A few years ago I stood before the public singing another song. By no means a service of praise it was, but something of the order of a denunciatory psalm9, wherein I invoked10 the wrath11 of the high gods upon such miscreants12 as make life hideous13 with din14.
You must not think that imprecations cannot be sung. All emotional utterance15 is song, said Carlyle; only he said it not quite so briefly16. And, leaving on one side the vituperations of his enemies by King David (if he it was who wrote the Psalms) which we still chant upon certain days of the 2Christian year, it may be remembered that in bygone times when the medical practitioner17 was a wizard (or a witch) and uttered his (or her) spell to stay the arrows of Apollo, it not infrequently contained a denunciation of some brother (or sister) practitioner of the art (how times are changed!), and it was known, in Rome at all events, as a carmen, a song. Hence, say the etymologists, the English word “charm,” which still, of course, characterises the modern witch, if not the modern wizard—neither of whom, we may add, is nowadays a medical practitioner.
Besides, denunciations are, of course, grunted18 and growled19 with more or less of a semblance20 of singing in modern opera. To substantiate21 my words I need only mention that interminable scene—or is it an act?—of gloom and evil plottings by Telramund and Ortrud in Lohengrin.
But if I am again singing, this time, I trust, my voice will sound in the ears of my hearers less shrill22, less strident, less of a shriek23. For, in sooth, the present theme is one upon which we are justly entitled, in so far as England and Scotland at all events are concerned, to raise what would be a Nunc Dimittis of praise and thanksgiving, were it not that the price of cleanly air like that of liberty is eternal vigilance, seeing that our nostrils24 are no longer offended by the stenches our forefathers25 had to put up with. That they endured such 3offences philosophically26, cheerfully even, laughing at the unpleasantness as men do at a bad smell, is true. Nevertheless most people in those days probably felt as much objection to a vile27 odour as Queen Elizabeth, for example, did, the sharpness of whose nose, her biographers tell us, was only equalled by the sharpness of her tongue.
Irishmen who do me the honour of tasting this light omelette of scientific literature will have noticed, I am sure, that I have not included the sister isle28 in my olfactory29 paradise. And indeed, I hesitated long before passing it over, because I am a man of peace—at any price where the Land of Ire is concerned. But alas30! I am by nature truthful31 and only by art mendacious32. And there sticks horrible to my memory the fumous and steamy stench of parboiled cabbage that filled the restaurant-car of the train for Belfast—yes! Belfast, not Dublin—one evening as I landed at Kingstown. The sea had been—well! it was the Irish Sea, and I stepped on to the train straight from the mail-boat, so that ... in a word, I remember that luscious33 but washy odour too vividly34 to bestow35 upon Ireland the white flower of a stenchless life.
In these remarks I have been careful to observe that the train was not the Dublin train, but if any one feels moved to defend the capital city, let him 4first of all take a stroll down by the Liffey as it flows fermenting36 and bubbling under its bridges, and then ... if he can....
Let me, however, in justice to that grief-stricken country, spray a little perfume over my too pungent38 observations. I can also recall after many years a warm and balmy evening in the town of Killarney, the peaceful close to a day of torrential rain. The setting sun, glowing love through its tears, was reddening the sky and the dark green hills around, those hills of Ireland where surely, if anywhere on this earth, heaven is foreshadowed. And linked in memory with that evening’s glory there comes, like the gentle strain of a long-forgotten song, the rich, pungent smell of turf-smoke eddying40 blue from low chimneys into the soft air of the twilight41. Ireland! Ireland! What an atmosphere of love and grief that name calls up! Surely the surf that beats upon the strands42 of Innisfail far away is more salt, more bitter, and perhaps for that very reason more sweet, than the waters of any of the other beaches that ocean bathes!
Thence also comes a memory of heliotrope43. It grew by a cottage just beyond a grey granite44 fishing-harbour in Dublin Bay, and brings also, with its faint, ineffable45 fragrance5, the same inseparable blending of emotions that clings, itself a never-dying odour, to the memory of holidays 5in Ireland. There is a phrase in a song, simple, sentimental46, even silly if you like, that prays for “the peace of mind dearer than all.”
“But what,” I remember asking the mother of our party—“what is meant by ‘peace of mind’?” Her wistful smile seemed to me to be a very inadequate47 reply to my question—which, by the way, I am still asking.
It is an historical fact that the movement which rendered England the pioneer country in the matter of Public Health received its first impulse from, and even now owes its continued existence to, the simple accident that the English public has grown intolerant of over-obtrusive odours. Stenches have attained48 to the dignity of a legal topic of interest, and are now by Act of Parliament become “nuisances” in law as well as in nature, with the result that they have been, for the most part, banished49 from the face of the land and the noses of its inhabitants.
The reason assigned by the man in the street for this reform was, and indeed still is, that stenches breed epidemic50 diseases. In a noisome51 smell people imagine a deadly pestilence52, probably because patients affected53 with such epidemic diseases as smallpox54, typhus, and diphtheria, give off nauseating55 odours. Now, bad smells from drains and cesspools do not of themselves induce 6epidemic disease. Nevertheless, there is this much of truth in the superstition57, that where you have bad smells you have also surface accumulations of filth58, and these, soaking through soil and subsoil, contaminate surface wells, until it only requires the advent59 of a typhoid or other “carrier” to set a widespread epidemic a-going. Further, as recent investigators60 have shown us, the loathsome61 and deadly typhus fever, known for years to be a “filth-disease,” is carried by lice, which pests breed and flourish where bodily cleanliness is neglected and personal odours are strong.
So that in this, as in most superstitions62, there is a substratum of truth.
But the point is, that the objection to bad smells preceded all those scientific discoveries and had, in the beginning, but a slender support from rationalism. Our forebears builded better than they knew. Their objection was in reality intuitive. It may be true that all nations occupying a corresponding level of civilisation63 will manifest the same instinctive64 abhorrences, but it has been left to the practical genius of the English race to give effect to the natural repugnance65 and to translate its urgings into practice.
The interesting question now arises: How and when did this intuition or instinct, this blind feeling, arise, and what transformed it from a mere66 individual objection, voiced here and there, to a 7mass-movement leading to a general popular reformation?
The first explanation that is likely to occur to us is, that it was due to the refinement67 of feeling that accompanies high civilisation operating in a community quick to respond and to react when a public benefit is anticipated. One of the results of culture is an increase in the delicacy68 of the senses. When men and women strive after refinement, they achieve it, becoming refined, in spite of what pessimists69 and so-called realists preach, not only in their outward behaviour, but also in their innermost thoughts and feelings, and this internal refinement implies among other things a quickening of the sense of disgust. There is naturally a close and intimate connection between the sense of smell and the nerve-centres which, when stimulated70, evoke71 the feeling of nausea56 in the mind—and the bodily acts that follow it. We are here dealing72, in fact, with a primitive74 protective impulse to ensure that evil-smelling things shall not be swallowed, and the means adopted by Nature to prevent that ingestion, or, if it has accidentally occurred, to reverse it, are prompt. And successful. There is no compromise with the evil thing.
Like all other nerve-reactions, this particular reflex can be educated: either up or down. It can be blunted and degraded, or it can be rendered 8more acute, more prompt to react. Now, one of the effects of civilised life, of town life, is to abbreviate75 the period of all reflex action. And if this applies to knee-jerks and to seeing jokes, it is even more noticeable in the particular reflex we are here considering.
A citizen of Cologne in Coleridge’s days, for example, must have been anosmic to most of the seven-and-twenty stenches that offended the Englishman, and in my own time I have counted as many as ten objectionable public perfumes, yea! even in Lucerne, the “Lovely Lucerne” of the railway posters. Several of these, perhaps, did not amount to more than a mere whiff, just the suspicion of a something unpleasant, no more (but no less) disturbing than, say, one note a semitone flat in a major chord; two or three of them, however, to the sensitive, thin-winged organ of an English school-ma’am, would have attained to the rank of a “smell,” a word on her lips as emphatic76 as an oath on yours or mine; four of them, at the least, were plain stenches, and so beyond her vocabulary altogether; and one was—well! beyond even mine, but only too eloquent77 itself of something ugly and bloated, some mess becoming aerial just round the corner. I did not turn that corner.
Now, the people of Lucerne could never have smelled them, or at all events they could never 9have appreciated those perfumes as I did, or the town would have been evacuated78. Their olfactory sense compared with mine must have been a stupid thing, dense79 to begin with, and cudgelled by use and wont80 into blank insensibility. Because, it is obvious, delicacy in this, as in all the senses, can only be acquired by avoiding habitual81 overstimulation. And that avoidance is only possible in a country where odours are fine, etherealised, rare.
Even in France, France the enlightened, the sensitive, the refined, primitive odours pervade83 the country, as our Army knows very well. Not only is the farm dunghill given place of honour in the farm courtyard, close to doors and windows, but even in the mansions84 of the wealthy the cesspool still remains—not outside, but inside, the house, the water-carriage system, even the pail-system (if that can be called a system), being unknown. So that our Army authorities had to send round a peculiar85 petrol-engine, known to the Tommies as “Stinking Willie,” to empty those pools of corruption86. Some of the monasteries87 used by us as hospitals were, at the beginning of the war, even worse.
From this we may surmise88 that the olfactory sense of our neighbours is not yet so sensitive as is ours.
10But in this matter Western Europe, at its worst—say, in one of the corridor-trains to Marseilles—is a mountain-top to a pigstye compared with the old and gorgeous East. “The East,” ejaculated an old Scotsman once—“the East is just a smell! It begins at Port Said and disna stop till ye come to San Francisco, ... if there!” he added after a pause. From his sweeping89 condemnation90 we must, however, exempt91 Japan.
Who can ever forget the bazaar92 smells of India, the mingled93 must and fust with its background of garlic and strange vices94, or the still more mysterious atmospheres of China with their deep suggestion of musk95?
Naturally the air of a cold country is clearer of obnoxious96 vapours than that of tropical and subtropical climes, but in spite of that, the first whiff of a Tibetan monastery98, like that of an Eskimo hut, grips the throat, they say, like the air over a brewing99 vat39.
So that, after making every allowance for the favour of Nature, we are still entitled to claim that the relative purity of England, and of English cities, towns and even villages, is an artificial achievement.
I may therefore, with justice, raise a song of praise to our fathers who have had our country thus swept and garnished100, swept of noxious97 vapours and emanations, and garnished with the 11perfume of pure and fresh air, to the delight and invigoration of our souls.
And yet the change has only recently been brought about. Up to the beginning of the nineteenth century the city of London
“was certainly as foul101 as could be. The streets were unpaved or paved only with rough cobble stones. There were no side walks. The houses projected over the roadway, and were unprovided with rain-water gutters102, and during a shower rain fell from the roofs into the middle of the street. These streets were filthy103 from constant contributions of slops and ordure from animals and human beings. There were no underground drains, and the soil of the town was soaked with the filth of centuries. This sodden104 condition of the soil must have affected the wells to a greater or less extent.” (“London, Sanitary105 and Medical,” by G. V. Poore. 1889.)
Moreover, the nineteenth century was well on its way before the last of the private cesspools disappeared from the dwelling-houses of London.
Edinburgh during the Middle Ages was, we are told, fresher and cleaner upon its wind-swept ridge37 than London, but with the erection of lofty houses in the High Street and Haymarket of the northern capital its atmosphere became much worse than that of London. The reason for this was that while the London houses remained low, and the population therefore, for a city, widely distributed, in those of Edinburgh, on the other hand, a large community of all classes of society was concentrated, from the noble lord and lady 12to the beggarly caddie and quean. And the whole stew106 was quite innocent of what we call drainage. Quite. Yet the waste-products of life, the lees and offscourings of humanity, all that housemaids call “slops,” had to be got rid of. Very simple problem this to our worthy107 Edinburgh forefathers. After dark the windows up in these “lands” were thrust open, and with a shrill cry of “Gardy-loo” (Gardez l’eau) the cascade108 of swipes and worse fell into the street below with a splash and an od—. “Ha! ha!” laughed Dr. Johnson to little Boswell; “I can smell you there in the dark!”
The hygienic reformation of Britain, although adumbrated109 by sundry110 laws made at intervals111 from the fifteenth century onwards, was not seriously taken in hand until as late as the sixties of last century, and Disraeli’s famous Act defining a bad smell as a “nuisance” became law in 1875.
But although we may justly congratulate ourselves upon the hygienic achievements of England, one result of which has been the minimising of unpleasant odours, nevertheless, as a wider consideration of the facts will show us, the task of cleansing112 the air of England is not yet entirely113 completed. It is doubtless true that what we may term domestic stenches have for the most part been dispelled114, but as regards public f?tors there are 13still, I regret to say, a few that abide115 with us, seemingly as nasty as ever they were.
One deplorable instance you will encounter at the Paddington terminus of the Great Western Railway no less, at a certain platform of which station, lying in wait for our fresh country cousins on their arrival in London, there lurks116 a livid concoction117 of ancient milk, horse-manure, live stock, dead stock, and, in the month of July, fermenting strawberries, as aggressive and unashamed as the worst Lucerne has to offer. I commend it to the attention of the Medical Officer of Health for Paddington.
Nay118 more! This West London efflorescence does not lie blooming alone. It is by no means the last rose of summer. On the east side of the great city, another, a rival upas-tree, spreads its nauseating blight119. This is a mess that, oozing120 from a soap factory near Stratford-atte-Bow, envelops121 in its oleaginous cloud several hundred yards of the main line of the Great Eastern Railway. And the world we live in is so arranged that the trains, particularly in summer, are held up by signal for several minutes in this neighbourhood, so that, as the greasy122 slabs123 of decomposing124 fats slump125 in at the open carriage windows, an early opportunity is afforded to our Continental126 visitors of becoming acquainted with the purifying properties of English soap.
14I am blushing now for what I have been saying about Ireland, Cologne, Lucerne, France, and even the East.
This last instance, however, opens up a large subject, that, namely, of malodorous industries. Of these there is a great number, too great indeed for me to do more than make a passing allusion127 to them. The proximity128 of evil-smelling works and factories to human habitations is, as a matter of fact, prohibited by the Public Health Acts, but it is naturally impossible to remove them entirely from the knowledge of mankind inasmuch as the workers frequently carry the atmosphere about with them. Fortunately for them, but unfortunately for us, by reason of the rapid exhaustion129 of the olfactory sense (which we are about to deal with in the following section), they are, for the most part, not incommoded by the objectionable airs they work in.
Perhaps the worst of all are the bone-manure factories, malodorous mills which are almost invariably situated130 at a distance of several miles from any dwelling-house, as it would be impossible for any one but the workers themselves to live in their neighbourhood. These unfortunate people, many of whom are women, carry, as I have already remarked, the stench about with them on their clothing and persons, and I have observed that, being themselves insensitive to the odour, they 15cannot rid themselves of it even on Sundays and holidays.
In this class also we must place tanneries, glueworks, and size factories, a visit to which is a severe trial for any one unaccustomed to them. Dyeworks, likewise, by reason of the organic sulphur compounds they disseminate131 through the spongy air, are unpleasant neighbours. In cotton mills, also, the sizing-rooms are objectionable, and here, curiously132 enough, the operatives do not seem to become accustomed to the smell, as it is insinuatingly133 rather than bluntly offensive, and grows worse with use. So much so, indeed, that but few of the girls, I am told, are able to remain in that particular occupation for more than a few weeks at a time.
At this stage, albeit134 early in our disquisition, we may appropriately turn to consider the curious fact that of all our senses that of smell is perhaps the most easily exhausted135. The olfactory organ, under the continued stimulation82 of one particular odour, quite quickly becomes insensitive to it. Perhaps this is the reason, or one of the reasons, why reform was so long delayed.
There are, however, in this respect great differences between odours. With some the smell is lost in a few seconds, while with others we continue to be aware of it for a much longer time. 16Curiously enough, odours seem, in this matter, to follow the general law of the feelings in that the pleasant are lost sooner than the unpleasant. It is the first breath of the rose that makes the fullest appeal, when the whole being becomes for a moment suffused136 with the loveliest of all perfumes. But only for a moment. All too soon the door of heaven closes and the richness thins away into the common airs of this our lower world.
On the other hand, the aversion we all feel from substances like iodoform, or, what is worse, scatol, owes not the least part of its strength to the fact that both of those vile smells are very persistent137. As was once said to a surgeon applying iodoform to a wound in a patient’s nose: “This patient will certainly visit you again, sir, but—it will not be to consult you!”
To this more or less rapid exhaustion of the sense is due the merciful dispensation that no one is aware of his own particular aura. We are only cognisant of odours that are strange to us. The Chinese and Japanese find the neighbourhood of Europeans highly objectionable, and we return the compliment. It is the stranger to the Island who remarks the “very ancient and fish-like smell.”
Fatigue138 and then exhaustion of a sense-organ, rendering139 it finally irresponsive to a particular stimulus140, is, of course, familiar to us also in the 17case of vision, as the soap advertisement of our boyhood with its complementary colours taught us. Taste manifests the same phenomenon, for which reason (so he says) the cheese-taster in Scotland swallows a little whisky after each of the different samples he tries. But, curiously enough, the healthy ear is not thus dulled save by a very loud, persistent noise, and then there is the risk of permanent damage to the hearing organ. Some forms of tactile141 sensation, also, would seem to remain ever sensitive, for, although it may be possible to become so inured142 to pain as to ignore it, yet that is probably a mental act, and it is said, moreover, that men have been tortured to death by the tickling143 of the soles of their feet.
But, as we have already seen, of all the senses none so quickly becomes inert144 under stimulation as olfaction. Why it would be hard to say, unless, like the exhaustion of colour-vision, it is due to the using up of some chemical reagent in the sense-organ. At all events, if you wish to appreciate the full intensity145 of a smell, you should arrange to come upon it from the open air.
I wonder if this, or something like it, is the reason why England was the first country in the world to wage war against its stenches. For the English are of all races the most addicted146 to fresh air. Consequently, they are the most likely to keep habitually147 their olfactory sense unspoiled and 18virgin. This, I admit, is only pushing the matter a step further back, and we are still left with the question: Why is it that the English are so fond of the open? Largely, I imagine, because their climate is so damp that an indoor atmosphere is always a little oppressive to them.
Whatever may be the reason, however, there is no doubt that the keen, clean chill of an English April day, especially when the wind is in the east (pace Mr. Jarndyce), brings to us an exaltation of spirit that surpasses the exhilaration of wine, and at the same time renders us impatient with mustiness and fustiness, intolerant of domestic stuffiness148, and frankly149 disgusted with the pungent, prickly vapours of intimate humanity in the mass. The wind on the hilltop is our aspiration150, our ideal. Hence, maybe, the Public Health Acts, and also the national tub.
The use of the domestic bath is, we must not forget, a social revolution of our own day and generation. Our grandfathers ventured upon a bath only when it seemed to be called for—by others. Our grandmothers, with their clean, white cotton or linen151 undergarments, had, or thought they had, even less need for it. Besides, in their prim73 and bashful eyes the necessary denudation152 antecedent to total immersion153 would have amounted, even when they were alone, to something like gross indecency. Before their 19time, again, in the eighteenth century, matters were even worse, for the society ladies of that day painted their faces instead of washing them, and mitigated154 the effects of seldom-changed underclothing by copiously155 drenching156 themselves with musk and other reliable perfumes. (I am told, however, that even to-day fashionable ladies refrain from washing their faces!)
The domestic bathroom is the direct offspring of the gravitation water-supply and the modern system of drainage. Buy an old house, and you will have to convert one of the bedrooms into your bathroom, and, to this day, you must carry your bath with you if you go to reside in certain of the Oxford157 colleges.
I can myself remember in my younger days in Scotland an old doctor having his first bath in the palatial158 surroundings of a modern bathroom. Not in his own house, needless to say! After a patient and particular inspection159 of all the glittering taps of “shower,” “spray,” “plunge160,” and what not, he commended his spirit to the Higher Powers—or rather, I fear, according to his wont, for he was not of the Holy Willie persuasion161, to the keeping of those of the Nether162 Regions. Then he proceeded gingerly to insert into the steaming water first of all his toes, then his feet, next his ankles, and so bit by bit, until, greatly daring, he had 20committed his entire body to the deep—to emerge as soon as possible! He was no coward, let me tell you, in the ordinary run of life. But this was his first bath in the altogether since his primal163 post-natal plunge. His first bath! And his last! It nearly killed him, he said; never in all his life had he felt so bad, and not for a thousand pounds would he repeat the experiment!
One more tale. Cockney this time. A gentleman of my acquaintance was one day discussing with an old-fashioned baker164 the modern making of bread by machinery165. Both agreed that the older method made the better bread. The new was not so good. “It seems,” said my friend, “as if nowadays bread lacks something, but what that something is I cannot tell.”
“You are puffickly right, sir,” returned the baker. “It does lack something, and wot that something is I can tell you—it lacks the aromer of the ’uman ’and!”
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1
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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aromas
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| n.芳香( aroma的名词复数 )；气味；风味；韵味 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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fragrances
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| n.芳香，香味( fragrance的名词复数 )；香水 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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6
temperately
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| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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35
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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36
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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37
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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38
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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39
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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40
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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41
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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42
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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44
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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45
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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46
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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47
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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48
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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49
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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51
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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52
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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53
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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54
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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55
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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56
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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57
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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58
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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59
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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60
investigators
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| n.调查者，审查者( investigator的名词复数 ) | |
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61
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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62
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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63
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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64
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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65
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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66
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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67
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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68
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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69
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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70
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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71
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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72
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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73
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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74
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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75
abbreviate
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| v.缩写，使...简略，缩短 | |
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76
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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77
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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78
evacuated
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| 撤退者的 | |
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79
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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80
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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81
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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82
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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83
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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84
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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87
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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88
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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89
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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90
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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91
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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92
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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93
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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94
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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95
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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96
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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97
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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98
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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99
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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100
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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102
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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103
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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104
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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105
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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106
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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107
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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108
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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109
adumbrated
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| v.约略显示，勾画出…的轮廓( adumbrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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111
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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112
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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113
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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116
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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117
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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118
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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119
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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120
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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121
envelops
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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123
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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124
decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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125
slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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126
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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127
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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128
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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129
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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130
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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131
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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132
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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133
insinuatingly
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134
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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135
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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136
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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138
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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139
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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140
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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141
tactile
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| adj.触觉的，有触觉的，能触知的 | |
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142
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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143
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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144
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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145
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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146
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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147
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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148
stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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149
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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150
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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151
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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152
denudation
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| n.剥下；裸露；滥伐；剥蚀 | |
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153
immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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154
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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156
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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157
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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158
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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159
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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160
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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161
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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162
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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163
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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164
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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165
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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