Nor’ Westward52, now lying under a short grim colonnade53 where in summer-time pounce54 flies from law-stationering windows into the eyes of laymen55, be choked with rubbish and happily become impassable. Then shall the gardens where turf, trees, and gravel57 wear a legal livery of black, run rank, and pilgrims go to Gorhambury to see Bacon’s effigy58 as he sat, and not come here (which in truth they seldom do) to see where he walked. Then, in a word, shall the old-established vendor59 of periodicals sit alone in his little crib of a shop behind the Holborn Gate, like that lumbering60 Marius among the ruins of Carthage, who has sat heavy on a thousand million of similes61.
At one period of my uncommercial career I much frequented another set of chambers in Gray’s Inn-square. They were what is familiarly called ‘a top set,’ and all the eatables and drinkables introduced into them acquired a flavour of Cockloft. I have known an unopened Strasbourg pate15 fresh from Fortnum and Mason’s, to draw in this cockloft tone through its crockery dish, and become penetrated62 with cockloft to the core of its inmost truffle in three-quarters of an hour. This, however, was not the most curious feature of those chambers; that, consisted in the profound conviction entertained by my esteemed63 friend Parkle (their tenant) that they were clean. Whether it was an inborn64 hallucination, or whether it was imparted to him by Mrs. Miggot the laundress, I never could ascertain65. But, I believe he would have gone to the stake upon the question. Now, they were so dirty that I could take off the distinctest impression of my figure on any article of furniture by merely lounging upon it for a few moments; and it used to be a private amusement of mine to print myself off — if I may use the expression — all over the rooms. It was the first large circulation I had. At other times I have accidentally shaken a window curtain while in animated66 conversation with Parkle, and struggling insects which were certainly red, and were certainly not ladybirds, have dropped on the back of my hand. Yet Parkle lived in that top set years, bound body and soul to the superstition67 that they were clean. He used to say, when congratulated upon them, ‘Well, they are not like chambers in one respect, you know; they are clean.’ Concurrently68, he had an idea which he could never explain, that Mrs. Miggot was in some way connected with the Church. When he was in particularly good spirits, he used to believe that a deceased uncle of hers had been a Dean; when he was poorly and low, he believed that her brother had been a Curate. I and Mrs. Miggot (she was a genteel woman) were on confidential69 terms, but I never knew her to commit herself to any distinct assertion on the subject; she merely claimed a proprietorship70 in the Church, by looking when it was mentioned, as if the reference awakened71 the slumbering72 Past, and were personal. It may have been his amiable73 confidence in Mrs. Miggot’s better days that inspired my friend with his delusion74 respecting the chambers, but he never wavered in his fidelity75 to it for a moment, though he wallowed in dirt seven years.
Two of the windows of these chambers looked down into the garden; and we have sat up there together many a summer evening, saying how pleasant it was, and talking of many things. To my intimacy76 with that top set, I am indebted for three of my liveliest personal impressions of the loneliness of life in chambers. They shall follow here, in order; first, second, and third.
First. My Gray’s Inn friend, on a time, hurt one of his legs, and it became seriously inflamed77. Not knowing of his indisposition, I was on my way to visit him as usual, one summer evening, when I was much surprised by meeting a lively leech78 in Field-court, Gray’s Inn, seemingly on his way to the West End of London. As the leech was alone, and was of course unable to explain his position, even if he had been inclined to do so (which he had not the appearance of being), I passed him and went on. Turning the corner of Gray’s Inn-square, I was beyond expression amazed by meeting another leech — also entirely79 alone, and also proceeding80 in a westerly direction, though with less decision of purpose. Ruminating81 on this extraordinary circumstance, and endeavouring to remember whether I had ever read, in the Philosophical82 Transactions or any work on Natural History, of a migration83 of Leeches84, I ascended85 to the top set, past the dreary series of closed outer doors of offices and an empty set or two, which intervened between that lofty region and the surface. Entering my friend’s rooms, I found him stretched upon his back, like Prometheus Bound, with a perfectly86 demented ticket-porter in attendance on him instead of the Vulture: which helpless individual, who was feeble and frightened, and had (my friend explained to me, in great choler) been endeavouring for some hours to apply leeches to his leg, and as yet had only got on two out of twenty. To this Unfortunate’s distraction87 between a damp cloth on which he had placed the leeches to freshen them, and the wrathful adjurations of my friend to ‘Stick ’em on, sir!’ I referred the phenomenon I had encountered: the rather as two fine specimens88 were at that moment going out at the door, while a general insurrection of the rest was in progress on the table. After a while our united efforts prevailed, and, when the leeches came off and had recovered their spirits, we carefully tied them up in a decanter. But I never heard more of them than that they were all gone next morning, and that the Out-of-door young man of Bickle, Bush and Bodger, on the ground floor, had been bitten and blooded by some creature not identified. They never ‘took’ on Mrs. Miggot, the laundress; but, I have always preserved fresh, the belief that she unconsciously carried several about her, until they gradually found openings in life.
Second. On the same staircase with my friend Parkle, and on the same floor, there lived a man of law who pursued his business elsewhere, and used those chambers as his place of residence. For three or four years, Parkle rather knew of him than knew him, but after that — for Englishmen — short pause of consideration, they began to speak. Parkle exchanged words with him in his private character only, and knew nothing of his business ways, or means. He was a man a good deal about town, but always alone. We used to remark to one another, that although we often encountered him in theatres, concert-rooms, and similar public places, he was always alone. Yet he was not a gloomy man, and was of a decidedly conversational90 turn; insomuch that he would sometimes of an evening lounge with a cigar in his mouth, half in and half out of Parkle’s rooms, and discuss the topics of the day by the hour. He used to hint on these occasions that he had four faults to find with life; firstly, that it obliged a man to be always winding91 up his watch; secondly92, that London was too small; thirdly, that it therefore wanted variety; fourthly, that there was too much dust in it. There was so much dust in his own faded chambers, certainly, that they reminded me of a sepulchre, furnished in prophetic anticipation93 of the present time, which had newly been brought to light, after having remained buried a few thousand years. One dry, hot autumn evening at twilight94, this man, being then five years turned of fifty, looked in upon Parkle in his usual lounging way, with his cigar in his mouth as usual, and said, ‘I am going out of town.’ As he never went out of town, Parkle said, ‘Oh indeed! At last?’ ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘at last. For what is a man to do? London is so small! If you go West, you come to Hounslow. If you go East, you come to Bow. If you go South, there’s Brixton or Norwood. If you go North, you can’t get rid of Barnet. Then, the monotony of all the streets, streets, streets — and of all the roads, roads, roads — and the dust, dust, dust!’ When he had said this, he wished Parkle a good evening, but came back again and said, with his watch in his hand, ‘Oh, I really cannot go on winding up this watch over and over again; I wish you would take care of it.’ So, Parkle laughed and consented, and the man went out of town. The man remained out of town so long, that his letter-box became choked, and no more letters could be got into it, and they began to be left at the lodge95 and to accumulate there. At last the head-porter decided89, on conference with the steward96, to use his master-key and look into the chambers, and give them the benefit of a whiff of air. Then, it was found that he had hanged himself to his bedstead, and had left this written memorandum97: ‘I should prefer to be cut down by my neighbour and friend (if he will allow me to call him so), H. Parkle, Esq.’ This was an end of Parkle’s occupancy of chambers. He went into lodgings98 immediately.
Third. While Parkle lived in Gray’s Inn, and I myself was uncommercially preparing for the Bar — which is done, as everybody knows, by having a frayed99 old gown put on in a pantry by an old woman in a chronic100 state of Saint Anthony’s fire and dropsy, and, so decorated, bolting a bad dinner in a party of four, whereof each individual mistrusts the other three — I say, while these things were, there was a certain elderly gentleman who lived in a court of the Temple, and was a great judge and lover of port wine. Every day he dined at his club and drank his bottle or two of port wine, and every night came home to the Temple and went to bed in his lonely chambers. This had gone on many years without variation, when one night he had a fit on coming home, and fell and cut his head deep, but partly recovered and groped about in the dark to find the door. When he was afterwards discovered, dead, it was clearly established by the marks of his hands about the room that he must have done so. Now, this chanced on the night of Christmas Eve, and over him lived a young fellow who had sisters and young country friends, and who gave them a little party that night, in the course of which they played at Blindman’s Buff. They played that game, for their greater sport, by the light of the fire only; and once, when they were all quietly rustling101 and stealing about, and the blindman was trying to pick out the prettiest sister (for which I am far from blaming him), somebody cried, Hark! The man below must be playing Blindman’s Buff by himself to-night! They listened, and they heard sounds of some one falling about and stumbling against furniture, and they all laughed at the conceit102, and went on with their play, more light-hearted and merry than ever. Thus, those two so different games of life and death were played out together, blindfolded103, in the two sets of chambers.
Such are the occurrences, which, coming to my knowledge, imbued104 me long ago with a strong sense of the loneliness of chambers. There was a fantastic illustration to much the same purpose implicitly105 believed by a strange sort of man now dead, whom I knew when I had not quite arrived at legal years of discretion106, though I was already in the uncommercial line.
This was a man who, though not more than thirty, had seen the world in divers107 irreconcilable108 capacities — had been an officer in a South American regiment109 among other odd things — but had not achieved much in any way of life, and was in debt, and in hiding. He occupied chambers of the dreariest110 nature in Lyons Inn; his name, however, was not up on the door, or door-post, but in lieu of it stood the name of a friend who had died in the chambers, and had given him the furniture. The story arose out of the furniture, and was to this effect:— Let the former holder111 of the chambers, whose name was still upon the door and door-post, be Mr. Testator.
Mr. Testator took a set of chambers in Lyons Inn when he had but very scanty112 furniture for his bedroom, and none for his sitting-room113. He had lived some wintry months in this condition, and had found it very bare and cold. One night, past midnight, when he sat writing and still had writing to do that must be done before he went to bed, he found himself out of coals. He had coals down-stairs, but had never been to his cellar; however the cellar-key was on his mantelshelf, and if he went down and opened the cellar it fitted, he might fairly assume the coals in that cellar to be his. As to his laundress, she lived among the coal-waggons and Thames watermen — for there were Thames watermen at that time — in some unknown rat-hole by the river, down lanes and alleys114 on the other side of the Strand115. As to any other person to meet him or obstruct116 him, Lyons Inn was dreaming, drunk, maudlin117, moody118, betting, brooding over bill-discounting or renewing — asleep or awake, minding its own affairs. Mr. Testator took his coal-scuttle119 in one hand, his candle and key in the other, and descended120 to the dismallest underground dens56 of Lyons Inn, where the late vehicles in the streets became thunderous, and all the water-pipes in the neighbourhood seemed to have Macbeth’s Amen sticking in their throats, and to be trying to get it out. After groping here and there among low doors to no purpose, Mr. Testator at length came to a door with a rusty121 padlock which his key fitted. Getting the door open with much trouble, and looking in, he found, no coals, but a confused pile of furniture. Alarmed by this intrusion on another man’s property, he locked the door again, found his own cellar, filled his scuttle, and returned up-stairs.
But the furniture he had seen, ran on castors across and across Mr. Testator’s mind incessantly122, when, in the chill hour of five in the morning, he got to bed. He particularly wanted a table to write at, and a table expressly made to be written at, had been the piece of furniture in the foreground of the heap. When his laundress emerged from her burrow123 in the morning to make his kettle boil, he artfully led up to the subject of cellars and furniture; but the two ideas had evidently no connexion in her mind. When she left him, and he sat at his breakfast, thinking about the furniture, he recalled the rusty state of the padlock, and inferred that the furniture must have been stored in the cellars for a long time — was perhaps forgotten — owner dead, perhaps? After thinking it over, a few days, in the course of which he could pump nothing out of Lyons Inn about the furniture, he became desperate, and resolved to borrow that table. He did so, that night. He had not had the table long, when he determined124 to borrow an easy-chair; he had not had that long, when he made up his mind to borrow a bookcase; then, a couch; then, a carpet and rug. By that time, he felt he was ‘in furniture stepped in so far,’ as that it could be no worse to borrow it all. Consequently, he borrowed it all, and locked up the cellar for good. He had always locked it, after every visit. He had carried up every separate article in the dead of the night, and, at the best, had felt as wicked as a Resurrection Man. Every article was blue and furry125 when brought into his rooms, and he had had, in a murderous and guilty sort of way, to polish it up while London slept.
Mr. Testator lived in his furnished chambers two or three years, or more, and gradually lulled126 himself into the opinion that the furniture was his own. This was his convenient state of mind when, late one night, a step came up the stairs, and a hand passed over his door feeling for his knocker, and then one deep and solemn rap was rapped that might have been a spring in Mr. Testator’s easy-chair to shoot him out of it; so promptly127 was it attended with that effect.
With a candle in his hand, Mr. Testator went to the door, and found there, a very pale and very tall man; a man who stooped; a man with very high shoulders, a very narrow chest, and a very red nose; a shabby-genteel man. He was wrapped in a long thread-bare black coat, fastened up the front with more pins than buttons, and under his arm he squeezed an umbrella without a handle, as if he were playing bagpipes128. He said, ‘I ask your pardon, but can you tell me — ‘ and stopped; his eyes resting on some object within the chambers.
‘Can I tell you what?’ asked Mr. Testator, noting his stoppage with quick alarm.
‘I ask your pardon,’ said the stranger, ‘but — this is not the inquiry129 I was going to make — DO I see in there, any small article of property belonging to ME?’
Mr. Testator was beginning to stammer130 that he was not aware — when the visitor slipped past him, into the chambers. There, in a goblin way which froze Mr. Testator to the marrow131, he examined, first, the writing-table, and said, ‘Mine;’ then, the easy-chair, and said, ‘Mine;’ then, the bookcase, and said, ‘Mine;’ then, turned up a corner of the carpet, and said, ‘Mine!’ in a word, inspected every item of furniture from the cellar, in succession, and said, ‘Mine!’ Towards the end of this investigation132, Mr. Testator perceived that he was sodden133 with liquor, and that the liquor was gin. He was not unsteady with gin, either in his speech or carriage; but he was stiff with gin in both particulars.
Mr. Testator was in a dreadful state, for (according to his making out of the story) the possible consequences of what he had done in recklessness and hardihood, flashed upon him in their fulness for the first time. When they had stood gazing at one another for a little while, he tremulously began:
‘Sir, I am conscious that the fullest explanation, compensation, and restitution134, are your due. They shall be yours. Allow me to entreat135 that, without temper, without even natural irritation136 on your part, we may have a little — ’
‘drop of something to drink,’ interposed the stranger. ‘I am agreeable.’
Mr. Testator had intended to say, ‘a little quiet conversation,’ but with great relief of mind adopted the amendment137. He produced a decanter of gin, and was bustling138 about for hot water and sugar, when he found that his visitor had already drunk half of the decanter’s contents. With hot water and sugar the visitor drank the remainder before he had been an hour in the chambers by the chimes of the church of St. Mary in the Strand; and during the process he frequently whispered to himself, ‘Mine!’
The gin gone, and Mr. Testator wondering what was to follow it, the visitor rose and said, with increased stiffness, ‘At what hour of the morning, sir, will it be convenient?’ Mr. Testator hazarded, ‘At ten?’ ‘Sir,’ said the visitor, ‘at ten, to the moment, I shall be here.’ He then contemplated139 Mr. Testator somewhat at leisure, and said, ‘God bless you! How is your wife?’ Mr. Testator (who never had a wife) replied with much feeling, ‘Deeply anxious, poor soul, but otherwise well.’ The visitor thereupon turned and went away, and fell twice in going down-stairs. From that hour he was never heard of. Whether he was a ghost, or a spectral140 illusion of conscience, or a drunken man who had no business there, or the drunken rightful owner of the furniture, with a transitory gleam of memory; whether he got safe home, or had no time to get to; whether he died of liquor on the way, or lived in liquor ever afterwards; he never was heard of more. This was the story, received with the furniture and held to be as substantial, by its second possessor in an upper set of chambers in grim Lyons Inn.
It is to be remarked of chambers in general, that they must have been built for chambers, to have the right kind of loneliness. You may make a great dwelling-house very lonely, but isolating141 suites142 of rooms and calling them chambers, but you cannot make the true kind of loneliness. In dwelling-houses, there have been family festivals; children have grown in them, girls have bloomed into women in them, courtships and marriages have taken place in them. True chambers never were young, childish, maidenly143; never had dolls in them, or rocking-horses, or christenings, or betrothals, or little coffins144. Let Gray’s Inn identify the child who first touched hands and hearts with Robinson Crusoe, in any one of its many ‘sets,’ and that child’s little statue, in white marble with a golden inscription145, shall be at its service, at my cost and charge, as a drinking fountain for the spirit, to freshen its thirsty square. Let Lincoln’s produce from all its houses, a twentieth of the procession derivable146 from any dwelling-house one-twentieth of its age, of fair young brides who married for love and hope, not settlements, and all the Vice-Chancellors shall thenceforward be kept in nosegays for nothing, on application to the writer hereof. It is not denied that on the terrace of the Adelphi, or in any of the streets of that subterranean-stable-haunted spot, or about Bedford-row, or James-street of that ilk (a grewsome place), or anywhere among the neighbourhoods that have done flowering and have run to seed, you may find Chambers replete147 with the accommodations of Solitude148, Closeness, and Darkness, where you may be as low-spirited as in the genuine article, and might be as easily murdered, with the placid149 reputation of having merely gone down to the sea-side. But, the many waters of life did run musical in those dry channels once; — among the Inns, never. The only popular legend known in relation to any one of the dull family of Inns, is a dark Old Bailey whisper concerning Clement’s, and importing how the black creature who holds the sun-dial there, was a negro who slew150 his master and built the dismal pile out of the contents of his strong box — for which architectural offence alone he ought to have been condemned151 to live in it. But, what populace would waste fancy upon such a place, or on New Inn, Staple152 Inn, Barnard’s Inn, or any of the shabby crew?
The genuine laundress, too, is an institution not to be had in its entirety out of and away from the genuine Chambers. Again, it is not denied that you may be robbed elsewhere. Elsewhere you may have — for money — dishonesty, drunkenness, dirt, laziness, and profound incapacity. But the veritable shining-red-faced shameless laundress; the true Mrs. Sweeney — in figure, colour, texture153, and smell, like the old damp family umbrella; the tip-top complicated abomination of stockings, spirits, bonnet154, limpness, looseness, and larceny155; is only to be drawn156 at the fountain-head. Mrs. Sweeney is beyond the reach of individual art. It requires the united efforts of several men to ensure that great result, and it is only developed in perfection under an Honourable Society and in an Inn of Court.
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transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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defendants
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| 被告( defendant的名词复数 ) | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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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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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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infringement
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| n.违反；侵权 | |
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retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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23
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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24
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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25
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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26
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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27
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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28
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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29
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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30
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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31
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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33
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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34
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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35
petrified
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| 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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36
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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37
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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38
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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39
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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40
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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41
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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42
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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43
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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44
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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45
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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46
prolix
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| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
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47
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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48
pilloried
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| v.使受公众嘲笑( pillory的过去式和过去分词 )；将…示众；给…上颈手枷；处…以枷刑 | |
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49
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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50
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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51
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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52
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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53
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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54
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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55
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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56
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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57
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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58
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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59
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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60
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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61
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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62
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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63
esteemed
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|
| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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64
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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65
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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66
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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67
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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68
concurrently
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| adv.同时地 | |
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69
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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70
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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71
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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72
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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73
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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74
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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75
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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76
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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77
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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78
leech
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|
| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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79
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
proceeding
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|
| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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81
ruminating
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|
| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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82
philosophical
|
|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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83
migration
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| n.迁移，移居，（鸟类等的）迁徙 | |
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84
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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85
ascended
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|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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87
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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88
specimens
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|
| 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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89
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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90
conversational
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|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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91
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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92
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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93
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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94
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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95
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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96
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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97
memorandum
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|
| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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98
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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99
frayed
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|
| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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101
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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102
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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103
blindfolded
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|
| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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104
imbued
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|
| 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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105
implicitly
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|
| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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106
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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107
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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108
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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109
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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110
dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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111
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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112
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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113
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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114
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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115
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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116
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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117
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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118
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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119
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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120
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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121
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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122
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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123
burrow
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|
| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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124
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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125
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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126
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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127
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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128
bagpipes
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| n.风笛；风笛( bagpipe的名词复数 ) | |
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129
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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130
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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131
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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132
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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133
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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134
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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135
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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136
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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137
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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138
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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139
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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140
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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141
isolating
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|
| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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142
suites
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| n.套( suite的名词复数 )；一套房间；一套家具；一套公寓 | |
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143
maidenly
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|
| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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144
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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145
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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146
derivable
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| adj.可引出的，可推论的，可诱导的 | |
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147
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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148
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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149
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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150
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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151
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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152
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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153
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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154
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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155
larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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156
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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