Max Nordau wrote a book—wrote it with his tongue in his cheek, a dash of vitriol in the ink, and with a pen that scratched.
And the first critic who seemed to place a just estimate on the work was Mr. Zangwill (he who has no Christian2 name). Mr. Zangwill made an attempt to swear out a "writ3 de lunatico inquirendo" against his Jewish brother, on the ground that the first symptom of insanity4 is often the delusion5 that others are insane; and this being so, Doctor Nordau was not a safe subject to be at large. But the Assize of Public Opinion denied the petition, and the dear people bought the book at from three to five dollars a copy. Printed in several languages, its sales have mounted to a hundred thousand volumes, and the author's net profit is full forty thousand dollars. No wonder is it that, with pockets full to bursting, Doctor Nordau goes out behind the house and laughs uproariously whenever he thinks of how he has worked the world!
If Doctor Talmage is the Barnum of Theology, surely we may call Doctor Nordau the Barnum of Science. His agility6 in manipulating facts is equal to Hermann's now-you-see-it and now-you-don't, with pocket-handkerchiefs. Yet Hermann's exhibition is worth the admittance fee, and Nordau's book (seemingly written in collaboration7 with Jules Verne and Mark Twain) would be cheap for a dollar. But what I object to is Professor Hermann's disciples8 posing as Sure-Enough Materializing Mediums, and Professor Lombroso's followers10 calling themselves Scientists, when each goes forth11 without scrip or purse with no other purpose than to supply themselves with both.
Yet it was Barnum himself who said that the public delights in being humbugged, and strange it is that we will not allow ourselves to be thimblerigged without paying for the privilege.
Nordau's success hinged on his audacious assumption that the public knew nothing of the Law of Antithesis12. Yet Plato explained that the opposites of things look alike, and sometimes are alike—and that was quite a while ago.
The multitude answered, "Thou hast a devil." Many of them said, "He hath a devil and is mad." Festus said with a loud voice, "Paul, thou art beside thyself." And Nordau shouts in a voice more heady than that of Pilate, more throaty than that of Festus, "Mad—Whitman was—mad beyond the cavil13 of a doubt!"
In Eighteen Hundred Sixty-two, Lincoln, looking out of a window (before lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed) on one of the streets of Washington, saw a workingman in shirt-sleeves go by. Turning to a friend, the President said, "There goes a MAN!" The exclamation14 sounds singularly like that of Napoleon on meeting Goethe. But the Corsican's remark was intended for the poet's ear, while Lincoln did not know who his man was, although he came to know him afterward15.
Lincoln in his early days was a workingman and an athlete, and he never quite got the idea out of his head (and I am glad) that he was still a hewer of wood. He once told George William Curtis that he more than half expected yet to go back to the farm and earn his daily bread by the work that his hands found to do; he dreamed of it nights, and whenever he saw a splendid toiler17, he felt like hailing the man as brother and striking hands with him. When Lincoln saw Whitman strolling majestically18 past, he took him for a stevedore19 or possibly the foreman of a construction gang.
Whitman was fifty-one years old then. His long, flowing beard was snow-white, and the shock that covered his Jove-like head was iron-gray. His form was that of an Apollo who had arrived at years of discretion20. He weighed an even two hundred pounds and was just six feet high. His plain, check, cotton shirt was open at the throat to the breast; and he had an independence, a self-sufficiency, and withal a cleanliness, a sweetness and a gentleness, that told that, although he had a giant's strength, he did not use it like a giant. Whitman used no tobacco, neither did he apply hot and rebellious21 liquors to his blood and with unblushing forehead woo the means of debility and disease. Up to his fifty-third year he had never known a sick day, although at thirty his hair had begun to whiten. He had the look of age in his youth and the look of youth in his age that often marks the exceptional man.
But at fifty-three his splendid health was crowded to the breaking strain. How? Through caring for wounded, sick and dying men, hour after hour, day after day, through the long, silent watches of the night. From Eighteen Hundred Sixty-four to the day of his death in Eighteen Hundred Ninety-two, he was, physically22, a man in ruins. But he did not wither23 at the top. Through it all he held the healthy optimism of boyhood, carrying with him the perfume of the morning and the lavish24 heart of youth.
Doctor Bucke, who was superintendent25 of a hospital for the insane for fifteen years, and the intimate friend of Whitman all the time, has said: "His build, his stature26, his exceptional health of mind and body, the size and form of his features, his cleanliness of mind and body, the grace of his movements and gestures, the grandeur27, and especially the magnetism28, of his presence; the charm of his voice, his genial29, kindly30 humor; the simplicity31 of his habits and tastes, his freedom from convention, the largeness and the beauty of his manner; his calmness and majesty32; his charity and forbearance—his entire unresentfulness under whatever provocation33; his liberality, his universal sympathy with humanity in all ages and lands, his broad tolerance34, his catholic friendliness35, and his unexampled faculty36 of attracting affection, all prove his perfectly37 proportioned manliness38."
But Whitman differed from the disciple9 of Lombroso in two notable particulars: He had no quarrel with the world, and he did not wax rich. "One thing thou lackest, O Walt Whitman!" we might have said to the poet; "you are not a financier." He died poor. But this is no proof of degeneracy, save on 'Change. When the children of Count Tolstoy endeavored to have him adjudged insane, the Court denied the application and voiced the wisest decision that ever came out of Russia: A man who gives away his money is not necessarily more foolish than he who saves it.
And with Horace L. Traubel I assert that Whitman was the sanest39 man I ever saw.
Some men make themselves homes; and others there be who rent rooms. Walt Whitman was essentially40 a citizen of the world: the world was his home and mankind were his friends. There was a quality in the man peculiarly universal: a strong, virile41 poise42 that asked for nothing, but took what it needed.
He loved men as brothers, yet his brothers after the flesh understood him not; he loved children—they turned to him instinctively—but he had no children of his own; he loved women, and yet this strongly sexed and manly43 man never loved a woman. And I might here say as Philip Gilbert Hamerton said of Turner, "He was lamentably44 unfortunate in this: throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman."
It requires two to make a home. The first home was made when a woman, cradling in her loving arms a baby, crooned a lullaby. All the tender sentimentality we throw around a place is the result of the sacred thought that we live there with some one else. It is "our" home. The home is a tryst—the place where we retire and shut the world out. Lovers make a home, just as birds make a nest, and unless a man knows the spell of the divine passion I hardly see how he can have a home at all. He only rents a room.
Camden is separated from the city of Philadelphia by the Delaware River. Camden lies low and flat—a great, sandy, monotonous45 waste of straggling buildings. Here and there are straight rows of cheap houses, evidently erected46 by staid, broad-brimmed speculators from across the river, with eyes on the main chance. But they reckoned ill, for the town did not boom. Some of these houses have marble steps and white, barn-like shutters47, that might withstand a siege. When a funeral takes place in one of these houses, the shutters are tied with strips of mournful, black alpaca for a year and a day. Engineers, dockmen, express-drivers and mechanics largely make up the citizens of Camden. Of course, Camden has its smug corner where prosperous merchants most do congregate48: where they play croquet in the front yards, and have window-boxes, and a piano and veranda-chairs and terra-cotta statuary; but for the most part the houses of Camden are rented, and rented cheap.
Many of the domiciles are frame and have the happy tumbledown look of the back streets in Charleston or Richmond—those streets where the white trash merges49 off into prosperous colored aristocracy. Old hats do duty in keeping out the fresh air where Providence50 has interfered51 and broken out a pane52; blinds hang by a single hinge; bricks on the chimney-tops threaten the passersby53; stringers and posts mark the place where proud picket54 fences once stood—the pickets55 having gone for kindling56 long ago. In the warm, Summer evenings, men in shirt-sleeves sit on the front steps and stolidly57 smoke, while children pile up sand in the streets and play in the gutters58.
Parallel with Mickle Street, a block away, are railway-tracks. There noisy switch-engines that never keep Sabbath, puff59 back and forth, day and night, sending showers of soot60 and smoke when the wind is right (and it usually is) straight over Number 328, where, according to John Addington Symonds and William Michael Rossetti, lived the mightiest61 seer of the century—the man whom they rank with Socrates, Epictetus, Saint Paul, Michelangelo and Dante.
It was in August of Eighteen Hundred Eighty-three that I first walked up that little street—a hot, sultry Summer evening. There had been a shower that turned the dust of the unpaved roadway to mud. The air was close and muggy62. The houses, built right up to the sidewalks, over which, in little gutters, the steaming sewage ran, seemed to have discharged their occupants into the street to enjoy the cool of the day. Barefooted children by the score paddled in the mud. All the steps were filled with loungers; some of the men had discarded not only coats but shirts as well, and now sat in flaming red underwear, holding babies.
They say that "woman's work is never done," but to the women of Mickle Street this does not apply—but stay! perhaps their work IS never done. Anyway, I remember that women sat on the curbs63 in calico dresses or leaned out of the windows, and all seemed supremely64 free from care.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Whitman lives?" I asked a portly dame65 who was resting her elbows on a windowsill.
"Who?"
"Mr. Whitman!"
"You mean Walt Whitman?"
"Yes."
"Show the gentleman, Molly; he'll give you a nickel, I'm sure!"
I had not seen Molly. She stood behind me, but as her mother spoke66 she seized tight hold of one of my fingers, claiming me as her lawful67 prey68, and all the other children looked on with envious69 eyes as little Molly threw at them glances of scorn and marched me off. Molly was five, going on six, she told me. She had bright-red hair, a grimy face and little chapped feet that made not a sound as we walked. She got her nickel and carried it in her mouth, and this made conversation difficult. After going one block she suddenly stopped, squared me around and pointing said, "Them is he!" and disappeared.
In a wheeled rattan70 chair, in the hallway, a little back from the door of a plain, weather-beaten house, sat the coatless philosopher, his face and head wreathed in a tumult71 of snow-white hair.
I had a little speech, all prepared weeks before and committed to memory, that I intended to repeat, telling him how I had read his poems and admired them. And further I had stored away in my mind a few blades from "Leaves of Grass" that I purposed to bring out at the right time as a sort of certificate of character. But when that little girl jerked me right-about-face and heartlessly deserted72 me, I stared dumbly at the man whom I had come a hundred miles to see. I began angling for my little speech, but could not fetch it.
"Hello!" called the philosopher, out of the white aureole. "Hello! come here, boy!"
He held out his hand and as I took it there was a grasp with meaning in it.
"Don't go yet, Joe," he said to a man seated on the step smoking a cob-pipe.
"The old woman's calling me," said the swarthy Joe.
Joe evidently held truth lightly. "So long, Walt!"
"Good-by, Joe. Sit down, lad; sit down!"
I sat in the doorway73 at his feet.
"Now isn't it queer—that fellow is a regular philosopher and works out some great problems, but he's ashamed to express 'em. He could no more give you his best than he could fly. Ashamed, I s'pose, ashamed of the best that is in him. We are all a little that way—all but me—I try to write my best, regardless of whether the thing sounds ridiculous or not—regardless of what others think or say or have said. Ashamed of our holiest, truest and best! Is it not too bad?
"You are twenty-five now? Well, boy, you may grow until you are thirty and then you will be as wise as you ever will be. Haven't you noticed that men of sixty have no clearer vision than men of forty? One reason is that we have been taught that we know all about life and death and the mysteries of the grave. But the main reason is that we are ashamed to shove out and be ourselves. Jesus expressed His own individuality perhaps more than any other man we know of, and so He wields74 a wider influence than any other. And this though we only have a record of just twenty-seven days of His life. Now that fellow that just left is an engineer, and he dreams some beautiful dreams; but he never expresses them to any one—only hints them to me, and this only at twilight75. He is like a weasel or a mink76 or a whippoorwill—he comes out only at night.
"'If the weather was like this all the time, people would never learn to read and write,' said Joe to me just as you arrived. And isn't that so? Here we can count a hundred people up and down this street, and not one is reading, not one but that is just lolling about, except the children—and they are happy only when playing in the dirt. Why, if this tropical weather should continue we would all slip back into South Sea Islanders! You can raise good men only in a little strip around the North Temperate77 Zone—when you get out of the track of a glacier78, a tender-hearted, sympathetic man of brains is an accident."
Then the old man suddenly ceased and I imagined that he was following the thought out in his own mind. We sat silent for a space. The twilight fell, and a lamplighter lit the street lamp on the corner. He stopped an instant to salute79 the poet cheerily as he passed. The man sitting on the doorstep, across the street, smoking, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on his boot-heel and went indoors. Women called their children, who did not respond, but still played on. Then the creepers were carried in, to be fed their bread-and-milk and put to bed; and, shortly, shrill80 feminine voices ordered the other children indoors, and some obeyed.
The night crept slowly on.
I heard Old Walt chuckle81 behind me, talking incoherently to himself, and then he said, "You are wondering why I live in such a place as this?"
"Yes; that is exactly what I was thinking of!"
"You think I belong in the country, in some quiet, shady place. But all I have to do is to shut my eyes and go there. No man loves the woods more than I—I was born within sound of the sea—down on Long Island, and I know all the songs that the seashell sings. But this babble82 and babel of voices pleases me better, especially since my legs went on a strike, for although I can't walk, you see I can still mix with the throng83, so I suffer no loss.
"In the woods, a man must be all hands and feet. I like the folks, the plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and slide on my cellar-door do not disturb me a bit. I'm different from Carlyle—you know he had a noise-proof room where he locked himself in. Now, when a huckster goes by, crying his wares84, I open the blinds, and often wrangle85 with the fellow over the price of things. But the rogues86 have got into a way lately of leaving truck for me and refusing pay. Today an Irishman passed in three quarts of berries and walked off pretending to be mad because I offered to pay. When he was gone, I beckoned87 to the babies over the way—they came over and we had a feast.
"Yes, I like the folks around here; I like the women, and I like the men, and I like the babies, and I like the youngsters that play in the alley88 and make mud pies on my steps. I expect to stay here until I die."
"You speak of death as a matter of course—you are not afraid to die?"
"Oh, no, my boy; death is as natural as life, and a deal kinder. But it is all good—I accept it all and give thanks—you have not forgotten my chant to death?"
"Not I!"
I repeated a few lines from "Drum-Taps."
He followed me, rapping gently with his cane89 on the floor, and with little interjectory remarks of "That's so!" "Very true!" "Good, good!" And when I faltered90 and lost the lines he picked them up where "The voice of my spirit tallied91 the song of the bird."
In a strong, clear voice, but a voice full of sublime92 feeling, he repeated those immortal93 lines, beginning, "Come, lovely and soothing94 Death."
"Come, lovely and soothing Death, Undulate round the world, serenely95 arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate Death. Praised be the fathomless96 universe For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise For the sure enwinding arms of cool, enfolding Death. Dark Mother, always gliding97 near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant for thee, I glorify98 thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously99 sing the death, Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss100, O Death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose, saluting101 thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil'd Death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad102 fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming103 wharves104, and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death."
The last playing youngster had silently disappeared from the streets. The doorsteps were deserted—save where across the way a young man and maiden105 sat in the gloaming, conversing106 in low monotone.
The clouds had drifted away.
A great, yellow star shone out above the chimney-tops in the East.
I arose to go.
"I wish you'd come oftener—I see you so seldom, lad," said the old man, half-plaintively.
I did not explain that we had never met before—that I had come from New York purposely to see him. He thought he knew me. And so he did—as much as I could impart. The rest was irrelevant107. As to my occupation or name, what booted it!—he had no curiosity concerning me. I grasped his outstretched hand in both of my own.
He said not a word; neither did I.
I turned and made my way to the ferry—past the whispering lovers on the doorsteps, and over the railway-tracks where the noisy engines puffed108. As I walked on board the boat, the wind blew up cool and fresh from the West. The star in the East grew brighter, and other stars came out, reflecting themselves like gems109 in the dark blue of the Delaware.
There was a soft sublimity110 in the sound of the bells that came echoing over the waters. My heart was very full, for I had felt the thrill of being in the presence of a great and loving soul.
It was the first time and the last that I ever saw Walt Whitman.
A good many writers bear no message: they carry no torch. Sometimes they excite wonder, or they amuse and divert—divert us from our work. To be diverted to a certain degree may be well, but there is a point where earth ends and cloud-land begins, and even great poets occasionally befog the things they would reveal.
Homer was seemingly blind to much simple truth; Vergil carries you away from earth; Horace was undone111 without his M?cenas; Dante makes you an exile; Shakespeare was singularly silent concerning the doubts, difficulties and common lives of common people; Byron's corsair life does not help you in your toil16, and in his fight with English Bards112 and Scotch113 Reviewers we crave114 neutrality; to be caught in the meshes115 of Pope's "Dunciad" is not pleasant; and Lowell's "Fable116 for Critics" is only another "Dunciad." But above all other poets who have ever lived, the author of "Leaves of Grass" was the poet of humanity.
Milton knew all about Heaven, and Dante conducts us through Hell, but it was left for Whitman to show us Earth. His voice never goes so high that it breaks into an impotent falsetto, neither does it growl117 and snarl118 at things it does not understand and not understanding does not like. He was so great that he had no envy, and his insight was so sure that he had no prejudice. He never boasted that he was higher, nor claimed to be less than any of the other sons of men. He met all on terms of absolute equality, mixing with the poor, the lowly, the fallen, the oppressed, the cultured, the rich—simply as brother with brother. And when he said to an outcast, "Not till the sun excludes you will I exclude you," he voiced a sentiment worthy119 of a god.
He was brother to the elements, the mountains, the seas, the clouds, the sky. He loved them all and partook of them all in his large, free, unselfish, untrammeled nature. His heart knew no limits, and feeling his feet mortised in granite120 and his footsteps tenoned in infinity121 he knew the amplitude122 of time.
Only the great are generous; only the strong are forgiving. Like Lot's wife, most poets look back over their shoulders; and those who are not looking backward insist that we shall look into the future, and the vast majority of the whole scribbling123 rabble124 accept the precept125, "Man never is, but always to be blest."
We grieve for childhood's happy days, and long for sweet rest in Heaven and sigh for mansions126 in the skies. And the people about us seem so indifferent, and our friends so lukewarm; and really no one understands us, and our environment queers our budding spirituality, and the frost of jealousy127 nips our aspirations128: "O Paradise, O Paradise, the world is growing old; who would not be at rest and free where love is never cold." So sing the fearsome dyspeptics of the stylus. O anemic he, you bloodless she, nipping at crackers129, sipping130 at tea, why not consider that, although evolutionists tell us where we came from, and theologians inform us where we are going to, yet the only thing we are really sure of is that we are here!
The present is the perpetually moving spot where history ends and prophecy begins. It is our only possession: the past we reach through lapsing131 memory, halting recollection, hearsay132 and belief; we pierce the future by wistful faith or anxious hope; but the present is beneath our feet.
Whitman sings the beauty and the glory of the present. He rebukes133 our groans134 and sighs—bids us look about on every side at the wonders of creation, and at the miracles within our grasp. He lifts us up, restores us to our own, introduces us to man and to Nature, and thus infuses into us courage, manly pride, self-reliance, and the strong faith that comes when we feel our kinship with God.
He was so mixed with the universe that his voice took on the sway of elemental integrity and candor135. Absolutely honest, this man was unafraid and unashamed, for Nature has neither apprehension136, shame nor vainglory. In "Leaves of Grass" Whitman speaks as all men have ever spoken who believe in God and in themselves—oracular, without apology or abasement—fearlessly. He tells of the powers and mysteries that pervade137 and guide all life, all death, all purpose. His work is masculine, as the sun is masculine; for the Prophetic Voice is as surely masculine as the lullaby and lyric138 cry are feminine.
Whitman brings the warmth of the sun to the buds of the heart, so that they open and bring forth form, color, perfume. He becomes for them aliment and dew; so these buds become blossoms, fruits, tall branches and stately trees that cast refreshing139 shadows.
There are men who are to other men as the shadow of a mighty140 rock in a weary land—such is Walt Whitman.
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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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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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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toiler
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| 辛劳者，勤劳者 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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stevedore
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| n.码头工人；v.装载货物 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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superintendent
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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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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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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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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33
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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34
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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35
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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36
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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37
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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38
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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39
sanest
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的最高级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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40
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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41
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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42
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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43
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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44
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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45
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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46
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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47
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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48
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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49
merges
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| （使）混合( merge的第三人称单数 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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50
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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51
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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52
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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53
passersby
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| n. 过路人(行人,经过者) | |
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54
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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55
pickets
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| 罢工纠察员( picket的名词复数 ) | |
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56
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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57
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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58
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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59
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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60
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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61
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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62
muggy
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| adj.闷热的；adv.（天气）闷热而潮湿地；n.（天气）闷热而潮湿 | |
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63
curbs
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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65
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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66
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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67
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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68
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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69
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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70
rattan
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| n.藤条，藤杖 | |
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71
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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72
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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73
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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74
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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75
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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76
mink
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| n.貂，貂皮 | |
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77
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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78
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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79
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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80
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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81
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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82
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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83
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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84
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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85
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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86
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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87
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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89
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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90
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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91
tallied
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| v.计算，清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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92
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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93
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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94
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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95
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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96
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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97
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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98
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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99
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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100
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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101
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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102
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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103
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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104
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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105
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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106
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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107
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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108
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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109
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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110
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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111
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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112
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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113
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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114
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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115
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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116
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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117
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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118
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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119
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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120
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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121
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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122
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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123
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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124
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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125
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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126
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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127
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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128
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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129
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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130
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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131
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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132
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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133
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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135
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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136
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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137
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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138
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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139
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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140
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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