A decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that one should have some excuse for being away from the office on a working afternoon. September sunshine and trembling blue air are not sufficient reasons, it seems. Therefore, if any one should brutally1 ask what I was doing the other day dangling2 down Chestnut3 Street toward the river, I should have to reply, "Looking for the Wenonah." The Wenonah, you will immediately conclude, is a moving picture theater. But be patient a moment.
Lower Chestnut Street is a delightful4 place for one who does not get down there very often. The face of wholesale5 trade, dingier6 than the glitter of uptown shops, is far more exciting and romantic. Pavements are cumbered with vast packing cases; whiffs of tea and spice well up from cool cellars. Below Second Street I found a row of enormous sacks across the curb7, with bright red and green wool pushing through holes in the burlap. Such signs as WOOL, NOILS AND WASTE are frequent. I wonder what noils are? A big sign on Front Street proclaims TEA CADDIES, which has a pleasant grandmotherly flavor. A little brass8 plate, gleamingly polished, says HONORARY CONSULATE9 OF JAPAN. Beside immense motor trucks stood a shabby little horse and buggy, restored to service, perhaps, by the war-time shortage of gasoline. It was a typical one-horse shay of thirty years ago.
I crossed over to Camden on the ferryboat Wildwood, observing in the course of the voyage her sisters, Bridgeton, Camden, Salem and Hammonton. It is curious that no matter where one goes, one will always meet people who are traveling there for the first time. A small boy next to me was gazing in awe10 at the stalwart tower of the Victor Company, and snuffing with pleasure the fragrance11 of cooking tomatoes that makes Camden savory12 at this time of year. Wagonloads of ripe Jersey13 tomatoes making their way to the soup factory are a jocund14 sight across the river just now.
Every ferry passenger is familiar with the rapid tinkling15 of the ratchet wheel that warps16 the landing stage up to the level of the boat's deck. I asked the man who was running the wheel where I would find the Wenonah. "She lays over in the old Market Street slip," he replied, and cheerfully showed me just where to find her. "Is she still used?" I asked. "Mostly on Saturday nights and holidays," he said, "when there's a big crowd going across."
The Wenonah, as all Camden seafarers know, is a ferryboat, one of the old-timers, and I was interested in her because she and her sister, the Beverly, were Walt Whitman's favorite ferries. He crossed back and forth17 on them hundreds of times and has celebrated18 them in several paragraphs in Specimen19 Days. Perhaps this is the place to quote his memorandum20 dated January 12, 1882, which ought to interest all lovers of the Camden ferry:
"Such a show as the Delaware presented an hour before sundown yesterday evening, all along between Philadelphia and Camden, is worth weaving into an item. It was full tide, a fair breeze from the southwest, the water of a pale tawny21 color, and just enough motion to make things frolicsome22 and lively. Add to these an approaching sunset of unusual splendor23, a broad tumble of clouds, with much golden haze24 and profusion25 of beaming shaft26 and dazzle. In the midst of all, in the clear drab of the afternoon light, there steamed up the river the large new boat, the Wenonah, as pretty an object as you could wish to see, lightly and swiftly skimming along, all trim and white, covered with flags, transparent28 red and blue streaming out in the breeze. Only a new ferryboat, and yet in its fitness comparable with the prettiest product of Nature's cunning, and rivaling it. High up in the transparent ether gracefully29 balanced and circled four or five great sea hawks30, while here below, mid27 the pomp and picturesqueness31 of sky and river, swam this creature of artificial beauty and motion and power, in its way no less perfect."
You will notice that Walt Whitman describes the Wenonah as being white. The Pennsylvania ferryboats, as we know them, are all the brick-red color that is familiar to the present generation. Perhaps older navigators of the Camden crossing can tell us whether the boats were all painted white in a less smoky era?
The Wenonah and the Beverly were lying in the now unused ferry slip at the foot of Market Street, alongside the great Victor Talking Machine works. Picking my way through an empty yard where some carpentering was going on, I found a deserted32 pier33 that overlooked the two old vessels34 and gave a fair prospect35 on to the river and the profile of Philadelphia. Sitting there on a pile of pebbles36, I lit a pipe and watched the busy panorama37 of the river. I made no effort to disturb the normal and congenial lassitude that is the highest function of the human being: no Hindoo philosopher could have been more pleasantly at ease. (O. Henry, one remembers, used to insist that what some of his friends called laziness was really "dignified38 repose39.") Two elderly colored men were loading gravel40 onto a cart not far away. I was a little worried as to what I could say if they asked what I was doing. In these days casual loungers along docksides may be suspected of depth bombs and high treason. The only truthful41 reply to any question would have been that I was thinking about Walt Whitman. Such a remark, if uttered in Philadelphia, would undoubtedly42 have been answered by a direction to the chocolate factory on Race Street. But in Camden every one knows about Walt. Still, the colored men said nothing beyond returning my greeting. Their race, wise in simplicity43, knows that loafing needs no explanation and is its own excuse.
If Walt could revisit the ferries he loved so well, in New York and Philadelphia, he would find the former strangely altered in aspect. The New York skyline wears a very different silhouette44 against the sky, with its marvelous peaks and summits drawing the eye aloft. But Philadelphia's profile is (I imagine) not much changed. I do not know just when the City Hall tower was finished: Walt speaks of it as "three-fifths built" in 1879. That, of course, is the dominant45 unit in the view from Camden. Otherwise there are few outstanding elements. The gradual rise in height of the buildings, from Front Street gently ascending47 up to Broad, gives no startling contrast of elevation48 to catch the gaze. The spires49 of the older churches stand up like soft blue pencils, and the massive cornices of the Curtis and Drexel buildings catch the sunlight. Otherwise the outline is even and well-massed in a smooth ascending curve.
It is curious how a man can stamp his personality upon earthly things. There will always be pilgrims to whom Camden and the Delaware ferries are full of excitement and meaning because of Walt Whitman. Just as Stratford is Shakespeare, so is Camden Whitman. Some supercilious51 observers, flashing through on the way to Atlantic City, may only see a town in which there is no delirious52 and seizing beauty. Let us remind them of Walt's own words:
A great city is that which has the greatest men and women. If it be a few ragged53 huts it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
And as I came back across the river, and an airplane hovered54 over us at a great height, I thought how much we need a Whitman to-day, a poet who can catch the heart and meaning of these grievous bitter years, who can make plain the surging hopes that throb55 in the breasts of men. The world has not flung itself into agony without some unexpressed vision that lights the sacrifice. If Walt Whitman were here he would look on this new world of moving pictures and gasoline engines and U-boats and tell us what it means. His great heart, which with all its garrulous56 fumbling57 had caught the deep music of human service and fellowship, would have had true and fine words for us. And yet he would have found it a hard world for one of his strolling meditative58 observancy. A speeding motor truck would have run him down long ago!
As I left the ferry at Market Street I saw that the Norwegian steamer Taunton was unloading bananas at the Ericsson pier. Less than a month ago she picked up the survivors59 of the schooner60 Madrugada, torpedoed61 by a U-boat off Winter Bottom Shoal. On the Madrugada was a young friend of mine, a Dutch sailor, who told me of the disaster after he was landed in New York. To come unexpectedly on the ship that had rescued him seemed a great adventure. What a poem Walt Whitman could have made of it!
II
It is a weakness of mine—not a sinful one, I hope—that whenever I see any one reading a book in public I am agog62 to find out what it is. Crossing over to Camden this morning a young woman on the ferry was absorbed in a volume, and I couldn't resist peeping over her shoulder. It was "Hans Brinker." On the same boat were several schoolboys carrying copies of Myers' "History of Greece." Quaint63, isn't it, how our schools keep up the same old bunk64! What earthly use will a smattering of Greek history be to those boys? Surely to our citizens of the coming generation the battles of the Marne will be more important than the scuffle at Salamis.
My errand in Camden was to visit the house on Mickle Street where Walt Whitman lived his last years. It is now occupied by Mrs. Thomas Skymer, a friendly Italian woman, and her family. Mrs. Skymer graciously allowed me to go through the downstairs rooms.
I don't suppose any literary shrine65 on earth is of more humble66 and disregarded aspect than Mickle Street. It is a little cobbled byway, grimed with drifting smoke from the railway yards, littered with wind-blown papers and lined with small wooden and brick houses sooted67 almost to blackness. It is curious to think, as one walks along that bumpy68 brick pavement, that many pilgrims from afar have looked forward to visiting Mickle Street as one of the world's most significant altars. As Chesterton wrote once, "We have not yet begun to get to the beginning of Whitman." But the wayfarer69 of to-day will find Mickle Street far from impressive.
The little house, a two-story frame cottage, painted dark brown, is numbered 330. (In Whitman's day it was 328.) On the pavement in front stands a white marble stepping-block with the carved initials W.W.—given to the poet, I dare say, by the same friends who bought him a horse and carriage. A small sign, in English and Italian, says: Thomas A. Skymer, Automobiles70 to Hire on Occasions. It was with something of a thrill that I entered the little front parlor71 where Walt used to sit, surrounded by his litter of papers and holding forth to faithful listeners. One may safely say that his was a happy old age, for there were those who never jibbed at protracted72 audience.
A description of that room as it was in the last days of Whitman's life may not be uninteresting. I quote from the article published by the Philadelphia Press of March 27, 1892, the day after the poet's death:
Below the windowsill a four-inch pine shelf is swung, on which rests a bottle of ink, two or three pens and a much-rubbed spectacle case.
(The shelf, I am sorry to say, is no longer there.)
The table—between which and the wall is the poet's rocker covered with a worsted afghan, presented to him one Christmas by a bevy73 of college girls who admired his work—is so thickly piled with booksand magazines, letters and the raffle74 of a literary desk that thereis scarcely an inch of room upon which he may rest his paper as he writes. A volume of Shakespeare lies on top of a heaping full waste basket that was once used to bring peaches to market, and an ancient copy of Worcester's Dictionary shares places in an adjacent chair with the poet's old and familiar soft gray hat, a newly darned blue woolen75 sock and a shoe-blacking brush. There is a paste bottle and brush on the table and a pair of scissors, much used by the poet, who writes, for the most part, on small bits of paper and parts of old envelopes and pastes them together in patchwork76 fashion.
In spite of a careful examination, I could find nothing in the parlor at all reminiscent of Whitman's tenancy, except the hole for the stovepipe under the mantel. One of Mrs. Skymer's small boys told me that "He" died in that room. Evidently small Louis Skymer didn't in the least know who "He" was, but realized that his home was in some vague way connected with a mysterious person whose memory occasionally attracts inquirers to the house.
Behind the parlor is a dark little bedroom, and then the kitchen. In a corner of the back yard is a curious thing: a large stone or terra cotta bust77 of a bearded man, very much like Whitman himself, but the face is battered78 and the nose broken so it would be hard to assert this definitely. One of the boys told me that it was in the yard when they moved in a year or so ago. The house is a little dark, standing46 between two taller brick neighbors. At the head of the stairs I noticed a window with colored panes79, which lets in spots of red, blue and yellow light. I imagine that this patch of vivid color was a keen satisfaction to Walt's acute senses. Such is the simple cottage that one associates with America's literary declaration of independence.
The other Whitman shrine in Camden is the tomb in Harleigh Cemetery80, reached by the Haddonfield trolley81. Doctor Oberholtzer, in his "Literary History of Philadelphia," calls it "tawdry," to which I fear I must demur82. Built into a quiet hillside in that beautiful cemetery, of enormous slabs83 of rough-hewn granite84 with a vast stone door standing symbolically85 ajar, it seemed to me grotesque87, but greatly impressive. It is a weird88 pagan cromlech, with a huge triangular89 boulder90 above the door bearing only the words WALT WHITMAN. Palms and rubber plants grow in pots on the little curved path leading up to the tomb; above it is an uncombed hillside and trees flickering91 in the air. At this tomb, designed (it is said) by Whitman himself, was held that remarkable92 funeral ceremony on March 30, 1892, when a circus tent was not large enough to roof the crowd, and peanut venders did business on the outskirts93 of the gathering94. Perhaps it is not amiss to recall what Bob Ingersoll said on that occasion:
"He walked among verbal varnishers and veneerers, among literary milliners and tailors, with the unconscious dignity of an antique god. He was the poet of that divine democracy that gives equal rights to all the sons and daughters of men. He uttered the great American voice."
And though one finds in the words of the na?ve Ingersoll the squeaking95 timber of the soapbox, yet even a soapbox does lift a man a few inches above the level of the clay.
Well, the Whitman battle is not over yet, nor ever will be. Though neither Philadelphia nor Camden has recognized 330 Mickle Street as one of the authentic96 shrines97 of our history (Lord, how trimly dight it would be if it were in New England!), Camden has made a certain amend98 in putting Walt into the gay mosaic99 that adorns100 the portico101 of the new public library in Cooper Park. There, absurdly represented in an austere102 black cassock, he stands in the following frieze103 of great figures: Dante, Whitman, Molière, Gutenberg, Tyndale, Washington, Penn, Columbus, Moses, Raphael, Michael Angelo, Shakespeare, Longfellow and Palestrina. I believe that there was some rumpus as to whether Walt should be included; but, anyway, there he is.
You will make a great mistake if you don't ramble104 over to Camden some day and fleet the golden hours in an observant stroll. Himself the prince of loafers, Walt taught the town to loaf. When they built the new postoffice over there they put round it a ledge105 for philosophic106 lounging, one of the most delightful architectural features I have ever seen. And on Third Street, just around the corner from 330 Mickle Street, is the oddest plumber107's shop in the world. Mr. George F. Hammond, a Civil War veteran, who knew Whitman and also Lincoln, came to Camden in '69. In 1888 he determined108 to build a shop that would be different from anything on earth, and well he succeeded. Perhaps it is symbolic86 of the shy and harassed109 soul of the plumber, fleeing from the unreasonable110 demands of his customers, for it is a kind of Gothic fortress111. Leaded windows, gargoyles112, masculine medusa heads, a sallyport, loopholes and a little spire50. I stopped in to talk to Mr. Hammond, and he greeted me graciously. He says that people have come all the way from California to see his shop, and I can believe it. It is the work of a delightful and original spirit who does not care to live in a demure113 hutch like all the rest of us, and has really had some fun out of his whimsical little castle. He says he would rather live in Camden than in Philadelphia, and I daresay he's right.
III
Something in his aspect as he leaned over the railing near me drew me on to speak to him. I don't know just how to describe it except by saying that he had an understanding look. He gave me the impression of a man who had spent his life in thinking and would understand me, whatever I might say. He looked like the kind of man to whom one would find one's self saying wise and thoughtful things. There are some people, you know, to whom it is impossible to speak wisdom even if you should wish to. No spirit of kindly114 philosophy speaks out of their eyes. You find yourself automatically saying peevish115 or futile116 things that you do not in the least believe.
The mood and the place were irresistible117 for communion. The sun was warm along the river front and my pipe was trailing a thin whiff of blue vapor118 out over the gently fluctuating water, which clucked and sagged119 along the slimy pilings. Behind us the crash and banging of heavy traffic died away into a dreamy undertone in the mild golden shimmer120 of the noon hour.
The old man was apparently121 lost in revery, looking out over the river toward Camden. He was plainly dressed in coat and trousers of some coarse weave. His shirt, partly unbuttoned under the great white sweep of his beard, was of gray flannel122. His boots were those of a man much accustomed to walking. A weather-stained sombrero was on his head. Beneath it his thick white hair and whiskers wavered in the soft breeze. Just then a boy came out from the near-by ferry house carrying a big crate123 of daffodils, perhaps on their way from some Jersey farm to an uptown florist124. We watched them shining and trembling across the street, where he loaded them onto a truck. The old gentleman's eyes, which were a keen gray blue, caught mine as we both turned from admiring the flowers.
I don't know just why I said it, but they were the first words that popped into my head. "And then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils," I quoted.
He looked at me a little quizzically.
"You imported those words on a ship," he said. "Why don't you use some of your own instead?"
I was considerably125 taken aback. "Why, I don't know," I hesitated. "They just came into my head."
"Well, I call that bad luck," he said, "when some one else's words come into a man's head instead of words of his own."
He looked about him, watching the scene with rich satisfaction. "It's good to see all this again," he said. "I haven't loafed around here for going on thirty years."
"You've been out of town?" I asked.
He looked at me with a steady blue eye in which there was something of humor and something of sadness.
"Yes, a long way out. I've just come back to see how the Great Idea is getting along. I thought maybe I could help a little."
"The value of the individual," he said. "The necessity for every human being to be able to live, think, act, dream, pray for himself. Nowadays I believe you call it the League of Nations. It's the same thing. Are men to be free to decide their fate for themselves or are they to be in the grasp of irresponsible tyrants127, the hell of war, the cruelties of creeds128, executive deeds just or unjust, the power of personality just or unjust? What are your poets, your young Libertads, doing to bring About the Great Idea of perfect and free individuals?"
I was rather at a loss, but happily he did not stay for an answer. Above us an American flag was fluttering on a staff, showing its bright ribs129 of scarlet130 clear and vivid against the sky.
"You see that flag of stars," he said, "that thick-sprinkled bunting? I have seen that flag stagger in the agony of threatened dissolution, in years that trembled and reeled beneath us. You have only seen it in the days of its easy, sure triumphs. I tell you, now is the day for America to show herself, to prove her dreams for the race. But who is chanting the poem that comes from the soul of America, the carol of victory? Who strikes up the marches of Libertad that shall free this tortured ship of earth? Democracy is the destined131 conqueror132, yet I see treacherous133 lip-smiles everywhere and death and infidelity at every step. I tell you, now is the time of battle, now the time of striving. I am he who tauntingly134 compels men, women, nations, crying, 'Leap from your seats and contend for your lives!' I tell you, produce great Persons; the rest follows."
"What do you think about the covenant135 of the League of Nations?" I asked. He looked out over the river for some moments before replying and then spoke136 slowly, with halting utterance137 that seemed to suffer anguish138 in putting itself into words.
"America will be great only if she builds for all mankind," he said. "This plan of the great Libertad leads the present with friendly hand toward the future. But to hold men together by paper and seal or by compulsion is no account. That only holds men together which aggregates139 all in a living principle, as the hold of the limbs of the body or the fibers140 of plants. Does this plan answer universal needs? Can it face the open fields and the seaside? Will it absorb into me as I absorb food, air, to appear again in my strength, gait, face? Have real employments contributed to it—original makers141, not mere142 amanuenses? I think so, and therefore I say to you, now is the day to fight for it."
"Well," he said, checking himself, "there's the ferry coming in. I'm going over to Camden to have a look around on my way back to Harleigh."
"I'm afraid you'll find Mickle street somewhat changed," I said, for by this time I knew him.
"I love changes," he said.
"Your centennial comes on May 31," I said, "I hope you won't be annoyed if Philadelphia doesn't pay much attention to it. You know how things are around here."
"My dear boy," he said, "I am patient. The proof of a poet shall be sternly deferred143 till his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it. I have sung the songs of the Great Idea and that is reward in itself. I have loved the earth, sun, animals, I have despised riches, I have given alms to every one that asked, stood up for the stupid and crazy, devoted144 my income and labor145 to others, hated tyrants, argued not concerning God, had patience and indulgence toward the people, taken off my hat to nothing known or unknown, gone freely with powerful uneducated persons and I swear I begin to see the meaning of these things—"
"All aboard!" cried the man at the gate of the ferry house.
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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dingier
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| adj.暗淡的，乏味的( dingy的比较级 )；肮脏的 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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brass
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consulate
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awe
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fragrance
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savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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tinkling
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warps
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| n.弯曲( warp的名词复数 )；歪斜；经线；经纱v.弄弯，变歪( warp的第三人称单数 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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specimen
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memorandum
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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frolicsome
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splendor
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haze
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profusion
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shaft
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mid
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transparent
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gracefully
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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picturesqueness
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deserted
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pier
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vessels
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prospect
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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panorama
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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repose
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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44
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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45
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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46
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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47
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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48
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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49
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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50
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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51
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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52
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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53
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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54
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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55
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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56
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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57
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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58
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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59
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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60
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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61
torpedoed
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| 用鱼雷袭击（torpedo的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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62
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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63
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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64
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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65
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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66
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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67
sooted
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| v.煤烟，烟灰( soot的过去分词 ) | |
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68
bumpy
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| adj.颠簸不平的，崎岖的 | |
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69
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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70
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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71
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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72
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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74
raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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75
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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76
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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77
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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78
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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79
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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80
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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81
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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82
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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83
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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84
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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85
symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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86
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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87
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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88
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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89
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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90
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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91
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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92
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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93
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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94
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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95
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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96
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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97
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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98
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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99
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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100
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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102
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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103
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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104
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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105
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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106
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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107
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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108
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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109
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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111
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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112
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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113
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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114
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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115
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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116
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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117
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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118
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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119
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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120
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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121
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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122
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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123
crate
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| vt.(up)把…装入箱中；n.板条箱，装货箱 | |
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124
florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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125
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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126
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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127
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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128
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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129
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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130
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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131
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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132
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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133
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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134
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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135
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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136
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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137
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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138
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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139
aggregates
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| 数( aggregate的名词复数 )； 总计； 骨料； 集料（可成混凝土或修路等用的） | |
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140
fibers
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| 光纤( fiber的名词复数 )； （织物的）质地； 纤维，纤维物质 | |
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141
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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142
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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143
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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144
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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145
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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146
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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