Every nighte and alle,
Fire and salt and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule."
The October days grow rapidly shorter, and brighten with more concentrated light. It is but half past five, yet the sun dips redly behind Conanicut, the sunset-gun booms from our neighbor's yacht, the flag glides2 down from his mainmast, and the slender pennant4, running swiftly up the opposite halyards, dances and flickers5 like a flame, and at last perches6, with dainty hesitation7, at the mast-head. A tint8 of salmon-color, burnished9 into long undulations of lustre10, overspreads the shallower waves; but a sober gray begins to steal in beneath the sunset rays, and will soon claim even the brilliant foreground for its own. Pile a few more fragments of drift-wood upon the fire in the great chimney, little maiden13, and then couch yourself before it, that I may have your glowing childhood as a foreground for those heaped relics15 of shipwreck16 and despair. You seem, in your scarlet18 boating-dress, Annie, like some bright tropic bird, alit for a moment beside that other bird of the tropics, flame.
Thoreau thought that his temperament19 dated from an earlier period than the agricultural, because he preferred woodcraft to gardening; and it is also pleasant to revert20 to the period when men had invented neither saws nor axes, but simply picked up their fuel in forests or on ocean-shores. Fire is a thing which comes so near us, and combines itself so closely with our life, that we enjoy it best when we work for it in some way, so that our fuel shall warm us twice, as the country people say,—once in the getting, and again in the burning. Yet no work seems to have more of the flavor of play in it than that of collecting drift-wood on some convenient beach, or than this boat-service of ours, Annie, when we go wandering from island to island in the harbor, and glide3 over sea-weedgroves and the habitations of crabs,—or to the flowery and ruined bastions of Rose Island,—or to those caves at Coaster's Harbor where we played Victor Hugo, and were eaten up in fancy by a cuttle-fish. Then we voyaged, you remember, to that further cave in, the solid rock, just above low-water-mark, a cell unapproachable by land, and high enough for you to stand erect21. There you wished to play Constance in Marmion, and to be walled up alive, if convenient; but as it proved impracticable on that day, you helped me to secure some bits of drift-wood instead. Longer voyages brought waifs from remoter islands,—whose very names tell, perchance, the changing story of mariners22 long since wrecked,—isles baptized Patience and Prudence24, Hope and Despair. And other relics bear witness of more distant beaches, and of those wrecks25 which still lie, sentinels of ruin, along Brenton's Point and Castle Hill.
To collect drift-wood is like botanizing, and one soon learns to recognize the prevailing26 species, and to look with pleased eagerness for new. It is a tragic27 botany indeed, where, as in enchanted28 gardens, every specimen29 has a voice, and, as you take each from the ground, you expect from it a cry like the mandrake's. And from what a garden it comes! As one walks round Brenton's Point after an autumnal storm, it seems as if the passionate30 heaving of the waves had brought wholly new tints31 to the surface, hues32 unseen even in dreams before, greens and purples impossible in serener33 days. These match the prevailing green and purple of the slate-cliffs; and Nature in truth carries such fine fitnesses yet further. For, as we tread the delicate seaside turf, which makes the farthest point seem merely the land's last bequest35 of emerald to the ocean, we suddenly come upon curved lines of lustrous36 purple amid the grass, rows on rows of bright muscle-shells, regularly traced as if a child had played there,—the graceful37 high-water-mark of the terrible storm.
It is the crowning fascination38 of the sea, the consummation of such might in such infantine delicacy39. You may notice it again in the summer, when our bay is thronged40 for miles on miles with inch-long jelly-fishes,—lovely creatures, in shape like disembodied gooseberries, and shot through and through in the sunlight with all manner of blue and golden glistenings, and bearing tiny rows of fringing oars41 that tremble like a baby's eyelids42. There is less of gross substance in them than in any other created thing,—mere34 water and outline, destined43 to perish at a touch, but seemingly never touching44, for they float secure, finding no conceivable cradle so soft as this awful sea. They are like melodies amid Beethoven's Symphonies, or like the songs that wander through Shakespeare, and that seem things too fragile to risk near Cleopatra's passion and Hamlet's woe45. Thus tender is the touch of ocean; and look, how around this piece of oaken timber, twisted and torn and furrowed,—its iron bolts snapped across as if bitten,—there is yet twined a gay garland of ribbon-weed, bearing on its trailing stem a cluster of bright shells, like a mermaid's chatelaine.
Thus adorned46, we place it on the blaze. As night gathers without, the gale47 rises. It is a season of uneasy winds, and of strange, rainless storms, which perplex the fishermen, and indicate rough weather out at sea. As the house trembles and the windows rattle48, we turn towards the fire with a feeling of safety. Representing the fiercest of all dangers, it yet expresses security and comfort.
Should a gale tear the roof from over our heads and show the black sky alone above us, we should not feel utterly49 homeless while this fire burned,—at least I can recall such a feeling of protection when once left suddenly roofless by night in one of the wild gorges50 of Mount Katahdin. There is a positive demonstrative force in an open fire, which makes it your fit ally in a storm. Settled and obdurate51 cold may well be encountered by the quiet heat of an invisible furnace. But this howling wind might depress one's spirits, were it not met by a force as palpable,—the warm blast within answering to the cold blast without. The wide chimney then becomes the scene of contest: wind meets wind, sparks encounter rain-drops, they fight in the air like the visioned soldiers of Attila; sometimes a daring drop penetrates52, and dies, hissing53, on the hearth54; and sometimes a troop of sparks may make a sortie from the chimney-top. I know not how else we can meet the elements by a defiance55 so magnificent as that from this open hearth; and in burning drift-wood, especially, we turn against the enemy his own ammunition56. For on these fragments three elements have already done their work. Water racked and strained the hapless ships, air hunted them, and they were thrown at last upon earth, the sternest of all. Now fire takes the shattered remnants, and makes them a means of comfort and defence.
It has been pointed57 out by botanists58, as one of Nature's most graceful retributions, that, in the building of the ship, the apparent balance of vegetable forces is reversed, and the herb becomes master of the tree, when the delicate, blue-eyed flax, taking the stately pine under its protection, stretches over it in cordage, or spreads in sails. But more graceful still is this further contest between the great natural elements, when this most fantastic and vanishing thing, this delicate and dancing flame, subdues59 all these huge vassals60 to its will, and, after earth and air and water have done their utmost, comes in to complete the task, and to be crowned as monarch61. "The sea drinks the air," said Anacreon, "and the sun the sea." My fire is the child of the sun.
I come back from every evening stroll to this gleaming blaze; it is a domestic lamp, and shines for me everywhere. To my imagination it burns as a central flame among these dark houses, and lights up the whole of this little fishing hamlet, humble62 suburb of the fashionable watering-place. I fancy that others too perceive the light, and that certain huge visitors are attracted, even when the storm keeps neighbors and friends at home. For the slightest presage63 of foul64 weather is sure to bring to yonder anchorage a dozen silent vessels66, that glide up the harbor for refuge, and are heard but once, when the chain-cable rattles67 as it runs out, and the iron hand of the anchor grasps the rock. It always seems to me that these unwieldy creatures are gathered, not about the neighboring lighthouse only, but around our ingle-side. Welcome, ye great winged strangers, whose very names are unknown! This hearth is comprehensive in its hospitalities; it will accept from you either its fuel or its guests; your mariners may warm themselves beside it, or your scattered68 timbers may warm me. Strange instincts might be supposed to thrill and shudder70 in the ribs71 of ships that sail toward the beacon72 of a drift-wood fire. Morituri salutant. A single shock, and all that magnificent fabric73 may become mere fuel to prolong the flame.
Here, beside the roaring ocean, this blaze represents the only receptacle more vast than ocean. We say, "unstable74 as water." But there is nothing unstable about the flickering75 flame; it is persistent76 and desperate, relentless77 in following its ends. It is the most tremendous physical force that man can use. "If drugs fail," said Hippocrates, "use the knife; should the knife fail, use fire." Conquered countries were anciently given over to fire and sword: the latter could only kill, but the other could annihilate78. See how thoroughly79 it does its work, even when domesticated80: it takes up everything upon the hearth and leaves all clean. The Greek proverb says, that "the sea drinks up all the sins of the world." Save fire only, the sea is the most capacious of all things.
But its task is left incomplete: it only hides its records, while fire destroys them. In the Norse Edda, when the gods try their games, they find themselves able to out-drink the ocean, but not to eat like the flame. Logi, or fire, licks up food and trencher and all. This chimney is more voracious81 than the sea. Give time enough, and all which yonder depths contain might pass through this insatiable throat, leaving only a few ashes and the memory of a flickering shade,—pulvis et umbra. We recognize this when we have anything to conceal82. Deep crimes are buried in earth, deeper are sunk In water, but the deepest of all are confided83 by trembling men to the profounder secrecy84 of flame. If every old chimney could narrate85 the fearful deeds whose last records it has cancelled, what sighs of undying passion would breathe from its dark summit,—what groans86 of guilt87! Those lurid88 sparks that whirl over yonder house-top, tossed aloft as if fire itself could not contain them, may be the last embers of some written scroll89, one rescued word of which might suffice for the ruin of a household, and the crushing of many hearts.
But this domestic hearth of ours holds only, besides its drift-wood, the peaceful records of the day,—its shreds90 and fragments and fallen leaves. As the ancients poured wine upon their flames, so I pour rose-leaves in libation; and each morning contributes the faded petals91 of yesterday's wreaths. All our roses of this season have passed up this chimney in the blaze. Their delicate veins92 were filled with all the summer's fire, and they returned to fire once more,—ashes to ashes, flame to flame. For holding, with Bettina, that every flower which is broken becomes immortal93 in the sacrifice, I deem it more fitting that their earthly part should die by a concentration of that burning element which would at any rate be in some form their ending; so they have their altar on this bright hearth.
Let us pile up the fire anew with drift-wood, Annie. We can choose at random94; for our logs came from no single forest. It is considered an important branch of skill in the country to know the varieties of firewood, and to choose among them well. But to-night we have the whole Atlantic shore for our wood-pile, and the Gulf95 Stream for a teamster. Every foreign tree of rarest name may, for aught we know, send its treasures to our hearth. Logwood and satinwood may mingle96 with cedar97 and maple98; the old cellar floors of this once princely town are of mahogany, and why not our fire? I have a very indistinct impression what teak is; but if it means something black and impenetrable and nearly indestructible, then there is a piece of it, Annie, on the hearth at this moment.
It must be owned, indeed, that timbers soaked long enough in salt-water seem almost to lose their capacity of being burnt. Perhaps it was for this reason that, in the ancient "lyke-wakes" of the North of England, a pinch of salt was placed upon the dead body, as a safeguard against purgatorial99 flames. Yet salt melts ice, and so represents heat, one would think; and one can fancy that these fragments should be doubly inflammable, by their saline quality, and by the unmerciful rubbing which the waves have given them. I have noticed what warmth this churning process communicates to the clotted100 foam101 that lies in tremulous masses among the rocks, holding all the blue of ocean in its bubbles. After one's hands are chilled with the water, one can warm them in the foam. These drift-wood fragments are but the larger foam of shipwrecks102.
What strange comrades this flame brings together! As foreign sailors from remotest seas may sit and chat side by side, before some boarding-house fire in this seaport103 town, so these shapeless sticks, perhaps gathered from far wider wanderings, now nestle together against the backlog104, and converse105 in strange dialects as they burn. It is written in the Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma, that, "as two planks106, floating on the surface of the mighty108 receptacle of the waters, meet, and having met are separated forever, so do beings in this life come together and presently are parted." Perchance this chimney reunites the planks, at the last moment, as death must reunite friends.
And with what wondrous109 voices these strayed wanderers talk to one another on the hearth! They bewitch us by the mere fascination of their language. Such a delicacy of intonation110, yet such a volume of sound. The murmur111 of the surf is not so soft or so solemn. There are the merest hints and traceries of tones,—phantom112 voices, more remote from noise than anything which is noise; and yet there is an undertone of roar, as from a thousand cities, the cities whence these wild voyagers came. Watch the decreasing sounds of a fire as it dies,—for it seems cruel to leave it, as we do, to die alone. I watched beside this hearth last night. As the fire sank down, the little voices grew stiller and more still, and at last there came only irregular beats, at varying intervals113, as if from a heart that acted spasmodically, or as if it were measuring off by ticks the little remnant of time. Then it said, "Hush114!" two or three times, and there came something so like a sob11 that it seemed human; and then all was still.
If these dying voices are so sweet and subtile, what legends must be held untold115 by yonder fragments that lie unconsumed! Photography has familiarized us with the thought that every visible act, since the beginning of the world, has stamped itself upon surrounding surfaces, even if we have not yet skill to discern and hold the image. And especially, in looking on a liquid expanse, such as the ocean in calm, one is haunted with these fancies. I gaze into its depths, and wonder if no stray reflection has been imprisoned116 there, still accessible to human eyes, of some scene of passion or despair it has witnessed; as some maiden visitor at Holyrood Palace, looking in the ancient metallic117 mirror, might start at the thought that perchance some lineament of Mary Stuart may suddenly look out, in desolate118 and forgotten beauty, mingled119 with her own. And if the mere waters of the ocean, satiate and wearied with tragedy as they must be, still keep for our fancy such records, how much more might we attribute a human consciousness to these shattered fragments, each seared by its own special grief.
Yet while they are silent, I like to trace back for these component120 parts of my fire such brief histories as I share. This block, for instance, came from the large schooner121 which now lies at the end of Castle Hill Beach, bearing still aloft its broken masts and shattered rigging, and with its keel yet stanch122, except that the stern-post is gone,—so that each tide sweeps in its green harvest of glossy123 kelp, and then tosses it in the hold like hay, desolately124 tenanting the place which once sheltered men. The floating weed, so graceful in its own place, looks but dreary125 when thus confined. On that fearfully cold Monday of last winter (January 8, 1866) when the mercury stood at -10 deg.; even in this mildest corner of New England,—this vessel65 was caught helplessly amid the ice that drifted out of the west passage of Narragansett Bay, before the fierce north-wind. They tried to beat into the eastern entrance, but the schooner seemed in sinking condition, the sails and helm were clogged126 with ice, and every rope, as an eye-witness told me, was as large as a man's body with frozen sleet127. Twice they tacked128 across, making no progress; and then, to save their lives, ran the vessel on the rocks and got ashore129. After they had left her, a higher wave swept her off, and drifted her into a little cove130, where she has ever since remained.
There were twelve wrecks along this shore last winter,—more than during any season for a quarter of a century. I remember when the first of these lay in great fragments on Graves Point, a schooner having been stranded131 on Cormorant132 Rocks outside, and there broken in pieces by the surf. She had been split lengthwise, and one great side was leaning up against the sloping rock, bows on, like some wild sea-creature never before beheld133 of men, and come there but to die. So strong was this impression that when I afterwards saw men at work upon the wreck17, tearing out the iron bolts and chains, it seemed like torturing the last moments of a living thing. At my next visit there was no person in sight; another companion fragment had floated ashore, and the two lay peacefully beside the sailors' graves (which give the name to the point), as if they found comfort there. A little farther on there was a brig ashore and deserted134. A fog came in from the sea; and, as I sat by the graves, some unseen passing vessel struck eight bells for noon. For a moment I fancied that it came from the empty brig,—a ghostly call, to summon phantom sailors.
That smouldering brand, which has alternately gleamed and darkened for so many minutes, I brought from Price's Neck last winter, when the Brenton's Reef Light-ship went ashore. Yonder the oddly shaped vessel rides at anchor now, two miles from land, bearing her lanterns aloft at fore12 and main top. She parted her moorings by night, in the fearful storm of October 19, 1865; and I well remember, that, as I walked through the streets that wild evening, it seemed dangerous to be out of doors, and I tried to imagine what was going on at sea, while at that very moment the light-ship was driving on toward me in the darkness. It was thus that it happened:—
There had been a heavy gale from the southeast, which, after a few hours of lull135, suddenly changed in the afternoon to the southwest, which is, on this coast, the prevailing direction. Beginning about three o'clock, this new wind had risen almost to a hurricane by six, and held with equal fury till midnight, after which it greatly diminished, though, when I visited the wreck next morning, it was hard to walk against the blast. The light-ship went adrift at eight in the evening; the men let go another anchor, with forty fathoms136 of cable; this parted also, but the cable dragged, as she drifted in, keeping the vessel's head to the wind, which was greatly to her advantage. The great waves took her over five lines of reef, on each of which her keel grazed or held for a time. She came ashore on Price's Neck at last, about eleven.
It was utterly dark; the sea broke high over the ship, even over her lanterns, and the crew could only guess that they were near the land by the sound of the surf. The captain was not on board, and the mate was in command, though his leg had been broken while holding the tiller. They could not hear each other's voices, and could scarcely cling to the deck. There seemed every chance that the ship would go to pieces before daylight. At last one of the crew, named William Martin, a Scotchman, thinking, as he afterwards told me, of his wife and three children, and of the others on board who had families,—and that something must be done, and he might as well do it as anybody,—got a rope bound around his waist, and sprang overboard. I asked the mate next day whether he ordered Martin to do this, and he said, "No, he volunteered it. I would not have ordered him, for I would not have done it myself." What made the thing most remarkable137 was, that the man actually could not swim, and did not know how far off the shore was, but trusted to the waves to take him thither,—perhaps two hundred yards. His trust was repaid. Struggling in the mighty surf, he sometimes felt the rocks beneath his feet, sometimes bruised138 his hands against them. At any rate he got on shore alive, and, securing his rope, made his way over the moors139 to the town, and summoned his captain, who was asleep in his own house. They returned at once to the spot, found the line still fast, and the rest of the crew, four in number, lowered the whaleboat, and were pulled to shore by the rope, landing safely before daybreak.
When I saw the vessel next morning, she lay in a little cove, stern on, not wholly out of water,—steady and upright as in a dry-dock, with no sign of serious injury, except that the rudder was gone. She did not seem like a wreck; the men were the wrecks. As they lay among the rocks, bare or tattered140, scarcely able to move, waiting for low tide to go on board the vessel, it was like a scene after a battle. They appeared too inert141, poor fellows, to do anything but yearn142 toward the sun. When they changed position for shelter, from time to time, they crept along the rocks, instead of walking. They were like the little floating sprays of sea-weed, when you take them from the water and they become a mere mass of pulp143 in your hand. Martin shared in the general exhaustion144, and no wonder; but he told his story very simply, and showed me where he had landed. The feat145 seemed to me then, and has always seemed, almost incredible, even for an expert swimmer. He thus summed up the motives147 for his action: "I thought that God was first, and I was next, and if I did the best I could, no man could do more than that; so I jumped overboard." It is pleasant to add, that, though a poor man, he utterly declined one of those small donations of money by which we Anglo-Saxons are wont148 clumsily to express our personal enthusiasms; and I think I appreciated his whole action the more for its coming just at the close of a war during which so many had readily accepted their award of praise or pay for acts of less intrinsic daring than his.
Stir the fire, Annie, with yonder broken fragment of a flag-staff; its truck is still remaining, though the flag is gone, and every nation might claim it. As you stir, the burning brands evince a remembrance of their sea-lost life, the sparks drift away like foam-flakes, the flames wave and flap like sails, and the wail149 of the chimney sings a second shipwreck. As the tiny scintillations gleam and scatter69 and vanish in the soot150 of the chimney-wall, instead of "There goes the parson, and there goes the clerk," it must be the captain and the crew we watch. A drift-wood fire should always have children to tend it; for there is something childlike about it, unlike the steadier glow of walnut151 logs. It has a coaxing152, infantine way of playing with the oddly shaped bits of wood we give it, and of deserting one to caress153 with flickering impulse another; and at night, when it needs to be extinguished, it is as hard to put to rest as a nursery of children, for some bright little head is constantly springing up anew, from its pillow of ashes. And, in turn, what endless delight children find in the manipulation of a fire!
What a variety of playthings, too, in this fuel of ours; such inexplicable154 pieces, treenails and tholepins, trucks and sheaves, the lid of a locker155, and a broken handspike. These larger fragments are from spars and planks and knees. Some were dropped overboard in this quiet harbor; others may have floated from Fayal or Hispaniola, Mozambique or Zanzibar. This eagle figure-head, chipped and battered156, but still possessing highly aquiline157 features and a single eye, may have tangled158 its curved beak159 in the vast weed-beds of the Sargasso Sea, or dipped it in the Sea of Milk. Tell us your story, O heroic but dilapidated bird! and perhaps song or legend may find in it themes that shall be immortal.
The eagle is silent, and I suspect, Annie, that he is but a plain, home-bred fowl160 after all. But what shall we say to this piece of plank107, hung with barnacles that look large enough for the fabled161 barnacle-goose to emerge from? Observe this fragment a little. Another piece is secured to it, not neatly162, as with proper tools, but clumsily, with many nails of different sizes, driven unevenly163 and with their heads battered awry164. Wedged clumsily in between these pieces, and secured by a supplementary165 nail, is a bit of broken rope. Let us touch that rope tenderly; for who knows what despairing hands may last have clutched it when this rude raft was made? It may, indeed, have been the handiwork of children, on the Penobscot or the St. Mary's River. But its Condition betokens166 voyages yet longer; and it may just as well have come from the stranded "Golden Rule" on Roncador Reef,—that picturesque167 shipwreck where (as a rescued woman told me) the eyes of the people in their despair seemed full of sublime168 resignation, so that there was no confusion or outcry, and even gamblers and harlots looked death in the face as nobly, for all that could be seen, as the saintly and the pure. Or who knows but it floated round Cape169 Horn, from that other wreck, on the Pacific shore, of the "Central America," where the rough miners found that there was room in the boats only for their wives and their gold; and where, pushing the women off, with a few men to row them, the doomed170 husbands gave a cheer of courage as the ship went down.
Here again is a piece of pine wood, cut in notches172 as for a tally173, and with every seventh notch171 the longest; these notches having been cut deeply at the beginning, and feebly afterwards, stopping abruptly174 before the end was reached. Who could have carved it? Not a school-boy awaiting vacation, or a soldier expecting his discharge; for then each tally would have been cut off, instead of added. Nor could it be the squad175 of two soldiers who garrison176 Rose Island; for their tour of duty lasts but a week. There are small barnacles and sea-weed too, which give the mysterious stick a sort of brevet antiquity177. It has been long adrift, and these little barnacles, opening and closing daily their minute valves, have kept meanwhile their own register, and with their busy fringed fingers have gathered from the whole Atlantic that small share of its edible146 treasures which sufficed for them. Plainly this waif has had its experiences. It was Robinson Crusoe's, Annie, depend upon it. We will save it from the flames, and when we establish our marine23 museum, nothing save a veritable piece of the North Pole shall be held so valuable as this undoubted relic14 from Juan Fernandez.
But the night deepens, and its reveries must end. With the winter will pass away the winter-storms, and summer will bring its own more insidious178 perils179. Then the drowsy180 old seaport will blaze into splendor181, through saloon and avenue, amidst which many a bright career will end suddenly and leave no sign. The ocean tries feebly to emulate182 the profounder tragedies of the shore. In the crowded halls of gay hotels, I see wrecks drifting hopelessly, dismasted and rudderless, to be stranded on hearts harder and more cruel than Brenton's Reef, yet hid in smiles falser than its fleecy foam. What is a mere forsaken183 ship, compared with stately houses from which those whom I first knew in their youth and beauty have since fled into midnight and despair?
But one last gleam upon our hearth lights up your innocent eyes, little Annie, and dispels184 the gathering185 shade. The flame dies down again, and you draw closer to my side. The pure moon looks in at the southern window, replacing the ruddier glow; while the fading embers lisp and prattle186 to one another, like drowsy children, more and more faintly, till they fall asleep.
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1
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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2
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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3
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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pennant
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| n.三角旗；锦标旗 | |
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5
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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7
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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8
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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9
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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10
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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11
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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13
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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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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20
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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21
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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22
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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23
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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24
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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25
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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27
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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28
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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29
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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30
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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31
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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32
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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33
serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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34
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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36
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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37
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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38
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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39
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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40
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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43
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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44
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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45
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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46
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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47
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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48
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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51
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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52
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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53
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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54
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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55
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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56
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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57
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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58
botanists
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| n.植物学家，研究植物的人( botanist的名词复数 ) | |
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59
subdues
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| 征服( subdue的第三人称单数 )； 克制； 制服 | |
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60
vassals
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| n.奴仆( vassal的名词复数 )；（封建时代）诸侯；从属者；下属 | |
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61
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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62
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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63
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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64
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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65
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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66
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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67
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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68
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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69
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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70
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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71
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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72
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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73
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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74
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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75
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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76
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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77
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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78
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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79
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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80
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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82
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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83
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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84
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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85
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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86
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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87
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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88
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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89
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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90
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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91
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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92
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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93
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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94
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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95
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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96
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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97
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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98
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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99
purgatorial
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| adj.炼狱的，涤罪的 | |
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100
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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102
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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103
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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104
backlog
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| n.积压未办之事 | |
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105
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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106
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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107
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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108
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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109
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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110
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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111
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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112
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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113
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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114
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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115
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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116
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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118
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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119
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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120
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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121
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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122
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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123
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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124
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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125
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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126
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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127
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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128
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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129
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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130
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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131
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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132
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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133
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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134
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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135
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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136
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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137
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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138
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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139
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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141
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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142
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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143
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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144
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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145
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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146
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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147
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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148
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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149
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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150
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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151
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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152
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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153
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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154
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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155
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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156
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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157
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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158
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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159
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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160
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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161
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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162
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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163
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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164
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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165
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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166
betokens
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
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167
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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168
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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169
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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170
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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171
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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172
notches
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| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
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173
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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174
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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175
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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176
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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177
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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178
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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179
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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180
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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181
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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182
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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183
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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184
dispels
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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185
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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186
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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