Coming down Fifth Avenue on top of a bus, we saw a man absorbed in a book. Ha, we thought, here is our chance to see how bus reading compares to subway reading! After some man?uvering, we managed to get the seat behind the victim. The volume was "Every Man a King," by Orison Swett Marden, and the uncrowned monarch1 reading it was busy with the thirteenth chapter, to wit: "Thoughts Radiate as Influence." We did a little radiating of our own, and it seemed to reach him, for presently he grew uneasy, put the volume carefully away in a brief-case, and (as far as we could see) struck out toward his kingdom, which apparently2 lay on the north shore of Forty-second Street.
We felt then that we would recuperate4 by glancing at [211]a little literature. So we made our way toward the newly enlarged shrine5 of James F. Drake on Fortieth Street. Here we encountered our friends the two Messrs. Drake, junior, and complimented them on their thews and sinews, these two gentlemen having recently, unaided, succeeded in moving a half-ton safe, filled with the treasures of Elizabethan literature, into the new sanctum. Here, where formerly6 sped the nimble fingers of M. Tappe's young ladies, busy with the compilation7 of engaging bonnets8 for the fair, now stand upon wine-dark shelves the rich gold and amber9 of fine bindings. We were moved by this sight. We said in our heart, we will erect10 a small madrigal11 upon this theme, entitled: "Song Upon Certain Songbirds of the Elizabethan Age Now Garnishing12 the Chamber13 Erstwhile Bright With the Stuffed Plumage of the Milliner." To the Messrs. Drake we mentioned the interesting letter of Mr. J. Acton Lomax in yesterday's Tribune, which called attention to the fact that the poem at the end of "Through the Looking Glass" is an acrostic giving the name of the original Alice—viz., Alice Pleasance Liddell. In return for which we were shown a copy of the first edition of "Alice in Wonderland." Here, too, we dallied14 for some time over a first edition of Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, and were pleased to learn that the great doctor was no more infallible in proofreading15 than the rest of us, one of our hosts pointing out to us a curious error by which some words beginning in COV had slipped in ahead of words beginning in COU.
[212]At noon to-day we climbed on a Riverside Drive bus at Seventy-ninth Street and rode in the mellow16 gold of autumn up to Broadway and 168th. Serene17, gilded19 weather; sunshine as soft and tawny20 as candlelight, genial21 at midday as the glow of an open fire in spite of the sharpness of the early morning. Battleships lay in the river with rippling22 flags. Men in flannels23 were playing tennis on the courts below Grant's Tomb; everywhere was a convincing appearance of comfort and prosperity. The beauty of the children, the good clothing of everybody, canes24 swinging on the pavements, cheerful faces untroubled by thought, the warm benevolence25 of sunlight, bronzing trees along Riverside Park, a man reading a book on the summit of that rounded knoll26 of rock near Eighty-fourth Street which children call "Mount Tom"—everything was so bright in life and vigour27 that the sentence seems to need no verb. Joan of Arc, poised28 on horseback against her screen of dark cedars29, held her sword clearly against the pale sky. Amazingly sure and strong and established seem the rich fa?ades of Riverside Drive apartment houses, and the landlords were rolling in limousines30 up to Claremont to have lunch. One small apartment house, near Eighty-third or thereabouts, has been renamed the Chateau-Thierry.
After crossing the long bridge above Claremont and the deep ravine where ships and ferryboats and coal stations abound31, the bus crosses on 135th Street to Broadway. At 153d, the beautiful cemetery32 of Trinity Parish, leafy paths lying peaceful in the strong glow. At 166th Street is an open area now called Mitchel [213]Square, with an outcrop of rock polished by the rearward breeks of many sliding urchins33. Some children were playing on that small summit with a toy parachute made of light paper and a pebble34 attached by threads. On 168th Street alongside the big armoury of the Twenty-second Engineers boys were playing baseball, with a rubber ball, pitching it so that the batter36 received it on the bounce and struck it with his fist. According to the score chalked on the pavement the "Bronx Browns" and the "Haven37 Athletics38" were just finishing a rousing contest, in which the former were victors, 1–0. Haven Avenue, near by, is a happy little street perched high above the river. A small terraced garden with fading flowers looks across the Hudson to the woody Palisades. Modest apartment houses are built high on enormous buttresses39, over the steep scarp of the hillside. Through cellar windows coal was visible, piled high in the bins40; children were trooping home for dinner; a fine taint41 of frying onions hung in the shining air. Everywhere in that open, half-suburban, comfortable region was a feeling of sane42, established life. An old man with a white beard was greeted by two urchins, who ran up and kissed him heartily43 as he beamed upon them. Grandpa, one supposes! Plenty of signs indicating small apartments to rent, four and five rooms. And down that upper slant44 of Broadway, as the bus bumbles past rows of neat prosperous-seeming shops, one feels the great tug45 and pulling current of life that flows down the channel, the strange energy of the huge city lying below. The tide was momentarily stilled, but soon to resume action. [214]There was a magic touch apparent, like the stillness of a palace in a fairy tale, bewitched into waiting silence.
Sometimes on our way to the office in the morning we stop in front of a jeweller's window near Maiden46 Lane and watch a neat little elderly gentleman daintily setting out his employer's gauds and trinkets for the day. We like to see him brood cheerfully over the disposition47 of his small amber-coloured velvet48 mats, and the arrangement of the rings, vanity cases, necklaces, and precious stones. They twinkle in the morning light, and he leans downward in the window, innocently displaying the widening parting on his pink scalp. He purses his lips in a silent whistle as he cons49 his shining trifles and varies his plan of display every day.
Now a modern realist (we have a painful suspicion) if he were describing this pleasant man would deal rather roughly with him. You know exactly how it would be done. He would be a weary, saddened, shabby figure: his conscientious50 attention to the jewels in his care would be construed51 as the painful and creaking routine of a victim of commercial greed; a bitter irony52 would be distilled53 from the contrast of his own modest station in life and the huge value of the lucid54 crystals and carbons under his hands. His hands—ah, the realist would angrily see some brutal55 pathos56 or unconscious naughtiness in the crook57 of the old mottled fingers. How that widening parting in the gray head would be gloated upon. It would be very easy to do, and it would be (if we are any judge) wholly false.
[215]For we have watched the little old gentleman many times, and we have quite an affection for him. We see him as one perfectly58 happy in the tidy and careful round of his tasks; and when his tenderly brushed gray poll leans above his treasures, and he gently devises new patterns by which the emeralds or the gold cigarette cases will catch the slant of 9 o'clock sunlight, we seem to see one who is enjoying his own placid59 conception of beauty, and who is not a figure of pity or reproach, but one of decent honour and excellent fidelity60.
One of our colleagues, a lusty genial in respect of tobacco, has told us of a magnificent way to remove an evil and noisome61 taste from an old pipe that hath been smoked overlong. He says, clean the bowl carefully (not removing the cake) and wash tenderly in fair, warm water. Then, he says, take a teaspoonful62 of the finest vatted63 Scotch64 whiskey (or, if the pipe be of exceeding size, a tablespoonful of the same) and pour it delicately into the bowl. Apply a lighted match, and let the liquor burn itself out. It will do so, he avouches, with a gentle blue flame of great beauty and serenity65. The action of this burning elixir66, he maintains, operates to sizzle and purge67 away all impurity68 from the antique incrustation in the bowl. After letting the pipe cool, and then filling it with a favourite blend of mingled69 Virginia, Perique, and Latakia, our friend asserts that he is blessed with a cool, saporous, and enchanting70 fumigation71 which is so fragrant72 that even his wife has remarked upon it in terms complimentary73.[216] Our friend says (but we fear he draws the longbow nigh unto fracture) that the success of this method may be tested so: if one lives, as he does, in the upward stories of a tall apartment house, one should take the pipe so cleansed74 to the window-sill, and, smoking it heartily, lean outward over the sill. On a clear, still, blue evening, the air being not too gusty75, the vapours will disperse76 and eddy77 over the street; and he maintains with great zeal78 that passersby79 ten tiers below will very soon look upward from the pavement, sniffingly, to discern the source of such admirable fumes80. He has even known them, he announces, to hail him from the street, in tones of eager inquiry81, to learn what kind of tobacco he is smoking.
All this we have duly meditated82 and find ourselves considerably84 stirred. Now there is only one thing that stands between ourself and such an experiment.
There are some who hold by the theory that on visiting a restaurant it is well to pick out a table that is already cleared rather than one still bearing the debris85 of a previous patron's meal. We offer convincing proof to the contrary.
Rambling86, vacant of mind and guileless of intent, in a certain quiet portion of the city—and it is no use for you, O client, to ask where, for our secrecy87 is firm as granite—we came upon an eating house and turned inward. There were tables spread with snowy cloths, immaculate; there were also tables littered with dishes. We chose one of the latter, for a waiter was removing [217]the plates, and we thought that by sitting there we would get prompter service. We sat down and our eye fell upon a large china cup that had been used by the preceding luncher. In the bottom of that cup was a little pool of dark dregs, a rich purple colour, most agreeable to gaze upon. Happy possibilities were opened to our mind. Like the fabled88 Captain X, we had a Big Idea. We made no outcry, nor did we show our emotion, but when the waiter asked for our order we said, calmly: "Sausages and some of the red wine." He was equally calm and uttered no comment.
Soon he came back (having conferred, as we could see out of the wing of our eye) with his boss. "What was it you ordered?" he said.
"I don't remember having served you before," he said. "I can't give you anything like that."
We saw that we must win his confidence and we thought rapidly. "It's perfectly all right," we said. "Mr. Bennett" (we said, seizing the first name that came into our head), "who comes here every day, told me about it. You know Mr. Bennett; he works over on Forty-second Street and comes here right along."
Again he departed, but returned anon with smiling visage. "If you're a friend of Mr. Bennett's," he said, "it's all right. You know, we have to be careful."
A little later in the adventure, when we were asked what dessert we would have, we found stewed92 rhubarb [218]on the menu, and very fine stewed rhubarb it was; wherefore we say that our time was not ill-spent and we shall keep the secret to ourself.
But we can't help feeling grateful to Mr. Bennett, whoever he is.
Occasionally (but not often) in the exciting plexus of our affairs (conducted, as we try to persuade ourself, with so judicious93 a jointure of caution and hilarity) we find it necessary to remain in town for dinner. Then, and particularly in spring evenings, we are moved and exhilarated by that spectacle that never loses its enchantment94, the golden beauty and glamour95 of downtown New York after the homeward ebb35 has left the streets quiet and lonely. By six o'clock in a May sunset the office is a cloister96 of delicious peace and solitude97. Let us suppose (oh, a case merely hypothetic) that you have got to attend a dinner somewhere in the Forties, say at half-past seven; and it is requisite98 that evening clothes should be worn. You have brought them to the office, modestly hidden, in a bag; and in that almost unbelievable privacy, toward half-past six, you have an enjoyable half hour of luxurious99 amusement and contemplation. The office, one repeats, is completely stripped of tenants—save perhaps an occasional grumbling100 sortie by the veteran janitor101. So all its resources are open for you to use as boudoir. Now, in an office situated102 like this there is, at sunset time, a variety of scenic103 richness to be contemplated104. From the President's office (putting on one's hard-boiled[219] shirt) one can look down upon St. Paul's churchyard, lying a pool of pale blue shadow in the rising dusk. From the City Room (inserting studs) one sees the river sheeted with light. From the office of the Literary Editor (lacing up one's shoes) one may study the wild pinnacle105 of Woolworth, faintly superfused with a brightness of gold and pink. From the office of one of our dramatic critics the view is negligible (being but a hardy106 brick wall), but the critic, debonair107 creature, has a small mirror of his own, so there one manages the ticklish108 business of the cravat109. And from our own kennel110, where are transacted111 the last touches (transfer of pipe, tobacco, matches, Long Island railroad timetable, commutation ticket, etc., to the other pockets) there is a heavenly purview112 of those tall cliffs of lower Broadway, nobly terraced into the soft, translucent113 sky. In that exquisite114 clarity and sharpness of New York's evening light are a loveliness and a gallantry hardly to be endured. At seven o'clock of a May evening it is poetry unspeakable. O magnificent city (one says), there will come a day when others will worship and celebrate your mystery; and when not one of them will know or care how much I loved you. But these words, obscure and perishable115, I leave you as a testimony116 that I also understood.
She cannot be merely the cruel Babel they like to describe her: the sunset light would not gild18 her so tenderly.
It was a great relief to us yesterday evening to see a man reading a book in the subway. We have [220]undergone so many embarrassments117 trying to make out the titles of the books the ladies read, without running afoul of the Traveller's Aid Society, that we heaved a sigh of relief and proceeded to stalk our quarry118 with a light heart. Let us explain that on a crowded train it is not such an easy task. You see your victim at the other end of the car. First you have to buffet119 your way until you get next to him. Then, just as you think you are in a position to do a little careful snooping, he innocently shifts the book to the other hand. This means you have got to navigate120, somehow, toward the hang-handle on the other side of him. Very well. By the time the train gets to Bowling121 Green we have seen that it is a fattish book, bound in green cloth, and the author's name begins with FRAN. That doesn't help much. As the train roars under the river you manage, by leanings and twistings, to see the publisher's name—in this case, Longmans. At Borough122 Hall a number of passengers get out, and the hunted reader sits down. Ten to one he will hold the book in such a way that you cannot see the title. At Nevins Street you get a seat beside him. At Atlantic Avenue, as he is getting off, you propose your head over his shoulder in the jam on the stairs and see what you are after. "Lychgate Hall," by M.E. Francis. And in this case, success left us none the wiser.
Atlantic Avenue, by the way, always seems to us an ideal place for the beginning of a detective story. (Speaking of that, a very jolly article in this month's Bookman, called "How Old Is Sherlock Holmes?" has revived our old ambition to own a complete set of [221]all the Sherlock Holmes tales, and we are going to set about scouring123 the town for them). Every time we pass through the Atlantic Avenue maelstrom124, which is twelve times a week, we see, as plain as print, the beginning of two magazine tales.
One begins as the passengers are streaming through the gate toward the 5:27 train. There is a very beautiful damsel who always sits on the left-hand side of the next to last car, by an open window. On her plump and comely125 white hand, which holds the latest issue of a motion picture magazine, is a sparkling diamond ring. Suddenly all the lights in the train go out. Through the open window comes a brutal grasp which wrenches126 the bauble127 from her finger. There are screams, etc., etc. When the lights go on again, of course there is no sign of the criminal. Five minutes later, Mr. Geoffrey Dartmouth, enjoying a chocolate ice cream soda128 in the little soft-drink alcove129 at the corner of the station, is astonished to find a gold ring, the stone missing, at the bottom of his paper soda container.
The second story begins on the Atlantic Avenue platform of the Lexington Avenue subway. It is 9 a.m., and a crowded train is pulling out. Just before the train leaves a young man steps off one of the cars, leaving behind him (though not at once noticed) a rattan130 suitcase. This young man disappears in the usual fashion, viz., by mingling131 with the crowd. When the train gets to the end of the run the unclaimed suitcase is opened, and found to contain—continued on page 186.
[222]Every now and then we take a stroll up Irving Place. It is changing slowly, but it still has much of the flavour that Arthur Maurice had in mind when he christened It "the heart of O. Henry land." Number 55, the solid, bleached132 brownstone house where O. Henry once lived, is still there: it seems to be some sort of ecclesiastical rendezvous133, if one may judge by the letters C.H.A. on the screen and the pointed134 carving135 of the doorway136. Number 53, next door, always interests us greatly: the windows give a glimpse of the most extraordinary number of cages of canaries.
The old German theatre seems to have changed its language: the boards speak now in Yiddish. The chiropractor and psycho-analyst has invaded the Place, as may be seen by a sign on the eastern side. O. Henry would surely have told a yarn137 about him if he had been there fifteen years ago. There are still quite a number of the old brown houses, with their iron railings and little patches of grass. The chocolate factory still diffuses138 its pleasant candied whiff. At noontime the street is full of the high-spirited pupils of the Washington Irving High School. As for the Irving house itself, it is getting a new coat of paint. The big corset works, we dare say, has come since O. Henry's time. We had quite an adventure there once. We can't remember how it came about, but for some reason or other we went to that building to see the chief engineer. All we can remember about it was that he had been at sea at one time, and we went to see him on some maritime139 errand. We found that he and his family lived in a comfortable apartment on the roof of the factory, [223]and we remember making our way, with a good many blushes, through several hundred or thousand young ladies who were industriously140 working away at their employer's business and who seemed to us to be giggling141 more than necessary. After a good deal of hunting we found our way to a secret stair and reached our seafaring engineer of the corset factory in his eyrie, where (we remember) there were oil paintings of ships on the walls and his children played about on the roof as though on the deck of a vessel142.
Irving Place is also very rich in interesting little shops—laundries, tailors, carpenters, stationers, and a pleasant bookshop. It is a haunt of hand-organ men. The cool tavern143 at the corner of Eighteenth, where Con3 Delaney tended the bar in the days when O. Henry visited it, is there still. All along the little byway is a calm, genteel, domestic mood, in spite of the encroachments of factories and apartment houses. There are window boxes with flowers, and a sort of dim suffusion144 of conscious literary feeling. One has a suspicion that in all those upper rooms are people writing short stories. "Want to see a freak?" asks the young man in the bookshop as we are looking over his counters. We do, of course, and follow his animated145 gesture. Across the street comes a plump young woman, in a very short skirt of a violent blue, with a thick mane of bobbed hair, carrying her hat in her hand. She looks rather comfortable and seemly to us, but something about her infuriates the bookseller. He is quite Freudian in his indignation that any young woman should habit herself so. We wonder what the psycho-analyst a few [224]blocks below would say about it. And walking a few paces further, one comes upon the green twitter, the tended walks and pink geranium beds of Gramercy Park.
There is no time when we need spiritual support so much as when we are having our hair cut, for indeed it is the only time when we are ever thoroughly146 and entirely147 Bored. But having found a good-natured barber who said he would not mind our reading a book while he was shearing148, we went through with it. The ideal book to read at such a time (we offer you this advice, brave friends) is the "Tao" of Lao-Tse, that ancient and admirable Chinese sage89. (Dwight Goddard's translation is very agreeable.) "The Tao," as of course you know, is generally translated The Way, i.e., the Way of Life of the Reasonable Man.
Lao-Tse, we assert, is the ideal author to read while the barber is at his business. He answers every inquiry that will be made, and all you have to do is hold the book up and point to your favourite marked passages.
When the barber says, genially149, "Well, have you done your Christmas shopping yet?" we raise the book and point to this maxim150:
Taciturnity is natural to man.
When he says, "How about a nice little shampoo this morning?" we are prompt to indicate:
The wise man attends to the inner significance of things and does not concern himself with outward appearances.
[225]When, as we sit in the chair, we see (in the mirror before us) the lovely reflection of the beautiful manicure lady, and she arches her eyebrows151 at us to convey the intimation that we ought to have our hands attended to, old Lao-Tse is ready with the answer. We reassure152 ourself with his remark:
Though he be surrounded with sights that are magnificent, the wise man will remain calm and unconcerned.
He who closes his mouth and shuts his sense gates will be free from trouble to the end of life.
When the barber suggests that if we were now to have a liberal douche of bay rum sprayed over our poll it would be a glittering consummation of his task, we show him the words:
If one tries to improve a thing, he mars it.
And when (finally) the irritated tonsor suggests that if we don't wait so long next time before getting our hair cut we will not be humiliated154 by our condition, we exhibit Lao-Tse's aphorism155:
The wise man is inaccessible156 to favour or hate; he cannot be reached by profit or injury; he cannot be honoured or humiliated.
"It's very easy," says the barber as we pay our check; "just drop in here once a month and we'll fix you up." And we point to:[226]
The wise man lives in the world, but he lives cautiously, dealing157 with the world cautiously. Many things that appear easy are full of difficulties.
To a lot of people who are in a mortal scurry158 and excitement what is so maddening as the calm and unruffled serenity of a dignified159 philosopher who gazes unperturbed upon their pangs160? So did we meditate83 when facing the deliberate and mild tranquillity161 of the priestly person presiding over the bulletin board announcing the arrival of trains at the Pennsylvania Station. It was in that desperate and curious limbo162 known as the "exit concourse," where baffled creatures wait to meet others arriving on trains and maledict the architect who so planned matters that the passengers arrive on two sides at once, so that one stands grievously in the middle slewing163 his eyes to one side and another in a kind of vertigo164, attempting to con both exits. We cannot go into this matter in full (when, indeed, will we find enough white paper and enough energy to discuss anything in full, in the way, perhaps, Henry James would have blanketed it?), but we will explain that we were waiting to meet someone, someone we had never seen, someone of the opposite sex and colour, in short, that rare and desirable creature a cook, imported from another city, and she had missed her train, and all we knew was her first name and that she would wear a "brown turban." After prowling distraitly round the station (and a large station it is) and asking every likely person if her name was Amanda, [227]and being frowned upon and suspected as a black slaver, and thinking we felt on our neck the heated breath and handcuffs of the Travellers' Aid Society, we decided165 that Amanda must have missed her train and concluded to wait for the next. Then it was, to return to our thesis, that we had occasion to observe and feel in our own person the wretched pangs of one in despair facing the gentle—shall we say hesychastic?—peace and benevolent166 quietness of the man at the bulletin board. Bombarded with questions by the impatient and anxious crowd, with what pacific good nature he answered our doubts and querulities. And yet how irritating was his calmness, his deliberation, the very placidity167 of his mien168 as he surveyed his clacking telautograph and leisurely169 took out his schoolroom eraser, rubbed off an inscription170, then polished the board with a cloth, then looked for a piece of chalk and wrote in a fine curly hand some notation171 about a train from Cincinnati in which we were not at all interested. Ah, here we are at last! Train from Philadelphia! Arriving on track Number—; no, wrong again! He only change 5 minutes late to 10 minutes late. The crowd mutters and fumes. The telautograph begins to stutter and we gaze at it feverishly172. It stops again and our dominie looks at it calmly. He taps it gently with his finger. We wonder, is it out of order? Perhaps that train is already coming in and he doesn't know it, and Amanda may be wandering lost somewhere in the vast vistas173 of the station looking for us. Shall we dash up to the waiting room and have another look? But Amanda does not know the station, and there are so many places [228]where benches are put, and she might think one of those was the waiting room that had been mentioned. And then there is this Daylight Saving time mix-up. In a sudden panic we cannot figure out whether Philadelphia time is an hour ahead of New York time or an hour behind. We told Amanda to take the one o'clock from Philadelphia. Well, should she arrive here at two o'clock or at four? It being now 5:10 by our time, what are we to do? The telautograph clicks. The priestly person slowly and gravely writes down that the Philadelphia train is arriving on Track 6. There is a mad rush: everyone dashes to the gate. And here, coming up the stairs, is a coloured lady whose anxiously speculating eye must be the one we seek. In the mutuality174 of our worry we recognize each other at once. We seize her in triumph; in fact, we could have embraced her. All our anguish175 is past. Amanda is ours!
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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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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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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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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madrigal
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| n.牧歌；（流行于16和17世纪无乐器伴奏的）合唱歌曲 | |
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garnishing
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的现在分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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proofreading
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| 校对，校勘( proofread的现在分词 )； 做校对工作； 校读 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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gild
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| vt.给…镀金，把…漆成金色，使呈金色 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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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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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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24
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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25
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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26
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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27
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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28
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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29
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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30
limousines
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| n.豪华轿车( limousine的名词复数 )；（往返机场接送旅客的）中型客车，小型公共汽车 | |
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31
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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32
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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33
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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34
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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35
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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36
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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37
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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38
athletics
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| n.运动，体育，田径运动 | |
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39
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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42
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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43
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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44
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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45
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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46
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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47
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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48
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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49
cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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50
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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51
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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52
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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53
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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54
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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55
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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56
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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57
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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58
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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59
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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60
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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61
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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62
teaspoonful
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|
| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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63
vatted
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| 把…盛入大桶（vat的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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64
scotch
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|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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65
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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66
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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67
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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68
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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69
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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70
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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71
fumigation
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| n.烟熏，熏蒸；忿恨 | |
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72
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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73
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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74
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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76
disperse
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|
| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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77
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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78
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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79
passersby
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| n. 过路人(行人,经过者) | |
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80
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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81
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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82
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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83
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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84
considerably
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|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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85
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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86
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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87
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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88
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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89
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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90
urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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91
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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92
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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93
judicious
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|
| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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94
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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95
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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96
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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98
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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99
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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100
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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101
janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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102
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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103
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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104
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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105
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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106
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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107
debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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108
ticklish
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|
| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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109
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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110
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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111
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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112
purview
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| n.范围；眼界 | |
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113
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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114
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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115
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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116
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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117
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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118
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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119
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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120
navigate
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| v.航行，飞行；导航，领航 | |
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121
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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122
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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123
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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124
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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125
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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126
wrenches
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| n.一拧( wrench的名词复数 )；（身体关节的）扭伤；扳手；（尤指离别的）悲痛v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的第三人称单数 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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127
bauble
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| n.美观而无价值的饰物 | |
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128
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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129
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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130
rattan
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| n.藤条，藤杖 | |
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131
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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132
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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133
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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134
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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135
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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136
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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137
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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138
diffuses
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|
| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的第三人称单数 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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139
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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140
industriously
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141
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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142
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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143
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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144
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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145
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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146
thoroughly
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|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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147
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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148
shearing
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|
| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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149
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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150
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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151
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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152
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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burnish
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| v.磨光；使光滑 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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slewing
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| n.快速定向，快速瞄准v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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notation
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| n.记号法，表示法，注释；[计算机]记法 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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173
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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mutuality
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| n.相互关系，相互依存 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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