Before proceeding3 with the subject-matter proper of the chapter, however, let me put in a plea for the conscious cultivation4 of the sense of smell. But little more, I take it, is needed in this way than to pay attention to the olfactory sensations that reach us, for the very fact of taking note of them is sufficient probably to increase the power and delicacy5 of olfaction, this being always the effect of the mental process known as attention.
Smell may thus be easily cultivated and improved, and with the increase in its appreciation6 of the world comes an enriching of the other sense-impressions that is quite surprising.
It is possible that there is no substance in the natural world entirely7 devoid8 of odour. At all 141events, after a time the amateur in smell may find himself able, like Rousseau, to perceive perfumes when other people do not notice any, and as a mark at which he can aim let it be said that when he finds himself able to distinguish streets from each other by their smell alone he has made some little progress in the art.
The innate10 acuteness of the sense varies widely in different people. Some go through life blunt to all but the coarser smells, while others are gifted with a sensitiveness as delicate almost as that of a macrosmatic animal. This is scarcely an exaggeration. I am acquainted with people—English people—who are able to recognise by olfaction not only different races and the two sexes, but even different persons. One of those sensitives informs me that to her the personal olfactory atmosphere is every whit11 as characteristic and unmistakable as the play of features or the carriage of the figure.
Another remarkable13 feat12 within the capacity of human macrosmatics, and one that seems almost incredible to the ordinary individual, is that of being able to distinguish the clothing of different persons by its aroma14. Some can even recognise their own, a remarkable circumstance in view of the almost universal rule that each is anosmic to his own particular atmosphere.
142It is true that we can get on quite well without smelling. Probably congenital anosmia is the least crippling of all sense-deprivations. But how much it enters into our enjoyment15 of life when we have once possessed16 it is shown by the blankness that attends its loss; we feel then as if a tint17 had been bleached18 out of the world.
At this juncture19 we may stay a moment to allude20 to the action of tobacco on olfaction. There are few people nowadays who would uphold King Jamie’s “Counterblaste,” wherein he denounces smoking as—
“a custome loathsome21 to the Eye, hatefull to the Nose, harmefull to the Braine, dangerous to the Lungs, and in the black stinking22 fume9 thereof, neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomlesse.”
But, in fact, regarding the influence of the tobacco-habit on the sense there is a conflict of opinion. Some say it dulls olfaction; others, it has no deleterious effect. My own experience would lead me to agree with the former opinion.
We now proceed with our memories.
Who does not become a boy again when the fragrance24 of a gardener’s bonfire fills the air? In my own case when I smell it my eyes begin to smart and to water, and I hear the laughter and shouts of my brothers as, daring the wrath25 of 143Olympus, we leap over the blaze and land on the white powdery ash that rises in clouds around us to the ruination of boots and clothing. It is always evening, “’twixt the gloamin’ and the mirk.” The moon, still golden, is hung low in the sky; the wind is sharp with a touch of frost, but the glare and the glow of the embers reddens and warms us—at least that part of us we turn to the fire. (Have you ever felt the fierce pleasure of being at once scorched26 and frozen?)
In those few country places in Scotland where the old Beltane fires of midsummer or midwinter are still kindled27, children are encouraged to pass through the smoke, that being good for their health. The custom, frankly28 pagan, is probably the maimed rite29 of a sacrifice of children to the old gods. That may be quite true, and yet I concur30 in believing the practice to be beneficial. At all events, the bonfires of so many years ago have left with me a memory that has often recurred31 since, and always with healing on its wings.
Again, the fainter, keener odour of burning pine-wood combined with the fanning sensation on the face of the cold wind of the dawn always brings back to me a summer morning at the Swiss frontier station of Pontarlier after an evening when vin ordinaire had induced effects extraordinaire upon a youth unaccustomed to that fiery33 144beverage. Those, no doubt, were the days when nothing mattered much. Nevertheless the fragrant35 coolness of that morning after touches my aching brow to this day with the soothing36 gentleness of a hand fraught38 with understanding and forgiveness.
It is an interesting fact that the smell of the sea may travel inland for miles on a favouring breeze. With the south-west wind blowing moist, I have in the heart of Lanarkshire repeatedly been stirred out of everyday hebetude by the smell of the sea on the Ayrshire coast, some thirty miles away. And Réné Bazin (in “Les Oberlé”) says you can even smell it sometimes in Alsace, 250 miles from the Mediterranean41.
Once, indeed, at King’s Cross, London, I beheld42 monstrous43 railway-stations and muddy streets, with their motor-’buses, dingy44 wayfarers45, yelling newsboys and all, melting away into the glimmer46 and space of the sea in a sort of magical transformation47, just as mist low-lying in Russell Square will turn at times those garish48 hotels into sea-girt palaces.... Only this time there was no mist. There was, indeed, no need of mist. For the spell of power was a sudden whiff of the sea from far across the bricks, slates49, and sooty chimneys.
145But there is another sea-smell, equally powerful and much less romantic. Can you endure the breath of hot oil and metal from the engines of a steamer without a qualm?
If ever a boy has watched and helped the fishermen clean and tan their nets, he will always after, as often as chance brings the smell to his nostrils50, revive again the pit in the ground and the gruff voices of the heavy-booted men pulling the twisted net up and down, in and out.
This, as it happens, concerns also somebody else, but as she has long since been lost in the crowd, I am not breaking any confidences in recalling the scene.
We are standing39 together beside the gate of a hill plantation53, and I see a tall lady’s delicately cut profile against the sombre green and brown of the fir-trees. Although the flush of the sunset has almost entirely faded from the sky, it seems to be lingering yet a while on her cheek as if reluctant to leave her. As for me, I am as keen to every breath of emotion as the little loch below is to the slightest stir of air. The time is past for talk, and I am watching her in silence. So I see the thin curved nostril51 dilate54 a little, at once to be quietly restrained, as if even this little display of feeling on her part 146were out of place,—and then I also turn to look at the butterfly bean-flowers in the field at our feet.
Now as often as the bean blooms, so does her memory.
How powerfully associations affect our olfactory likes and dislikes we hinted on a former page, and in this matter of smell-memories we can observe the same effect. Smells which to others seem offensive may, if they arouse a pleasant memory, borrow from it a tinge55 that turns their offence into a joy for ever. In my own case iodine56 and the rather irritating odour of bleaching57 powder are always welcome and always sweet. Yet they recall nothing more interesting than the days of childhood to me! On the other hand, perfumes generally considered to be pleasant will be objectionable to us if they arouse unhappy memories.
The most beautiful, however, are those which have been young with us, and yet have never forsaken58 us, by continual refreshment59 keeping an eternal youth. And of all the odours in life none surely is so rich both in retrospect60 and in prospect61 as the smell of books to him who loves them. The cosy62 invitation of a library! Not a public library, needless to say, where the intimate appeal is lost 147in a jumble63 of smells—dust, paste, ink and clammy overcoats. Such public mixtures the bookworm, that solitary64 self-centred individual, must, by reason of his shyness, ever consistently shun65. But usher66 him into the private room of a private house where books, many books, have reposed67 for many years. Then go away and leave him to it.
The smell of a room full of books is slow to form. Like the bouquet68 of wine, it must ripen69. You have to wait. But if you are able to wait, then one fine day you will be welcomed there by the snuggest70 smell in all the world, which, when once it comes, will for ever remain, like rooks in a clump71 of elms. I know a few houses where this most seductive of all perfumes has resided for untold72 years, and whence it will never depart as long as our immemorial England endures. But alas73! like most people, I have only been a fleeting74 visitor to those nooks of enchantment75, and have had to wait myself not once, but many times, as often indeed as I have shifted my roof-tree, for that ancient fusty atmosphere. There is, I fear, no way of hastening the appearance of this beckoning76 finger to oblivion. We need not linger over the analysis of this particular odour. Book-lovers know it. Others don’t care.
“You are a reader, I see,” said an observant doctor to me once.
148“How d’you know that?” I asked in surprise, as we had just met for the first time.
Your real bookworm loves all books. Like the modern genius, he is amoral. But unlike the genius, his amorality, simple soul, is confined within the four walls of a library. He could never, I am sure, bring himself to agree with André Theuriet, who in “La Chanoinesse” depicts78
“les Bijoux indiscrets auprès des ?uvres de Duclos; Candide, Jacques la Fataliste et le Sophia voisinant de Restif de la Brétonne à deux pas de l’Emile, et les Aventures du Chevalier de Faublas—une nouveauté—non loin de l’Histoire philosophique des Indes,”
all of which books, by a kind of moral exercise of his imagination we cannot sufficiently79 deplore80, he found exhaling81 “une odeur de volupté perverse82, quelque chose comme le parfum aphrodisiac des seringes et des tubereuses dans une chambre close.”
Every dwelling-house has its own peculiar83 atmosphere, sometimes agreeable, sometimes not. But, whatever its quality, so characteristic and persistent84 are some of them that I am sure a blind man would always be able to tell them by the smell alone. Few of us may be gifted with the analytical85 nose of a Charles Dickens to detect the ingredients 149that make up a complex domiciliary atmosphere, but everybody must have noticed that basement houses smell differently from bungalows86, the former greeting you with a harmonious87 blend of earthiness, soapsuds, and sinks.
Nay88! The house you live in has a separate odour for each room: the drawing-room with its chintzes; the snuggery with its stale tobacco, and, perhaps, like an insinuating89 nudge, with a whiff of the stronger alcohols; the bedrooms, if your housekeeper90 knows her business, with the freshness of well-aired linen91.
The very days of the week have each its own particular olfactory mark, dating from our childhood: Sundays (in Scotland), peppermint92 followed by roast beef and richness; Mondays, pickles93 and soapsuds; Tuesday, the damp airs from the washing hung up to dry; Wednesdays, warmth and beeswax from the laundry, with ever and anon the thump94 of the flat iron; Thursdays, bread new from the baker95 and the washing of floors with soft soap—“Mind yer feet, now!”—Fridays, jam-boiling and the never-to-be-forgotten aroma of oat-cakes on the girdle; Saturdays—but Saturday is a day of wind and banging doors, of tops and dust; all its smells are out of doors.
Shops, too! What of the coffee-shop?—Who does not pause a moment at that door when the 150beans are roasting? One of the richest of all odours that; curious how you lose it in the beverage34! Then there is the ironmonger’s, where the sharp smell of steel strikes, by some strange reflex, the upper incisor teeth and gums; the oil and colour shop, with its putty, turpentine, and general clamminess; and, last and best of all, the druggist’s!
What about the fried fish-shop? Faugh! I once for a reason connected with my calling had cause to spend a whole night in a room above a fish-shop—once only. The next time (there never will be a next time, she swears, but there always is)—the next time I happened, curiously96 enough, to arrive late!
But although houses and rooms and, as we hinted, streets also, all smell differently, each town and city has its own peculiar fundamental odour. There is a town in Yorkshire that smells of “mungo.” I know another that smells of mineral oil, and many that exhale97 the dank smell of the coal-mine.
London has a smell of its own, a fundamental familiar odour, which, by the way, has changed of late. Twenty years ago it was faintly acid with a background of horses and harness. To-day it is a mixture of tar32 and burned lubricating oil, by no means so pleasant. In addition to these, however, there is another and less prominent odour characteristic 151of the London atmosphere, which I confess I cannot describe.
“Once upon a time, some forty years ago, there lived at Highgate, which then still retained some of the characters of a village, a lady who declared that when a yellow fog drifted up from London she could detect the smell of tobacco smoke in it. To most people the odour is flatly that of coal smoke, which is perhaps always more or less to be perceived in London air. This at any rate would seem to have been the opinion of Edward Jenner, if we may trust a note made by Farington in his diary for 1809, which is being printed in the Morning Post. Farington’s note is as follows:
“‘Dr. Jenner observed to Lawrence that He could by smelling at His Handkerchief on going out of London ascertain98 when he came into an atmosphere untainted by the London air. His method was to smell at His Handkerchief occasionally, and while He continued within the London atmosphere He could never be sensible of any taint99 upon it; but, for instance, when He approached Blackheath and took His Handkerchief out of His pocket where it had not been exposed to the better air of that situation—His sense of smelling having become more pure he could perceive the taint. His calculation was that the air of London affected100 that in the vicinity to the distance of three miles’” (The Lancet).
Paris, in like manner, has its own peculiar aroma. Lord Frederick Hamilton analyses it correctly into “one-half wood-smoke, one-quarter roasting coffee, and one-quarter drains.” But for myself the Paris air always brings a curious half-suppressed feeling of excitement, part of it pleasure, part apprehension101, as if something tremendous were about to happen. But here perhaps 152we cross the border-line between conscious sensation and subconscious102 stimulation103.
Rome is a city of candles and incense104 mingled105 with the dry mustiness of crumbling106 skeletons.
In Edinburgh you encounter here and there the smell of old Scotland. Thatch107 enters into its make-up, why I cannot tell you. But the cold grey metropolis108 still preserves the soul of the thatch, a cosy sensation that is prone109 to bring tears to the eyes of the returning exile.
Dublin mingles110 the warm, rich aroma of Guinness’s Brewery111 with the cold smell of a corpse112 from the Liffey.
Those are the cities I know best myself. But I have often been told, and can quite believe it, that every city has its own particular atmosphere.
Some days, both in a city and in the country, are as rich and full of odours as a Turner picture is rich and various in colour. Other days bring us but a grey Whistlerian monotone, in which, nevertheless, the trained sense delights to distinguish an infinity113 of tender shades, unobserved by the casual.
I used to think that country smells were particularly dear to the country-born only, and that 153their charm lay in their evocation114 of childish memories. But that is not the whole of the story. They attract us by their own inherent beauty. I have known town-bred lads linger about a stable because the smell, I was told, was “so sweet.” And most of us are, to be sure, sufficiently horsey to enjoy that smell of straw and ammonia. We linger near it as bees haunt clover or cats valerian. And we are all horse-lovers sitting behind a smart cob on a hot day when the smell of the harness is mingling115 with the horse-odour. But these now old-world odours are being every day more and more ousted116 by the less pleasant smells of the motor-car, petrol, lubricating oil, and acetylene—a pure stink23 this last.
But the farm is an olfactory museum, a library, a symphony! How warm and comforting is the smell of a byre full of cows! Plunge117 into it from the cool of the evening and listen again to the sudden swish of the warm milk into the pail, the uncompleted low of the sober cattle and the rattle118 of the chain as they turn to look at the new-comer. A gentle relaxation119 of the spirit attends the visit like the relief of the limbs from a cramped120 position, and we readily fall into that mood, so rare these latter days, when attention disperses121 and the reins122 drop on the neck of the mind so that it wanders on at its will up and down the lanes and by-ways of 154fancy. These paths are dangerous, to be sure, leading as they do to the Castle of Indolence, where you may dream your life away and be none the wiser.
Yet there must be many who have so wandered regardless, and have wakened up too late to recapture the days they have lost in dreaming, if they ever do want to recapture them, which is doubtful. If we really intended happiness in life—as we do not; what we intend, and ensure, too, for that matter, is excitement—but if we really intended happiness, here is where we should find it, in and about a farmyard as hangers-on. Not as the farmer, needless to say, to whose mind these olfactory stimuli123 are stimulant124, not anodyne125. So that there can be no greater contrast than that between him and us. Every one knows how the idler idling irritates the worker working. And so we are brought back to reality all too soon by the slap of fate, waking up from a bank of thyme and dreams to the pavement of worry and hard work.
But it is sweet while it lasts, and if you can acquire, or are lucky enough to have been born with, pachydermia of the soul, then it may last for a lifetime—unless, that is to say, fate, as aforesaid, in the shape of the farmer, brings you back a-bump to earth with a clout126 on the side of the head and an order to take the hook and cut down thistles.
Stevenson has told us that idling is no loss of 155time. Perhaps not, if we happen to be geniuses. But the mischief127 is that the rest of your family deny (with oaths) the major premiss, and the prophet-without-honour consolation128 prize is but a poor substitute for the loss of comfortable eternities dozed129 away beside the lazy kine.
Some time in the ’eighties of last century a French professor (Jaccoud) recommended the air of a byre as beneficial in phthisis.
I have known worse cures.
Why do not the perfume-makers present us with more of these gateways130 to Paradise, short cuts beside which De Quincey’s laudanum in the waistcoat-pocket is but a by-path to hell? We might be given odours of peace and contentment—think of them in the hands of a clever wife! We might make libraries of them as people make libraries of gramophone records. So far all we have are flower scents132, like roses, lilies, violets, and outlandish Eastern aromata, redolent rather of vice133 and its excitements than of virtue134 and its placidity135.
Then there is the scent131 of thyme and roses in the farm garden. This brings to me old Sundays and ladies passing the open garden-gate on their way to church, with their Bible carefully wrapped up in a clean pocket-handkerchief, bearing with 156them also what somebody in Scotland calls “the odour of sanctity”—peppermints, to wit—and all the time the bees are humming in the warm air a deep note to the trills and runs of the skylark lost in the blue.
But I could wander on for an eternity136 with these smell memories and pictures. One more, and I have done with the farm, and that is the cool smell of the milk-house. It is dark there after the blaze outside, and the stone flags strike cold to a boy’s bare feet wandering in from the burning cobbles of the courtyard. As your eyes become accustomed to the dimness you can see on the floor the wide, shallow milk coolers, silvery as full moons in that twilight137, the only light that enters coming through the long slit138 of a narrow unglazed window where blistery leaves of green docken, springing rank from the unkempt garden without, show a splash of sunlight. The smell is sourish and cold, if we may speak, as I think we may, of the temperature of a smell. This is forbidden land to boys for obvious reasons, but so strong is the impression that I have never forgotten my one and only visit to that secluded139 chamber140.
What is it that gives to a dungeon141 its characteristic smell? Emphatic142 as a blow. Obviously, we have here a combination of several sense impressions, tactile143, visual, olfactory: tactile, for 157the air is damp and chilly144; visual, for it is a blank, a negative, and yet a powerful influence; olfactory, smelling ominous145 and of death. Old dried bones emit precisely146 the same exhalation. In a subtle way, too, the presence of mould is perceptible, all blending into the horrible and grisly atmosphere of despair; the Valse Triste and the Dance of Death.
Smell can bring as certainly and as irresistibly147 as music emotions of all sorts to the mind.
In this same category we may place the dusty smell of a dry hay-loft, which is curiously like that of bitter almonds and hydrocyanic acid. It has a sensation like ghostly fingers fumbling148 about your neck with a threat, half playful, half serious, of suffocation149. And, curiously enough, the mental feeling of throttling150 fingers is not amiss. Prussic acid kills by paralysing the respiratory centres.
Let us get out into fresh air again! The sun is shining. A gentle breeze from the west is snowing the lawn with fragrant hawthorn151 blossoms. I catch a whiff of delicate lilac, and see coming towards me over the grass a slender figure in white....
And so we close with the perfumes of the spring, sunshine, and beauty.
The End
The End
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1
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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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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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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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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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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frankly
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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43
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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44
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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45
wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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46
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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47
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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48
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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49
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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50
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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51
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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52
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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53
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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54
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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55
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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56
iodine
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| n.碘，碘酒 | |
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57
bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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58
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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59
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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60
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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61
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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62
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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63
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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64
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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65
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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66
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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67
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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69
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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70
snuggest
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| adj.整洁的( snug的最高级 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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71
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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72
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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73
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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74
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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75
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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76
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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77
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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78
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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79
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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80
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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81
exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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82
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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83
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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84
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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85
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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86
bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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87
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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88
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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89
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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90
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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91
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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92
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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93
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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94
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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95
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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96
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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97
exhale
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| v.呼气，散出，吐出，蒸发 | |
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98
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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99
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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100
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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101
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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102
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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103
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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104
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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105
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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106
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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107
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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108
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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109
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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110
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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111
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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112
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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113
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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114
evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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115
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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116
ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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117
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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118
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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119
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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120
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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121
disperses
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| v.（使）分散( disperse的第三人称单数 )；疏散；驱散；散布 | |
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122
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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123
stimuli
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| n.刺激（物） | |
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124
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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125
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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126
clout
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| n.用手猛击；权力，影响力 | |
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127
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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128
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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129
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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131
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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132
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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133
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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134
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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135
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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136
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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137
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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138
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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139
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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140
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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141
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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142
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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143
tactile
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| adj.触觉的，有触觉的，能触知的 | |
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144
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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145
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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146
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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147
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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148
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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149
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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150
throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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151
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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