The Persian poet Saadi says that in a certain region of Armenia, where he travelled, people never died the natural death. But once a year they met on a certain plain, and occupied themselves with recreation, in the midst of which individuals of every rank and age would suddenly stop, make a reverence3 to the west, and, setting out at full speed toward that part of the desert, be seen no more. It is quite in this fashion that guests disappear from Oldport when the season ends. They also are apt to go toward the west, but by steamboat. It is pathetic, on occasion of each annual bereavement4, to observe the wonted looks and language of despair among those who linger behind; and it needs some fortitude5 to think of spending the winter near such a Wharf6 of Sighs.
But we console ourselves. Each season brings its own attractions. In summer one may relish7 what is new in Oldport, as the liveries, the incomes, the manners. There is often a delicious freshness about these exhibitions; it is a pleasure to see some opulent citizen in his first kid gloves. His new-born splendor8 stands in such brilliant relief against the confirmed respectability of the "Old Stone Mill," the only thing on the Atlantic shore which has had time to forget its birthday! But in winter the Old Mill gives the tone to the society around it; we then bethink ourselves of the crown upon our Trinity Church steeple, and resolve that the courtesies of a bygone age shall yet linger here. Is there any other place in America where gentlemen still take off their hats to one another on the public promenade9? The hat is here what it still is in Southern Europe,—the lineal successor of the sword as the mark of a gentleman. It is noticed that, in going from Oldport to New York or Boston, one is liable to be betrayed by an over-flourish of the hat, as is an Arkansas man by a display of the bowie-knife.
Winter also imparts to these spacious10 estates a dignity that is sometimes wanting in summer. I like to stroll over them during this epoch11 of desertion, just as once, when I happened to hold the keys of a church, it seemed pleasant to sit, on a week-day, among its empty pews. The silent walls appeared to hold the pure essence of the prayers of a generation, while the routine and the ennui12 had vanished all away. One may here do the same with fashion as there with devotion, extracting its finer flavors, if such there be, unalloyed by vulgarity or sin. In the winter I can fancy these fine houses tenanted by a true nobility; all the sons are brave, and all the daughters virtuous13. These balconies have heard the sighs of passion without selfishness; those cedarn14 alleys15 have admitted only vows16 that were never broken. If the occupant of the house be unknown, even by name, so much the better. And from homes more familiar, what lovely childish faces seem still to gaze from the doorways17, what graceful18 Absences (to borrow a certain poet's phrase) are haunting those windows!
There is a sense of winter quiet that makes a stranger soon feel at home in Oldport, while the prospective19 stir of next summer precludes20 all feeling of stagnation21. Commonly, in quiet places, one suffers from the knowledge that everybody would prefer to be unquiet; but nobody has any such longing22 here. Doubtless there are aged23 persons who deplore24 the good old times when the Oldport mail-bags were larger than those arriving at New York. But if it were so now, what memories would there be to talk about? If you wish for "Syrian peace, immortal25 leisure,"—a place where no grown person ever walks rapidly along the street, and where few care enough for rain to open an umbrella or walk faster,—come here.
My abode26 is on a broad, sunny street, with a few great elms overhead, and with large old houses and grass-banks opposite. There is so little snow that the outlook in the depth of winter is often merely that of a paler and leafless summer, and a soft, springlike sky almost always spreads above. Past the window streams an endless sunny panorama27 (for the house fronts the chief thoroughfare between country and town),—relics of summer equipages in faded grandeur28; great, fragrant29 hay-carts; vast moving mounds30 of golden straw; loads of crimson31 onions; heaps of pale green cabbages; piles of gray tree-prunings, looking as if the patrician32 trees were sending their superfluous33 wealth of branches to enrich the impoverished34 orchards35 of the Poor Farm; wagons36 of sea-weed just from the beach, with bright, moist hues38, and dripping with sea-water and sea-memories, each weed an argosy, bearing its own wild histories. At this season, the very houses move, and roll slowly by, looking round for more lucrative39 quarters next season. Never have I seen real estate made so transportable as in Oldport. The purchaser, after finishing and furnishing to his fancy, puts his name on the door, and on the fence a large white placard inscribed40 "For sale". Then his household arrangements are complete, and he can sit down to enjoy himself.
By a side-glance from our window, one may look down an ancient street, which in some early epoch of the world's freshness received the name of Spring Street. A certain lively lady, addicted41 to daring Scriptural interpretations42, thinks that there is some mistake in the current versions of Genesis, and that it was Spring Street which was created in the beginning, and the heavens and earth at some subsequent period. There are houses in Spring Street, and there is a confectioner's shop; but it is not often that a sound comes across its rugged43 pavements, save perchance (in summer) the drone of an ancient hand-organ, such as might have been devised by Adam to console his Eve when Paradise was lost. Yet of late the desecrating44 hammer and the ear-piercing saw have entered that haunt of ancient peace. May it be long ere any such invasion reaches those strange little wharves45 in the lower town, full of small, black, gambrel-roofed houses, with projecting eaves that might almost serve for piazzas46. It is possible for an unpainted wooden building to assume, in this climate, a more time-worn aspect than that of any stone; and on these wharves everything is so old, and yet so stunted47, you might fancy that the houses had been sent down there to play during their childhood, and that nobody had ever remembered to fetch them back.
The ancient aspect of things around us, joined with the softening48 influences of the Gulf49 Stream, imparts an air of chronic50 languor51 to the special types of society which here prevail in winter,—as, for instance, people of leisure, trades-people living on their summer's gains, and, finally, fishermen. Those who pursue this last laborious52 calling are always lazy to the eye, for they are on shore only in lazy moments. They work by night or at early dawn, and by day they perhaps lie about on the rocks, or sit upon one heel beside a fish-house door. I knew a missionary53 who resigned his post at the Isles54 of Shoals because it was impossible to keep the Sunday worshippers from lying at full length on the seats. Our boatmen have the same habit, and there is a certain dreaminess about them, in whatever posture55. Indeed, they remind one quite closely of the German boatman in Uhland, who carried his reveries so far as to accept three fees from one passenger.
But the truth is, that in Oldport we all incline to the attitude of repose56. Now and then a man comes here, from farther east, with the New England fever in his blood, and with a pestilent desire to do something. You hear of him, presently, proposing that the Town Hall should be repainted. Opposition57 would require too much effort, and the thing is done. But the Gulf Stream soon takes its revenge on the intruder, and gradually repaints him also, with its own soft and mellow58 tints60. In a few years he would no more bestir himself to fight for a change than to fight against it.
It makes us smile a little, therefore, to observe that universal delusion61 among the summer visitors, that we spend all winter in active preparations for next season. Not so; we all devote it solely62 to meditations63 on the season past. I observe that nobody in Oldport ever believes in any coming summer. Perhaps the tide is turned, we think, and people will go somewhere else. You do not find us altering our houses in December, or building out new piazzas even in March. We wait till the people have actually come to occupy them. The preparation for visitors is made after the visitors have arrived. This may not be the way in which things are done in what are called "smart business places." But it is our way in Oldport.
It is another delusion to suppose that we are bored by this long epoch of inactivity. Not at all; we enjoy it. If you enter a shop in winter, you will find everybody rejoiced to see you—as a friend; but if it turns out that you have come as a customer, people will look a little disappointed. It is rather inconsiderate of you to make such demands out of season. Winter is not exactly the time for that sort of thing. It seems rather to violate the conditions of the truce64. Could you not postpone65 the affair till next July? Every country has its customs; I observe that in some places, New York for instance, the shopkeepers seem rather to enjoy a "field-day" when the sun and the customers are out. In Oldport, on the contrary, men's spirits droop66 at such times, and they go through their business sadly. They force themselves to it during the summer, perhaps,—for one must make some sacrifices,—but in winter it is inappropriate as strawberries and cream.
The same spirit of repose pervades67 the streets. Nobody ever looks in a hurry, or as if an hour's delay would affect the thing in hand. The nearest approach to a mob is when some stranger, thinking himself late for the train (as if the thing were possible), is tempted68 to run a few steps along the sidewalk. On such an occasion I have seen doors open, and heads thrust out. But ordinarily even the physicians drive slowly, as if they wished to disguise their profession, or to soothe69 the nerves of some patient who may be gazing from a window.
Yet they are not to be censured70, since Death, their antagonist71, here drives slowly too. The number of the aged among us is surprising, and explains some phenomena72 otherwise strange. You will notice, for instance, that there are no posts before the houses in Oldport to which horses may be tied. Fashionable visitors might infer that every horse is supposed to be attended by a groom73. Yet the tradition is, that there were once as many posts here as elsewhere, but that they were removed to get rid of the multitude of old men who leaned all day against them. It obstructed74 the passing. And these aged citizens, while permitted to linger at their posts, were gossiping about men still older, in earthly or heavenly habitations, and the sensation of longevity75 went on accumulating indefinitely in their talk. Their very disputes had a flavor of antiquity76, and involved the reputation of female relatives to the third or fourth generation. An old fisherman testified in our Police Court, the other day, in narrating77 the progress of a street quarrel; "Then I called him 'Polly Garter,'—that's his grandmother; and he called me 'Susy Reynolds,'—that's my aunt that's dead and gone."
In towns like this, from which the young men mostly migrate, the work of life devolves upon the venerable and the very young. When I first came to Oldport, it appeared to me that every institution was conducted by a boy and his grandfather. This seemed the case, for instance, with the bank that consented to assume the slender responsibility of my deposits. It was further to be observed, that, if the elder official was absent for a day, the boy carried on the proceedings78 unaided; while if the boy also wished to amuse himself elsewhere, a worthy79 neighbor from across the way came in to fill the places of both. Seeing this, I retained my small hold upon the concern with fresh tenacity80; for who knew but some day, when the directors also had gone on a picnic, the senior depositor might take his turn at the helm? It may savor81 of self-confidence, but it has always seemed to me, that, with one day's control of a bank, even in these degenerate82 times, something might be done which would quite astonish the stockholders.
Longer acquaintance has, however, revealed the fact, that these Oldport institutions stand out as models of strict discipline beside their suburban83 compeers. A friend of mine declares that he went lately into a country bank, nearby, and found no one on duty. Being of opinion that there should always be someone behind the counter of a bank, he went there himself. Wishing to be informed as to the resources of his establishment, he explored desks and vaults84, found a good deal of paper of different kinds, and some rich veins85 of copper86, but no cashier. Going to the door again in some anxiety, he encountered a casual school-boy, who kindly87 told him that he did not know where the financial officer might be at the precise moment of inquiry88, but that half an hour before he was on the wharf, fishing.
Death comes to the aged at last, however, even in Oldport. We have lately lost, for instance, that patient old postman, serenest89 among our human antiquities90, whose deliberate tread might have imparted a tone of repose to Broadway, could any imagination have transferred him thither91. Through him the correspondence of other days came softened92 of all immediate93 solicitude94. Ere it reached you, friends had died or recovered, debtors95 had repented96, creditors97 grown kind, or your children had paid your debts. Perils98 had passed, hopes were chastened, and the most eager expectant took calmly the missive from that tranquillizing hand. Meeting his friends and clients with a step so slow that it did not even stop rapidly, he, like Tennyson's Mariana, slowly
Old letters."
But a summons came at last, not to be postponed100 even by him. One day he delivered his mail as usual, with no undue101 precipitation; on the next, the blameless soul was himself taken and forwarded on some celestial102 route.
Irreparable would have seemed his loss, did there not still linger among us certain types of human antiquity that might seem to disprove the fabled103 youth of America. One veteran I daily meet, of uncertain age, perhaps, but with at least that air of brevet antiquity which long years of unruffled indolence can give. He looks as if he had spent at least half a lifetime on the sunny slope of some beach, and the other half in leaning upon his elbows at the window of some sailor boarding-house. He is hale and broad, with a head sunk between two strong shoulders; his beard falls like snow upon his breast, longer and longer each year, while his slumberous104 thoughts seem to move slowly enough to watch it as it grows. I always fancy that these meditations have drifted far astern of the times, but are following after, in patient hopelessness, as a dog swims behind a boat. What knows he of the President's Message? He has just overtaken some remarkable105 catch of mackerel in the year thirty-eight. His hands lie buried fathom-deep in his pockets, as if part of his brain lay there to be rummaged106; and he sucks at his old pipe as if his head, like other venerable hulks, must be smoked out at intervals107. His walk is that of a sloth108, one foot dragging heavily behind the other. I meet him as I go to the post-office, and on returning, twenty minutes later, I pass him again, a little farther advanced. All the children accost109 him, and I have seen him stop—no great retardation110 indeed—to fondle in his arms a puppy or a kitten. Yet he is liable to excitement, in his way; for once, in some high debate, wherein he assisted as listener, when one old man on a wharf was doubting the assertion of another old man about a certain equinoctial gale111, I saw my friend draw his right hand slowly and painfully from his pocket, and let it fall by his side. It was really one of the most emphatic112 gesticulations I ever saw, and tended obviously to quell113 the rising discord114. It was as if the herald115 at a tournament had dropped his truncheon, and the fray116 must end.
Women's faces are apt to take from old age a finer touch than those of men, and poverty does not interfere117 with this, where there is no actual exposure to the elements. From the windows of these old houses there often look forth118 delicate, faded countenances119, to which belongs an air of unmistakable refinement120. Nowhere in America, I fancy, does one see such counterparts of the reduced gentlewoman of England,—as described, for instance, in "Cranford,"—quiet maiden121 ladies of seventy, with perhaps a tradition of beauty and bellehood, and still wearing always a bit of blue ribbon on their once golden curls,—this headdress being still carefully arranged, each day, by some handmaiden of sixty, so long a house-mate as to seem a sister, though some faint suggestion of wages and subordination may be still preserved. Among these ladies, as in "Cranford," there is a dignified122 reticence123 in respect to money-matters, and a courteous124 blindness to the small economies practised by each other. It is not held good breeding, when they meet in a shop of a morning, for one to seem to notice what another buys.
These ancient ladies have coats of arms upon their walls, hereditary125 damasks among their scanty126 wardrobes, store of domestic traditions in their brains, and a whole Court Guide of high-sounding names at their fingers' ends. They can tell you of the supposed sister of an English queen, who married an American officer and dwelt in Oldport; of the Scotch127 Lady Janet, who eloped with her tutor, and here lived in poverty, paying her washerwoman with costly128 lace from her trunks; of the Oldport dame129 who escaped from France at the opening of the Revolution, was captured by pirates on her voyage to America, then retaken by a privateer and carried into Boston, where she took refuge in John Hancock's house. They can describe to you the Malbone Gardens, and, as the night wanes130 and the embers fade, can give the tale of the Phantom131 of Rough Point. Gliding132 farther and farther into the past, they revert133 to the brilliant historic period of Oldport, the successive English and French occupations during our Revolution, and show you gallant134 inscriptions135 in honor of their grandmothers, written on the window-panes by the diamond rings of the foreign officers.
The newer strata136 of Oldport society are formed chiefly by importation, and have the one advantage of a variety of origin which puts provincialism out of the question. The mild winter climate and the supposed cheapness of living draw scattered137 families from the various Atlantic cities; and, coming from such different sources, these visitors leave some exclusiveness behind. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, are doubtless good things to have in one's house, but are cumbrous to travel with. Meeting here on central ground, partial aristocracies tend to neutralize138 each other. A Boston family comes, bristling139 with genealogies140, and making the most of its little all of two centuries. Another arrives from Philadelphia, equally fortified141 in local heraldries unknown in Boston.
A third from New York brings a briefer pedigree, but more gilded142. Their claims are incompatible143; but there is no common standard, and so neither can have precedence. Since no human memory can retain the great-grandmothers of three cities, we are practically as well off as if we had no great-grandmothers at all.
But in Oldport, as elsewhere, the spice of conversation is apt to be in inverse144 ratio to family tree and income-tax, and one can hear better repartees among the boat-builders' shops on Long Wharf than among those who have made the grand tour. All the world over, one is occasionally reminded of the French officer's verdict on the garrison145 town where he was quartered, that the good society was no better than the good society anywhere else, but the bad society was capital. I like, for instance, to watch the shoals of fishermen that throng146 our streets in the early spring, inappropriate as porpoises147 on land, or as Scott's pirates in peaceful Kirkwall,—unwieldy, bearded creatures in oil-skin suits,—men who have never before seen a basket-wagon or a liveried groom and, whose first comments on the daintinesses of fashion are far more racy than anything which fashion can say for itself.
The life of our own fishermen and pilots remains148 active, in its way, all winter; and coasting vessels149 come and go in the open harbor every day. The only schooner151 that is not so employed is, to my eye, more attractive than any of them; it is our sole winter guest, this year, of all the graceful flotilla of yachts that helped to make our summer moonlights so charming. While Europe seems in such ecstasy152 over the ocean yacht-race, there lies at anchor, stripped and dismantled153, a vessel150 which was excluded from the match, it is said, simply because neither of the three competitors would have had a chance against her. I like to look across the harbor at the graceful proportions of this uncrowned victor in the race she never ran; and to my eye her laurels154 are the most attractive. She seems a fit emblem155 of the genius that waits, while talent merely wins. "Let me know," said that fine, but unappreciated thinker, Brownlee Brown,—"let me know what chances a man has passed in contempt; not what he has made, but what he has refused to make, reserving himself for higher ends."
All out-door work in winter has a cheerful look, from the triumph of caloric it implies; but I know none in which man seems to revert more to the lower modes of being than in searching for seaclams. One may sometimes observe a dozen men employed in this way, on one of our beaches, while the cold wind blows keenly off shore, and the spray drifts back like snow over the green and sluggish158 surge. The men pace in and out with the wave, going steadily159 to and fro like a pendulum160, ankle-deep in the chilly161 brine, their steps quickened by hope or slackening with despair. Where the maidens162 and children sport and shout in summer, there in winter these heavy figures succeed. To them the lovely crest163 of the emerald billow is but a chariot for clams156, and is valueless if it comes in empty. Really, the position of the clam157 is the more dignified, since he moves only with the wave, and the immortal being in fish-boots wades164 for him.
The harbor and the beach are thus occupied in winter; but one may walk for many a mile along the cliffs, and see nothing human but a few gardeners, spreading green and white sea-weed as manure165 upon the lawns. The mercury rarely drops to zero here, and there is little snow; but a new-fallen drift has just the same virgin166 beauty as farther inland, and when one suddenly comes in view of the sea beyond it, there is a sensation of summer softness. The water is not then deep blue, but pale, with opaline reflections. Vessels in the far horizon have the same delicate tint59, as if woven of the same liquid material. A single wave lifts itself languidly above a reef,—a white-breasted loon167 floats near the shore,—the sea breaks in long, indolent curves,—the distant islands swim in a vague mirage168. Along the cliffs hang great organ-pipes of ice, distilling169 showers of drops that glitter in the noonday sun, while the barer rocks send up a perpetual steam, giving to the eye a sense of warmth, and suggesting the comforts of fire. Beneath, the low tide reveals long stretches of golden-brown sea-weed, caressed170 by the lapping wave.
High winds bring a different scene. Sometimes I fancy that in winter, with less visible life upon the surface of the water, and less of unseen animal life below it, there is yet more that seems like vital force in the individual particles of waves. Each separate drop appears more charged with desperate and determined171 life. The lines of surf run into each other more brokenly, and with less steady roll. The low sun, too, lends a weird172 and jagged shadow to gallop173 in before the crest of each advancing wave, and sometimes there is a second crest on the shoulders of the first, as if there were more than could be contained in a single curve. Greens and purples are called forth to replace the prevailing174 blue. Far out at sea, great separate mounds of water rear themselves, as if to overlook the tossing plain. Sometimes these move onward175 and subside176 with their green hue37 still unbroken, and again they curve into detached hillocks of foam177, white, multitudinous, side by side, not ridged, but moving on like a mob of white horses, neck overarching neck, breast crowded against breast.
Across those tumultuous waves I like to watch, after sunset, the revolving178 light; there is something about it so delicate and human. It seems to bud or bubble out of the low, dark horizon; a moment, and it is not, and then another moment, and it is. With one throb179 the tremulous light is born; with another throb it has reached its full size, and looks at you, coy and defiant180; and almost in that instant it is utterly181 gone. You cannot conceive yourself to be watching something which merely turns on an axis182; but it seems suddenly to expand, a flower of light, or to close, as if soft petals183 of darkness clasped it in. During its moments of absence, the eye cannot quite keep the memory of its precise position, and it often appears a hair-breadth to the right or left of the expected spot. This enhances the elfish and fantastic look, and so the pretty game goes on, with flickering184 surprises, every night and all night long. But the illusion of the seasons is just as coquettish; and when next summer comes to us, with its blossoms and its joys, it will dawn as softly out of the darkness and as softly give place to winter once more.
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1
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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cedarn
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| 杉的，杉木制的 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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precludes
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| v.阻止( preclude的第三人称单数 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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36
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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37
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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38
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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39
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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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
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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42
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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43
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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44
desecrating
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的现在分词 ) | |
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45
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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46
piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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47
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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48
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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49
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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50
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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51
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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52
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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53
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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54
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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55
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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56
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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57
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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58
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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59
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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60
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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61
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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62
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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63
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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64
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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65
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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66
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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67
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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69
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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70
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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71
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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72
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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73
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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74
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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75
longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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76
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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77
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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78
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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79
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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80
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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81
savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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82
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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83
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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84
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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85
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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86
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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87
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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88
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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89
serenest
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的最高级形式 | |
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90
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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91
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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92
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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93
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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94
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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95
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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96
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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98
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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99
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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100
postponed
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|
| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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101
undue
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|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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102
celestial
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|
| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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103
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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104
slumberous
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| a.昏昏欲睡的 | |
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105
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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106
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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107
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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108
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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109
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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110
retardation
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| n.智力迟钝，精神发育迟缓 | |
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111
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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112
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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113
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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114
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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115
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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116
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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117
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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118
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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119
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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120
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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121
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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122
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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123
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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124
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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125
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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126
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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127
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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128
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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129
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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130
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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131
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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132
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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133
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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134
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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135
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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136
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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137
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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138
neutralize
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| v.使失效、抵消，使中和 | |
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139
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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140
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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141
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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142
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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143
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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144
inverse
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| adj.相反的，倒转的，反转的；n.相反之物；v.倒转 | |
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145
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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146
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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147
porpoises
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| n.鼠海豚( porpoise的名词复数 ) | |
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148
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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149
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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150
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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151
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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152
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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153
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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154
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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155
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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156
clams
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| n.蛤；蚌，蛤( clam的名词复数 )v.（在沙滩上）挖蛤( clam的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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158
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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159
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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160
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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161
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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162
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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163
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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164
wades
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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165
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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166
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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167
loon
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| n.狂人 | |
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168
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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169
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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170
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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172
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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173
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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174
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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175
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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176
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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177
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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178
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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179
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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180
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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181
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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182
axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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183
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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184
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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