Whitman.
Occasionally on the sidewalk, amid the dapper, swiftly-moving, high-heeled boots and gaiters, I catch a glimpse of the naked human foot. Nimbly it scuffs1 along, the toes spread, the sides flatten2, the heel protrudes3; it grasps the curbing4, or bends to the form of the uneven5 surfaces,—a thing sensuous6 and alive, that seems to take cognisance of whatever it touches or passes. How primitive8 and uncivil it looks in such company,—a real barbarian9 in the parlour. We are so unused to the human anatomy10, to simple, unadorned nature, that it looks a little repulsive11; but it is beautiful for all that. Though it be a black foot and an unwashed foot, it shall be exalted12. It is a thing of life amid leather, a free spirit amid cramped13, a wild bird amid caged, an athlete amid consumptives. It is the symbol of my order, the Order of Walkers. That unhampered, vitally playing piece of anatomy is[Pg 222] the type of the pedestrian, man returned to first principles, in direct contact and intercourse14 with the earth and the elements, his faculties15 unsheathed, his mind plastic, his body toughened, his heart light, his soul dilated16: while those cramped and distorted members in the calf17 and kid are the unfortunate wretches18 doomed19 to carriages and cushions.
I am not going to advocate the disuse of boots and shoes, or the abandoning of the improved modes of travel; but I am going to brag20 as lustily as I can on behalf of the pedestrian, and show how all the shining angels second and accompany the man who goes afoot, while all the dark spirits are ever looking out for a chance to ride.
When I see the discomforts21 that able-bodied American men will put up with rather than go a mile or half a mile on foot, the abuses they will tolerate and encourage, crowding the street car on a little fall in the temperature or the appearance of an inch or two of snow, packing up to overflowing22, dangling23 to the straps24, treading on each other's toes, breathing each other's breaths, crushing the women and children, hanging by tooth and nail to a square inch of the platform, imperilling their limbs and killing25 the horses,—I think the commonest tramp in the street has good reason to felicitate himself on his rare privilege of going afoot.[Pg 223] Indeed, a race that neglects or despises this primitive gift, that fears the touch of the soil, that has no footpaths26, no community of ownership in the land which they imply, that warns off the walker as a trespasser28, that knows no way but the highway, the carriage-way, that forgets the stile, the foot-bridge, that even ignores the rights of the pedestrian in the public road, providing no escape for him but in the ditch or up the bank, is in a fair way to far more serious degeneracy.
Shakespeare makes the chief qualification of the walker a merry heart:—
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a."
The human body is a steed that goes freest and longest under a light rider, and the lightest of all riders is a cheerful heart. Your sad, or morose29, or embittered30, or preoccupied31 heart settles heavily into the saddle, and the poor beast, the body, breaks down the first mile. Indeed, the heaviest thing in the world is a heavy heart. Next to that the most burdensome to the walker is a heart not in perfect sympathy and accord with the body—a reluctant or unwilling32 heart. The horse and rider must not only both be willing[Pg 224] to go the same way, but the rider must lead the way and infuse his own lightness and eagerness into the steed. Herein is no doubt our trouble and one reason of the decay of the noble art in this country. We are unwilling walkers. We are not innocent and simple-hearted enough to enjoy a walk. We have fallen from that state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk implies. It cannot be said that as a people we are so positively33 sad, or morose, or melancholic34 as that we are vacant of that sportiveness and surplusage of animal spirits that characterised our ancestors, and that springs from full and harmonious35 life,—a sound heart in accord with a sound body. A man must invest himself near at hand and in common things, and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he would know the blessedness of a cheerful heart and the sweetness of a walk over the round earth. This is a lesson the American has yet to learn—capability of amusement on a low key. He expects rapid and extraordinary returns. He would make the very elemental laws pay usury36. He has nothing to invest in a walk; it is too slow, too cheap. We crave37 the astonishing, the exciting, the far away, and do not know the highways of the gods when we see them,—always a sign of the decay of the faith and simplicity38 of man.
[Pg 225]
If I say to my neighbour, "Come with me, I have great wonders to show you," he pricks39 up his ears and comes forthwith; but when I take him on the hills under the full blaze of the sun, or along the country road, our footsteps lighted by the moon and stars, and say to him, "Behold41, these are the wonders, these are the circuits of the gods, this we now tread is a morning star," he feels defrauded42, and as if I had played him a trick. And yet nothing less than dilatation and enthusiasm like this is the badge of the master walker.
If we are not sad we are careworn43, hurried, discontented, mortgaging the present for the promise of the future. If we take a walk, it is as we take a prescription44, with about the same relish45 and with about the same purpose; and the more the fatigue46 the greater our faith in the virtue47 of the medicine.
Of those gleesome saunters over the hills in spring, or those sallies of the body in winter, those excursions into space when the foot strikes fire at every step, when the air tastes like a new and finer mixture, when we accumulate force and gladness as we go along, when the sight of objects by the roadside and of the fields and woods pleases more than pictures or than all the art in the world,—those ten or twelve mile dashes that are but the wit and affluence48 of the corporeal49 powers,[Pg 226]—of such diversion and open road entertainment, I say, most of us know very little.
I notice with astonishment50 that at our fashionable watering-places nobody walks; that of all those vast crowds of health-seekers and lovers of country air, you can never catch one in the fields or woods, or guilty of trudging51 along the country road with dust on his shoes and sun-tan on his hands and face. The sole amusement seems to be to eat and dress and sit about the hotels and glare at each other. The men look bored, the women look tired, and all seem to sigh, "O Lord! what shall we do to be happy and not be vulgar?" Quite different from our British cousins across the water, who have plenty of amusement and hilarity52, spending most of the time at their watering-places in the open air, strolling, picnicking, boating, climbing, briskly walking, apparently53 with little fear of sun-tan or of compromising their "gentility."
It is indeed astonishing with what ease and hilarity the English walk. To an American it seems a kind of infatuation. When Dickens was in this country I imagine the aspirants54 to the honour of a walk with him were not numerous. In a pedestrian tour of England by an American, I read that "after breakfast with the Independent minister, he walked with us for six miles out of town upon our[Pg 227] road. Three little boys and girls, the youngest six years old, also accompanied us. They were romping55 and rambling56 about all the while, and their morning walk must have been as much as fifteen miles; but they thought nothing of it, and when we parted were apparently as fresh as when they started, and very loath57 to return."
I fear, also, the American is becoming disqualified for the manly58 art of walking, by a falling off in the size of his foot. He cherishes and cultivates this part of his anatomy, and apparently thinks his taste and good breeding are to be inferred from its diminutive59 size. A small, trim foot, well booted or gaitered, is the national vanity. How we stare at the big feet of foreigners, and wonder what may be the price of leather in those countries, and where all the aristocratic blood is, that these plebeian61 extremities62 so predominate. If we were admitted to the confidences of the shoemaker to Her Majesty63 or to His Royal Highness, no doubt we would modify our views upon this latter point, for a truly large and royal nature is never stunted64 in the extremities; a little foot never yet supported a great character.
It is said that Englishmen when they first come to this country are for some time under the impression that American women all have deformed65 feet, they are so coy of them and so[Pg 228] studiously careful to keep them hid. That there is an astonishing difference between the women of the two countries in this respect, every traveller can testify; and that there is a difference equally astonishing between the pedestrian habits and capabilities66 of the rival sisters is also certain.
The English pedestrian, no doubt, has the advantage of us in the matter of climate; for notwithstanding the traditional gloom and moroseness68 of English skies, they have in that country none of those relaxing, sinking, enervating69 days, of which we have so many here, and which seem especially trying to the female constitution—days which withdraw all support from the back and loins, and render walking of all things burdensome. Theirs is a climate of which it has been said that "it invites men abroad more days in the year and more hours in the day than that of any other country."
Then their land is threaded with paths which invite the walker, and which are scarcely less important than the highways. I heard of a surly nobleman near London who took it into his head to close a footpath that passed through his estate near his house, and open another one a little farther off. The pedestrians70 objected; the matter got into the courts, and after protracted71 litigation the aristocrat60 was beaten. The path could[Pg 229] not be closed or moved. The memory of man ran not to the time when there was not a footpath there, and every pedestrian should have the right of way there still.
I remember the pleasure I had in the path that connects Stratford-on-Avon with Shottery, Shakespeare's path when he went courting Anne Hathaway. By the king's highway the distance is somewhat farther, so there is a well-worn path along the hedgerows and through the meadows and turnip72 patches. The traveller in it has the privilege of crossing the railroad track, an unusual privilege in England, and one denied to the lord in his carriage, who must either go over or under it. (It is a privilege, is it not, to be allowed the forbidden, even if it be the privilege of being run over by the engine?) In strolling over the South Downs, too, I was delighted to find that where the hill was steepest some benefactor73 of the order of walkers had made notches74 in the sward, so that the foot could bite the better and firmer; the path became a kind of stairway, which I have no doubt the ploughman respected.
When you see an English country church withdrawn75, secluded77, out of the reach of wheels, standing67 amid grassy78 graves and surrounded by noble trees, approached by paths and shaded lanes, you appreciate more than[Pg 230] ever this beautiful habit of the people. Only a race that knows how to use its feet, and holds footpaths sacred, could put such a charm of privacy and humility79 into such a structure. I think I should be tempted80 to go to church myself if I saw all my neighbours starting off across the fields or along paths that led to such charmed spots, and was sure I would not be jostled or run over by the rival chariots of the worshippers at the temple doors. I think this is what ails81 our religion; humility and devoutness82 of heart leave one when he lays by his walking shoes and walking clothes, and sets out for church drawn76 by something.
Indeed, I think it would be tantamount to an astonishing revival83 of religion if the people would all walk to church on Sunday and walk home again. Think how the stones would preach to them by the wayside; how their benumbed minds would warm up beneath the friction84 of the gravel85; how their vain and foolish thoughts, their desponding thoughts, their besetting86 demons87 of one kind and another, would drop behind them, unable to keep up or to endure the fresh air. They would walk away from their ennui88, their worldly cares, their uncharitableness, their pride of dress; for these devils always want to ride, while the simple virtues89 are never so happy as[Pg 231] when on foot. Let us walk by all means; but if we will ride, get an ass7.
Then the English claim that they are a more hearty90 and robust91 people than we are. It is certain they are a plainer people, have plainer tastes, dress plainer, build plainer, speak plainer, keep closer to facts, wear broader shoes and coarser clothes, place a lower estimate on themselves, etc.—all of which traits favour pedestrian habits. The English grandee92 is not confined to his carriage; but if the American aristocrat leaves his, he is ruined. Oh, the weariness, the emptiness, the plotting, the seeking rest and finding none, that goes by in the carriages! while your pedestrian is always cheerful, alert, refreshed, with his heart in his hand and his hand free to all. He looks down upon nobody; he is on the common level. His pores are all open, his circulation is active, his digestion93 good. His heart is not cold, nor his faculties asleep. He is the only real traveller; he alone tastes the "gay, fresh sentiment of the road." He is not isolated94, but one with things, with the farms and industries on either hand. The vital, universal currents play through him. He knows the ground is alive; he feels the pulses of the wind, and reads the mute language of things. His sympathies are all aroused; his senses are continually reporting messages[Pg 232] to his mind. Wind, frost, rain, heat, cold, are something to him. He is not merely a spectator of the panorama95 of nature, but a participator in it. He experiences the country he passes through—tastes it, feels it, absorbs it; the traveller in his fine carriage sees it merely. This gives the fresh charm to that class of books that may be called "Views Afoot," and to the narratives96 of hunters, naturalists97, exploring parties, etc. The walker does not need a large territory. When you get into a railway car you want a continent, the man in his carriage requires a township; but a walker like Thoreau finds as much and more along the shores of Walden Pond. The former, as it were, has merely time to glance at the headings of the chapters, while the latter need not miss a line, and Thoreau reads between the lines. Then the walker has the privilege of the fields, the woods, the hills, the by-ways. The apples by the roadside are for him, and the berries, and the spring of water, and the friendly shelter; and if the weather is cold, he eats the frost grapes and the persimmons, or even the white meated turnip, snatched from the field he passed through, with incredible relish.
Afoot and in the open road, one has a fair start in life at last. There is no hindrance98 now. Let him put his best foot forward. He[Pg 233] is on the broadest humane99 plane. This is on the level of all the great laws and heroic deeds. From this platform he is eligible100 to any good fortune. He was sighing for the golden age; let him walk to it. Every step brings him nearer. The youth of the world is but a few days' journey distant. Indeed, I know persons who think they have walked back to that fresh aforetime of a single bright Sunday in autumn or early spring. Before noon they felt its airs upon their cheeks, and by nightfall, on the banks of some quiet stream, or along some path in the wood, or on some hill-top, aver101 they have heard the voices and felt the wonder and the mystery that so enchanted102 the early races of men.
I think if I could walk through a country I should not only see many things and have adventures that I should otherwise miss, but that I should come into relations with that country at first hand, and with the men and women in it, in a way that would afford the deepest satisfaction. Hence I envy the good fortune of all walkers, and feel like joining myself to every tramp that comes along. I am jealous of the clergyman I read about the other day who footed it from Edinburgh to London, as poor Effie Deans did, carrying her shoes in her hand most of the way, and over the ground that rugged103 Ben Jonson strode, larking104 it to[Pg 234] Scotland, so long ago. I read with longing105 of the pedestrian feats106 of college youths, so gay and light-hearted, with their coarse shoes on their feet and their knapsacks on their backs. It would have been a good draught107 of the rugged cup to have walked with Wilson the ornithologist108, deserted109 by his companions, from Niagara to Philadelphia through the snows of winter. I almost wish that I had been born to the career of a German mechanic, that I might have had that delicious adventurous110 year of wandering over my country before I settled down to work. I think how much richer and firmer-grained life would be to me if I could journey afoot through Florida and Texas, or follow the windings111 of the Platte or the Yellowstone, or stroll through Oregon, or browse112 for a season about Canada. In the bright inspiring days of autumn I only want the time and the companion to walk back to the natal113 spot, the family nest, across two States and into the mountains of a third. What adventures we would have by the way, what hard pulls, what prospects115 from hills, what spectacles we would behold of night and day, what passages with dogs, what glances, what peeps into windows, what characters we should fall in with, and how seasoned and hardy116 we should arrive at our destination!
For companion I should want a veteran of[Pg 235] the war! Those marches put something into him I like. Even at this distance his mettle117 is but little softened119. As soon as he gets warmed up it all comes back to him. He catches your step and away you go, a gay, adventurous, half predatory couple. How quickly he falls into the old ways of jest and anecdote120 and song! You may have known him for years without having heard him hum an air, or more than casually121 revert122 to the subject of his experience during the war. You have even questioned and cross-questioned him without firing the train you wished. But get him out on a vacation tramp, and you can walk it all out of him. By the camp-fire at night or swinging along the streams by day, song, anecdote, adventure, come to the surface, and you wonder how your companion has kept silent so long.
It is another proof of how walking brings out the true character of a man. The devil never yet asked his victims to take a walk with him. You will not be long in finding your companion out. All disguises will fall away from him. As his pores open his character is laid bare. His deepest and most private self will come to the top. It matters little whom you ride with, so he be not a pickpocket123; for both of you will, very likely, settle down closer and firmer in your reserve, shaken[Pg 236] down like a measure of corn by the jolting124 as the journey proceeds. But walking is a more vital copartnership; the relation is a closer and more sympathetic one, and you do not feel like walking ten paces with a stranger without speaking to him.
Hence the fastidiousness of the professional walker in choosing or admitting a companion, and hence the truth of a remark of Emerson that you will generally fare better to take your dog than to invite your neighbour. Your cur-dog is a true pedestrian, and your neighbour is very likely a small politician. The dog enters thoroughly125 into the spirit of the enterprise; he is not indifferent or preoccupied; he is constantly sniffing126 adventure, laps at every spring, looks upon every field and wood as a new world to be explored, is ever on some fresh trail, knows something important will happen a little farther on, gazes with the true wonder-seeing eyes, whatever the spot or whatever the road finds it good to be there—in short, is just that happy, delicious, excursive vagabond that touches one at so many points, and whose human prototype in a companion robs miles and leagues of half their power to fatigue.
Persons who find themselves spent in a short walk to the market or the post-office, or to do a little shopping, wonder how it is that their[Pg 237] pedestrian friends can compass so many weary miles and not fall down from sheer exhaustion127; ignorant of the fact that the walker is a kind of projectile128 that drops far or near according to the expansive force of the motive129 that set it in motion, and that it is easy enough to regulate the charge according to the distance to be traversed. If I am loaded to carry only one mile and am compelled to walk three, I generally feel more fatigue than if I had walked six under the proper impetus130 of pre-adjusted resolution. In other words, the will or corporeal mainspring, whatever it be, is capable of being wound up to different degrees of tension, so that one may walk all day nearly as easy as half that time if he is prepared beforehand. He knows his task, and he measures and distributes his powers accordingly. It is for this reason that an unknown road is always a long road. We cannot cast the mental eye along it and see the end from the beginning. We are fighting in the dark, and cannot take the measure of our foe131. Every step must be preordained and provided for in the mind. Hence also the fact that to vanquish132 one mile in the woods seems equal to compassing three in the open country. The furlongs are ambushed133, and we magnify them.
Then, again, how annoying to be told it is only five miles to the next place when it is[Pg 238] really eight or ten! We fall short nearly half the distance, and are compelled to urge and roll the spent ball the rest of the way.
In such a case walking degenerates134 from a fine art to a mechanic art; we walk merely; to get over the ground becomes the one serious and engrossing135 thought; whereas success in walking is not to let your right foot know what your left foot doeth. Your heart must furnish such music that in keeping time to it your feet will carry you around the globe without knowing it. The walker I would describe takes no note of distance; his walk is a sally, a bon mot, an unspoken jeu d'esprit; the ground is his butt136, his provocation137; it furnishes him the resistance his body craves138; he rebounds139 upon it, he glances off and returns again, and uses it gaily140 as his tool.
I do not think I exaggerate the importance or the charms of pedestrianism, or our need as a people to cultivate the art. I think it would tend to soften118 the national manners, to teach us the meaning of leisure, to acquaint us with the charms of the open air, to strengthen and foster the tie between the race and the land. No one else looks out upon the world so kindly141 and charitably as the pedestrian; no one else gives and takes so much from the country he passes through. Next to the labourer in the fields, the walker holds the closest relation to[Pg 239] the soil; and he holds a closer and more vital relation to Nature because he is freer and his mind more at leisure.
Man takes root at his feet, and at best he is no more than a potted plant in his house or carriage till he has established communication with the soil by the loving and magnetic touch of his soles to it. Then the tie of association is born; then spring those invisible fibres and rootlets through which character comes to smack142 of the soil, and which make a man kindred to the spot of earth he inhabits.
The roads and paths you have walked along in summer and winter weather, the fields and hills which you have looked upon in lightness and gladness of heart, where fresh thoughts have come into your mind, or some noble prospect114 has opened before you, and especially the quiet ways where you have walked in sweet converse143 with your friend, pausing under the trees, drinking at the spring—henceforth they are not the same; a new charm is added; those thoughts spring there perennial144, your friend walks there for ever.
We have produced some good walkers and saunterers, and some noted145 climbers; but as a staple146 recreation, as a daily practice, the mass of the people dislike and despise walking. Thoreau said he was a good horse, but a poor roadster. I chant the virtues of the roadster[Pg 240] as well. I sing of the sweetness of gravel, good sharp quartz-grit. It is the proper condiment147 for the sterner seasons, and many a human gizzard would be cured of half its ills by a suitable daily allowance of it. I think Thoreau himself would have profited immensely by it. His diet was too exclusively vegetable. A man cannot live on grass alone. If one has been a lotus-eater all summer, he must turn gravel-eater in the fall and winter. Those who have tried it know that gravel possesses an equal though an opposite charm. It spurs to action. The foot tastes it and henceforth rests not. The joy of moving and surmounting148, of attrition and progression, the thirst for space, for miles and leagues of distance, for sights and prospects, to cross mountains and thread rivers, and defy frost, heat, snow, danger, difficulties, seizes it; and from that day forth40 its possessor is enrolled149 in the noble army of walkers.
John Burroughs.
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH.
The End
The End
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scuffs
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| v.使磨损( scuff的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚走 | |
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flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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protrudes
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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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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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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trespasser
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| n.侵犯者；违反者 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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34
melancholic
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| 忧郁症患者 | |
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35
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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36
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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37
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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38
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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39
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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40
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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41
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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42
defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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44
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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45
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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46
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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47
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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48
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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49
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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50
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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51
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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52
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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53
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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54
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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55
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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56
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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57
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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58
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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59
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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60
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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61
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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62
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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63
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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64
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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65
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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66
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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67
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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68
moroseness
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69
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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70
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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71
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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72
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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73
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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74
notches
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| n.（边缘或表面上的）V型痕迹( notch的名词复数 )；刻痕；水平；等级 | |
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75
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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76
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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78
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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79
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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80
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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81
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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82
devoutness
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| 朝拜 | |
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83
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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84
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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85
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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86
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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87
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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88
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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89
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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90
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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91
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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92
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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93
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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94
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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95
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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96
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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97
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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98
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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99
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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100
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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101
aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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102
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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104
larking
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| v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的现在分词 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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105
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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106
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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107
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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108
ornithologist
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| n.鸟类学家 | |
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109
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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110
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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111
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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112
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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113
natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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114
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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115
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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116
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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117
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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118
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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119
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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120
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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121
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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122
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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123
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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124
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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125
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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126
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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127
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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128
projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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129
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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130
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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131
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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132
vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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133
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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134
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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135
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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136
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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137
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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138
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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139
rebounds
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| 反弹球( rebound的名词复数 )； 回弹球； 抢断篮板球； 复兴 | |
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140
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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141
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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142
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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143
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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144
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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145
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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146
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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147
condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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148
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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149
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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