One of the queerest things I know of, is to hear tourists from “the States” go into ecstasies23 over the loveliness of “ever-blooming California.” And they always do go into that sort of ecstasies. But perhaps they would modify them if they knew how old Californians, with the memory full upon them of the dust-covered and questionable24 summer greens of Californian “verdure,” stand astonished, and filled with worshipping admiration25, in the presence of the lavish26 richness, the brilliant green, the infinite freshness, the spend-thrift variety of form and species and foliage that make an Eastern landscape a vision of Paradise itself. The idea of a man falling into raptures27 over grave and sombre California, when that man has seen New England’s meadow-expanses and her maples28, oaks and cathedral-windowed elms decked in summer attire29, or the opaline splendors30 of autumn descending31 upon her forests, comes very near being funny—would be, in fact, but that it is so pathetic. No land with an unvarying climate can be very beautiful. The tropics are not, for all the sentiment that is wasted on them. They seem beautiful at first, but sameness impairs32 the charm by and by. Change is the handmaiden Nature requires to do her miracles with. The land that has four well-defined seasons, cannot lack beauty, or pall33 with monotony. Each season brings a world of enjoyment34 and interest in the watching of its unfolding, its gradual, harmonious35 development, its culminating graces—and just as one begins to tire of it, it passes away and a radical36 change comes, with new witcheries and new glories in its train. And I think that to one in sympathy with nature, each season, in its turn, seems the loveliest.
San Francisco, a truly fascinating city to live in, is stately and handsome at a fair distance, but close at hand one notes that the architecture is mostly old-fashioned, many streets are made up of decaying, smoke-grimed, wooden houses, and the barren sand-hills toward the outskirts37 obtrude38 themselves too prominently. Even the kindly39 climate is sometimes pleasanter when read about than personally experienced, for a lovely, cloudless sky wears out its welcome by and by, and then when the longed for rain does come it stays. Even the playful earthquake is better contemplated at a dis—
However there are varying opinions about that.
The climate of San Francisco is mild and singularly equable. The thermometer stands at about seventy degrees the year round. It hardly changes at all. You sleep under one or two light blankets Summer and Winter, and never use a mosquito bar. Nobody ever wears Summer clothing. You wear black broadcloth—if you have it—in August and January, just the same. It is no colder, and no warmer, in the one month than the other. You do not use overcoats and you do not use fans. It is as pleasant a climate as could well be contrived40, take it all around, and is doubtless the most unvarying in the whole world. The wind blows there a good deal in the summer months, but then you can go over to Oakland, if you choose—three or four miles away—it does not blow there. It has only snowed twice in San Francisco in nineteen years, and then it only remained on the ground long enough to astonish the children, and set them to wondering what the feathery stuff was.
During eight months of the year, straight along, the skies are bright and cloudless, and never a drop of rain falls. But when the other four months come along, you will need to go and steal an umbrella. Because you will require it. Not just one day, but one hundred and twenty days in hardly varying succession. When you want to go visiting, or attend church, or the theatre, you never look up at the clouds to see whether it is likely to rain or not—you look at the almanac. If it is Winter, it will rain—and if it is Summer, it won’t rain, and you cannot help it. You never need a lightning-rod, because it never thunders and it never lightens. And after you have listened for six or eight weeks, every night, to the dismal41 monotony of those quiet rains, you will wish in your heart the thunder would leap and crash and roar along those drowsy42 skies once, and make everything alive—you will wish the prisoned lightnings would cleave43 the dull firmament44 asunder45 and light it with a blinding glare for one little instant. You would give anything to hear the old familiar thunder again and see the lightning strike somebody. And along in the Summer, when you have suffered about four months of lustrous46, pitiless sunshine, you are ready to go down on your knees and plead for rain—hail—snow—thunder and lightning—anything to break the monotony—you will take an earthquake, if you cannot do any better. And the chances are that you’ll get it, too.
San Francisco is built on sand hills, but they are prolific47 sand hills. They yield a generous vegetation. All the rare flowers which people in “the States” rear with such patient care in parlor48 flower-pots and green- houses, flourish luxuriantly in the open air there all the year round. Calla lilies, all sorts of geraniums, passion flowers, moss roses—I do not know the names of a tenth part of them. I only know that while New Yorkers are burdened with banks and drifts of snow, Californians are burdened with banks and drifts of flowers, if they only keep their hands off and let them grow. And I have heard that they have also that rarest and most curious of all the flowers, the beautiful Espiritu Santo, as the Spaniards call it—or flower of the Holy Spirit—though I thought it grew only in Central America—down on the Isthmus49. In its cup is the daintiest little facsimile of a dove, as pure as snow. The Spaniards have a superstitious50 reverence51 for it. The blossom has been conveyed to the States, submerged in ether; and the bulb has been taken thither52 also, but every attempt to make it bloom after it arrived, has failed.
I have elsewhere spoken of the endless Winter of Mono, California, and but this moment of the eternal Spring of San Francisco. Now if we travel a hundred miles in a straight line, we come to the eternal Summer of Sacramento. One never sees Summer-clothing or mosquitoes in San Francisco—but they can be found in Sacramento. Not always and unvaryingly, but about one hundred and forty-three months out of twelve years, perhaps. Flowers bloom there, always, the reader can easily believe—people suffer and sweat, and swear, morning, noon and night, and wear out their stanchest energies fanning themselves. It gets hot there, but if you go down to Fort Yuma you will find it hotter. Fort Yuma is probably the hottest place on earth. The thermometer stays at one hundred and twenty in the shade there all the time—except when it varies and goes higher. It is a U.S. military post, and its occupants get so used to the terrific heat that they suffer without it. There is a tradition (attributed to John Phenix [It has been purloined53 by fifty different scribblers who were too poor to invent a fancy but not ashamed to steal one.—M. T.]) that a very, very wicked soldier died there, once, and of course, went straight to the hottest corner of perdition,—and the next day he telegraphed back for his blankets. There is no doubt about the truth of this statement—there can be no doubt about it. I have seen the place where that soldier used to board. In Sacramento it is fiery54 Summer always, and you can gather roses, and eat strawberries and ice-cream, and wear white linen55 clothes, and pant and perspire56, at eight or nine o’clock in the morning, and then take the cars, and at noon put on your furs and your skates, and go skimming over frozen Donner Lake, seven thousand feet above the valley, among snow banks fifteen feet deep, and in the shadow of grand mountain peaks that lift their frosty crags ten thousand feet above the level of the sea.
There is a transition for you! Where will you find another like it in the Western hemisphere? And some of us have swept around snow-walled curves of the Pacific Railroad in that vicinity, six thousand feet above the sea, and looked down as the birds do, upon the deathless Summer of the Sacramento Valley, with its fruitful fields, its feathery foliage, its silver streams, all slumbering57 in the mellow58 haze59 of its enchanted60 atmosphere, and all infinitely61 softened62 and spiritualized by distance—a dreamy, exquisite63 glimpse of fairyland, made all the more charming and striking that it was caught through a forbidden gateway64 of ice and snow, and savage65 crags and precipices66.
点击收听单词发音
1 rumbled | |
发出隆隆声,发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 轰鸣着缓慢行进; 发现…的真相; 看穿(阴谋) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
2 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
3 sublimity | |
崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
4 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
5 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
6 ruggedness | |
险峻,粗野; 耐久性; 坚固性 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
7 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
8 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
9 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
10 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
11 relentless | |
adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
12 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
13 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
14 spines | |
n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 );脊椎;(动植物的)刺;书脊 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
15 bereft | |
adj.被剥夺的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
16 yearns | |
渴望,切盼,向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
17 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
18 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
19 musing | |
n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
20 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
21 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
22 vindictively | |
adv.恶毒地;报复地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
23 ecstasies | |
狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 ); 出神; 入迷; 迷幻药 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
24 questionable | |
adj.可疑的,有问题的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
25 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
26 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
27 raptures | |
极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
28 maples | |
槭树,枫树( maple的名词复数 ); 槭木 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
29 attire | |
v.穿衣,装扮[同]array;n.衣着;盛装 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
30 splendors | |
n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 );壮丽;光辉;显赫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
31 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
32 impairs | |
v.损害,削弱( impair的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
33 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
34 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
35 harmonious | |
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
36 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
37 outskirts | |
n.郊外,郊区 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
38 obtrude | |
v.闯入;侵入;打扰 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
39 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
40 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
41 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
42 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
43 cleave | |
v.(clave;cleaved)粘着,粘住;坚持;依恋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
44 firmament | |
n.苍穹;最高层 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
45 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
46 lustrous | |
adj.有光泽的;光辉的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
47 prolific | |
adj.丰富的,大量的;多产的,富有创造力的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
48 parlor | |
n.店铺,营业室;会客室,客厅 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
49 isthmus | |
n.地峡 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
50 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
51 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
52 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
53 purloined | |
v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
54 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
55 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
56 perspire | |
vi.出汗,流汗 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
57 slumbering | |
微睡,睡眠(slumber的现在分词形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
58 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
59 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
60 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
61 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
62 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
63 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
64 gateway | |
n.大门口,出入口,途径,方法 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
65 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
66 precipices | |
n.悬崖,峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
欢迎访问英文小说网 |