Smell and taste, by the way, are usually regarded not only as allied1 senses, but also as if they were akin2 in their nature and function. Allied they are, undoubtedly3, seeing that both subserve the function of food-perception. But the resemblance ends there. For, of the two, smell is at once the more delicate and the more extensive in capacity, and, as they differ widely in their anatomical structure, there can be no doubt but that in physiological5 action also they are dissimilar.
The taste-bulbs are capable of appreciating four sensations only, and these quite simple, while the capacity of the olfactory6 organ, as we shall see more fully7 later on, is practically unlimited8. All the subtlety9 of “taste,” all that we call “flavour,” is an olfactory sensation. Thus, people devoid10 of the sense of smell cannot discern the finer savours. They would be unable to distinguish, say, a vanilla11 from a strawberry ice. 44All they could tell would be that both were cold and sweet.
The popular phrase which refers the appreciation12 of the finer shades of taste to the “palate” we may therefore look upon as an attempt to express the feeling that delicate flavours are sensed somewhere higher up than in the mouth. So that a “man of taste” is really a man of smell, and all the literary eloquence13 in praise of wine and dainty food, to say nothing of the more prosy cookery books, is, in reality, a general hymn14 of adulation offered unwittingly to the nose!
Compared with sight and hearing, however, smell in man is only one of the minor15 senses. But, as if to make up for a position so inferior, it is remarkable16 as being the most subtle of all our senses, possibly, as some hold, because of the ancestral appeal to our (more or less repressed) animal nature. So subtle is it, indeed, that I am persuaded its stimuli17 may not, on occasion, emerge into consciousness at all. They remain below the threshold. So that, although subjected to their influence, we may remain ignorant of the cause of that influence. For smell often operates powerfully, not only in surreptitiously enriching and invigorating the mental impression of an event, but also in directing at times the flow of ideas into some particular channel independent 45of the will. The influence of the perfume of a woman’s hair in unexpectedly arousing a feeling of intimacy18 will appeal to the male reader as a good example of this upsurging interference with the placid19 flow of normal ideation.
Perhaps, also, this is the explanation of a strange and rather unpleasant ghost-story I once heard. I dare not vouch20 for the truth of it, but as it bears upon the subject we are considering, I give it here, not without misgiving21, for what it is worth. For the sake of verisimilitude I shall relate it pretty much in the narrator’s own words:
“The evening he came back I was sitting in my room alone. I had just got back from the play, the subject of which had been, it so happened, the influence of people recently dead upon those left behind. I suppose that’s what turned my mind to my sorrow of the previous year when I lost him. It is my husband I am talking about.
“I was sitting gazing at the fire, and I expect you will say I had fallen asleep. Perhaps I had. It doesn’t matter really.
“We had been happy enough together, he and I. Just an ordinary married couple, you might say. But now and then a terrible longing22 would come over me just to see him once more, ... to hear him speak, ... to touch him.... I know it is selfish, and maybe unwise, to give way to those feelings, ... but never mind that! Well, on the night I am telling you about, there came to my recollection some of the silly cantrips those Spiritualist people used to carry on. Oh, yes, it is quite true: I had gone once or twice to see them, and had even taken part in their services—séances, I should say—in James’s lifetime, I mean, before he died. Indeed I went with him.... I never went after.... I 46don’t know.... It seemed to me like trifling23 somehow. Anyhow I have never gone since.
“All the same there came into my head a curious jingling24 rhyme I had heard them repeat once or twice, because they said somebody called Plato or Plautus or something had used it. It would bring back the dead, so they used to say, if you recited it alone at midnight, and accompanied it with certain gestures. The words are nothing but gibberish, a jumbled25 sort of.... No, I’m not going to repeat them.... Let me go on.
“Before I had realised what I was doing, without stopping to think, I uttered the words aloud, moving my arms so as to follow the ritual. Scarcely were the syllables26 out of my mouth—it closes with the name and the clock was striking twelve as I spoke28 it—scarcely, I say, were the words out of my mouth when—God! the pang29 comes yet when I think of it!—I heard the latch-key going into the hall door, and the door slowly opening—I was alone in the flat, and—oh! I can never tell you! I felt dreadful!—I didn’t know how to undo4 the thing, and yet I knew it was wrong—wicked—I never for a moment thought.—Perhaps it had been my longing so much.—The hall door opened.—The chain wasn’t up.—I heard a step,—a cough—oh! the usual sounds he used to make when he came in.—What would he be like?—What...? what...?
“Then the door of the room opened, and there he stood, swinging himself backwards30 and forwards, half toes, half heels, in a way he had, and replacing his jingling keys in his trouser-pocket—I could only stare at him speechless, and gasp—till suddenly he stretched out his hand and pointed31 at me with a ... a sort of snarl32.
“‘Good heavens, Jane!’—the words sounded so commonplace that every trace of the unearthly was dissipated at the first syllable27.—‘Good heavens, Jane! Go and change that frock!—How often have I told you what a fright you look in mauve.—A mill-girl on a holiday!—Come! Get along and change it!’
“It seems silly, I daresay, and all that, but, do you know, no sooner did I hear him growling33 and grumbling34 and finding fault with colours he had a dozen times at least admired 47and praised than—I couldn’t help it!—I forgot everything—everything. And all I could say was:
“‘James! You’ve been eating onions again!’
“‘Not my fault, I assure you, my dear,’ he snapped back; ‘that damned cook always will put garlic in the nectar! You must get rid of her.’
“... I suppose I must have fainted then, for I remember no more till I found myself lying on the floor with my head on the fender. I picked myself up very puzzled as to what had happened. Then I remembered my ... dream, with a shock rather of amusement than fear, when suddenly—suddenly I smelled the nauseating35 stench of strong garlic! That finished me entirely36. How I got out of the place I cannot tell. Out I did get. And I have never gone back.”
This lady evidently would not have subscribed37 to the old teaching of Salerno:
“Six things that heere in order shall issue
Against all poisons have a secret poure.
But Garlick cheese, for they that it devoure
May walk in ways infected every houre;
Sith Garlick then hath poure to save from death
Bear with it though it make unsavoury breath:
And scorne not Garlick, like to some that think
(It may be remembered, by the way, that Wilkie Collins’s “Haunted Hotel” was haunted by a smell.)
Although we may agree with Shelley that
“Odours when sweet violets sicken
Live within the sense they quicken,”
yet we must admit that the memory of an odour cannot be reproduced in our mind with 48the same clearness as a vanished scene or an old tune41.
It may be found on trial that by concentrating the attention strongly upon some familiar smell, particularly if at the same time we stimulate42 the memory by picturing in our mind’s eye a scene in which that odour figured as a feature in the sensory43 landscape, we are sometimes able to recall its actual sensation. But the recollection lacks the intimate reality of visual and auditory images. Without doubt the mind’s eye and mind’s ear, when consciously aroused, are consistently more acute and their representations are more vivid than those of the mind’s olfactory organ.
When, for instance, I call to memory the drawing-room of my boyhood days, I can once more catch a faint reminiscence of the acid-sweet rose-leaves that filled it with perennial44 fragrance45, but not until I have first of all recalled its pale greys and blues46 and its over-bright windows, not until I have listened once more to “The March of the Troubadours” my mother is playing on the old rosewood piano, like a call to some life greater, grander, and, above all, more simple than this bewildering affair!
People, Ribot has ascertained47, vary considerably48 in their power of resuscitating49 dead perfumes. According to his statistics, 40 per cent. could not revive any image at all; 48 per cent. could recall 49some, but not all; and only 12 per cent. could recall all or nearly all at pleasure. The odours most easy to bring back were pinks, musk50, violet, heliotrope51, carbolic acid, the smell of the country, grass, and so on. Many, as in my own case, have to evoke52 the visual image first.
But if the recollection of a scene can only with difficulty, or not at all, revive the sensation of an odour, the converse53 is most startlingly true. For odours have an extraordinary, an inexplicable54, power of spontaneously and suddenly presenting a forgotten scene to the mind, and with such nearness to reality that we are translated bodily, being caught up by the spirit, as it were, like St. Philip, to be placed once more in the midst of the old past life, where we live the moment over again with the full chord of its emotions vibrating our soul and startling our consciousness. There are, it is true, certain sounds which wield55 the same miraculous56 power over our being—
“... the chime familiar of a bell
Can, with the sprites that deep in memory dwell,
Create the world anew with stroke of sound,
To warring tides round wintry Hebrides
That fling and toss in wat’ry hillocks green”—
but I do not think they operate in this way so frequently as do smells.
50This strange revival60 of bygone days by olfaction is, as I have said, automatic. It is most clearly and completely to be realised when the inciting61 odour comes upon us unawares, and then as in a dream the whole of the long-forgotten incident is displayed, even although it may have been an incident in which the odour itself was not specially62 obtrusive63. Yet the display is not only a spectacle, for we become, as I have already laboured to point out, once more actors in the old life-drama.
Now memory can nearly always be recognised as memory. There is about its representations a dulling in colour, a haziness64 in outline, a vagueness in detail, that serves to distinguish it from the harder, clearer pictures of the imagination. Its figures and their doings are like ghosts; through them you can see the solid furniture of to-day. But from the olfactory miracle we are now considering the effect of time, the fraying65 effect of time and superimposed incident, is absent. That is still fresh, still, as we might say, in process of elaboration, the manifold and complicated experiences we have undergone since its occurrence being blotted66 for the moment out of the mind.
Curiously67 enough, although Ribot finds that about 60 per cent. of people experience the “spontaneous” revival of odour in memory, and so presumably are subject to this arresting phenomenon, it does not seem to have been mentioned 51by writers in general until about our own time. At all events, the earliest allusion68 I can find to it is in “Les Fleurs du Mal” of Baudelaire:
“Lecteur, as-tu quelquefois respiré
Avec ivresse et lente gourmandise
Ce grain d’encens qui remplit une église
Ou d’un sachet le musc invétéré?
“Charme profond, magique, dont nous grise
Dans le présent le passé restauré”....
Shortly after Baudelaire’s time Bret Harte, on the other side of the Atlantic, imported it into “The Newport Romance”:
“But the smell of that subtle, sad perfume,
The mummy laid in his rocky tomb,
Awakes my buried past.
“And I think of the passion that shook my youth,
Of its aimless loves and its idle pains,
And am thankful now of the certain truth
But the most precise and definite allusion to this curious power of odours seems to have first been made by Oliver Wendell Holmes in “The Autocrat71 of the Breakfast Table.” Here is what he says, and it will be noted72 that he makes as high a claim for the power of olfaction as I have done:
“Memory, imagination, old sentiments and associations, are more readily reached through the sense of SMELL than by almost any other channel.”
52“Phosphorus fires this train of associations in an instant; its luminous73 vapours with their penetrating74 odour throw me into a trance; it comes to me in a double sense, ‘trailing clouds of glory.’”
“Perhaps the herb everlasting75, the fragrant76 immortelle of our autumn fields, has the most suggestive odour to me of all those that set me dreaming. I can hardly describe the strange thoughts and emotions that come to me as I inhale77 the aroma78 of the pale, dry, rustling79 flowers. A something it has of sepulchral80 spicery, as if it had been brought from the core of some great pyramid, where it had lain on the breast of a mummied Pharaoh. Something, too, of immortality81 in the sad, faint sweetness lingering so long in its lifeless petals82. Yet this does not tell why it fills my eyes with tears and carries me in blissful thought to the banks of asphodel that border the River of Life.”
In introducing the subject, Holmes states that he has “occasionally met with something like it in books, somewhere in Bulwer’s novels, ... and in one of the works of Mr. Olmstead.”
When one considers the obvious poetic83 appeal of this psychic84 phenomenon as exemplified in the touching85 expressions we have just quoted, it seems strange that the older writers made no use of it.
Even omniscient86 Shakespeare, although odorous images and allusions87 are not uncommon88 in his works, seems to have overlooked this sportive trick of the sense. Otherwise we might have had Lady Macbeth sleep-walking because her nightposset exhaled89 the vapour of the draught90 she had drugged Duncan’s guards with.
Several seventeenth century writers make a 53general reference to odours as “strengthening the memory.” Here is one for which I am indebted to my friend F. W. Watkyn-Thomas:
“Olfactus (loq.)—
Hence do I likewise minister perfume
Unto the neighbour brain, perfume of force,
To refine wit and sharp invention,
And strengthen memory: from whence it came
To make man’s spirit more apt for things divine....”
(“Lingua, or the Combat of the Tongue and the Five Senses,” Act IV., Sc. 5, Anthony Brewer94 (circa 1600): Dodsley’s “Old Plays,” Vol. V., p. 179, 1825.)
“Physicians might (in my opinion) draw more use and good from odours than they do. For myself have often perceived, that according unto their strength and qualitie, they change and alter, and move my spirit, and worke strange effects in me: Which makes me approve the common saying, that invention of incense and perfumes in Churches, so ancient and so far-dispersed throughout all nations and religions, had an especiall regard to rejoyce, to comfort, to quicken and to rowze and to purifie our senses, ...”
The Jacobean herbalists and therapeutists in general, as we shall see later on, frequently credit aromatics96 with the power of strengthening the memory. But, so far as my reading goes, I have failed to find a clear and unmistakable description of this peculiar97 phenomenon 54in any writer prior to the nineteenth century. It is, of course, difficult to prove a negative, and so it would not be surprising if some such allusion were to be dug up. But even then the wonder would remain that it had attracted little, if any, attention from others. As a matter of fact, mental happenings of this order did not interest our forebears much. Shakespeare is the exception to this statement, and that is one of his claims to greatness.
Moreover, quite apart from this particular, the writings of the old English poets and of such French and German authors as I am acquainted with, seem curiously deficient98 in references to all but the more gross and obvious phenomena99 of olfaction, and these are most frequently of the farcical order, a little too gross and obvious for modern readers.
Since Dickens’s time, however, we have had almost too much literary odour.
I do not agree with the purists who deny to Dickens the glory of a great writer of English prose. Dickens was an impressionist, perhaps the first and certainly the greatest of this school, and as such he was a master. Few equal and none surpass him in the rare vigour100 of scene, and portrait-painting. And it is significant to find him using the aroma of the place and also of 55the person to impart life and reality to his description.
Take for example, to cite but one out of many olfactory references in his books, the humorous analysis of the smells in various London churches in “The Uncommercial Traveller.” One congregation furnishes “an agreeable odour of pomatum,” while in the others “rat and mildew101 and dead citizens” seemed to be the fundamentals, to which in some localities was added “in a dreamy way not at all displeasing” the staple102 character of the neighbourhood. “A dry whiff of wheat” circulated about Mark Lane, and he “accidentally struck an airy sample of barley103 out of an aged104 hassock” in another. The reader’s throat begins at once to feel dry.
Then note how Mr. E. W. B. Childers starts from the page the moment his creator breathes into our nostrils105 a breath of his life:—“a smell of lamp oil, straw, orange-peel, horses’ provender106, and sawdust.”
I could fill this book with olfactory citations107 from Dickens alone. But to come to contemporary writers, those of Rudyard Kipling are almost as plentiful108, the smell that brings places to the mind being a favourite with him. But I have always wondered how it came about that the highly sensitive nose of Mr. Kipling permitted Imray’s corpse109 on the rafters above the ceiling-cloth to 56remain undiscovered for as long as three months. This in India. The bungalow110, we gather, was haunted. It would be.
Nevertheless, in spite of the keen olfaction of both of those writers, neither of them, as far as I can remember, weaves the memory-reviving power of olfaction into a plot. We come across it, however, in foreign literature, as in the suggestive play made with the smell of lamp-oil in Dostoievsky’s “Crime and Punishment.”
The more recent English and foreign writers, however, give us a surfeit111 of odours—as if to prove their superiority in this as in all else.
It seems strange, moreover, that the theatre should have overlooked this avenue to the memory and imagination of its audiences. The ancient Romans, to be sure, during the gladiatorial games, used to perfume the atmosphere of the Colosseum, whether to counteract112 the raw smell of dust, blood, and sweat, it were hard to say, as these rank odours play their part, again subtly, in stimulating113 the slaughterous114 passions of mankind.
But our modern theatre, which a prominent Scots ecclesiastic115 of the nineteenth century characterised as redolent only of “orange-peel, sawdust, and vice,” has not yet risen to anything higher than a continuous discharge of incense 57during spectacular dramas depicting116 the (theatrical) East.
Why not go further? Think how the appeal of a love-scene would be strengthened by an invisible cloud of roses blown into the house through the ventilating shafts117! The villain118 would be heralded119 by an olfactory motif120 of a brimstony flavour mingled121, if he was of the usual swarthy countenance122, with a soup?on of garlic. The hero, well groomed123 and clean-limbed, would waft124 a delicate suggestion of Brown Windsor to the love-sick maidens125 in the dress-circle. The heavy father would radiate snuff with his red pocket-handkerchief. The large-eyed foreign adventuress would permeate126 the auditorium127 on wings of patchouli. The dear broken-hearted old mother would disseminate128 that most respectable of perfumes (for there is a caste-system among smells) eau de Cologne—a scent129 that always evokes130 in my mind a darkened room, tiptoes, hushed voices, raised forefingers131, and Somebody in bed with a—headache.
And so on. Here is a new way of “putting it over.”
Critics will object that, as the influence of eau de Cologne on my own mind shows, the particular odours so supplied would defeat their purpose by calling up a thousand different and incongruous images in the thousand minds of the audience. 58But such mischances could easily be avoided by conventionalising the odours after the manner already familiar in the stock gesticulations of our players, all of whom enter, sit down, pull off their gloves, blow their noses, utter defiance132, shed tears, launch curses, make love, live, die, and are buried, according to an inveterate133, cast-iron ritual.
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1
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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5
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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vanilla
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| n.香子兰，香草 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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13
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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15
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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stimuli
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| n.刺激（物） | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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26
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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sensory
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| adj.知觉的，感觉的，知觉器官的 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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resuscitating
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的现在分词 ) | |
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50
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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51
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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52
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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53
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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54
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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55
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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56
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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57
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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58
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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59
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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60
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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61
inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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62
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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63
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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64
haziness
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| 有薄雾，模糊； 朦胧之性质或状态； 零能见度 | |
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65
fraying
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| v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的现在分词 ) | |
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66
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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67
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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68
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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69
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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70
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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71
autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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72
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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73
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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74
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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80
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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81
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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82
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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85
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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86
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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87
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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88
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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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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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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92
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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ordain
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| vi.颁发命令；vt.命令，授以圣职，注定，任命 | |
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brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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96
aromatics
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| n.芳香植物( aromatic的名词复数 )；芳香剂，芳香药物 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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98
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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99
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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100
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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101
mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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102
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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103
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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104
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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105
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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106
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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107
citations
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| n.引用( citation的名词复数 )；引证；引文；表扬 | |
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108
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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109
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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110
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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111
surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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112
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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113
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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114
slaughterous
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| adj.好杀戮的 | |
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115
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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116
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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117
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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118
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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119
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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120
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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121
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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122
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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123
groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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124
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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125
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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126
permeate
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| v.弥漫，遍布，散布；渗入，渗透 | |
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127
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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128
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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129
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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130
evokes
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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132
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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133
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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