—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.
It was a long journey—two nights, one day, and part of another day, from Bombay eastward1 to Allahabad; but it was always interesting, and it was not fatiguing2. At first the night travel promised to be fatiguing, but that was on account of pyjamas3. This foolish night-dress consists of jacket and drawers. Sometimes they are made of silk, sometimes of a raspy, scratchy, slazy woolen4 material with a sandpaper surface. The drawers are loose elephant-legged and elephant-waisted things, and instead of buttoning around the body there is a drawstring to produce the required shrinkage. The jacket is roomy, and one buttons it in front. Pyjamas are hot on a hot night and cold on a cold night—defects which a nightshirt is free from. I tried the pyjamas in order to be in the fashion; but I was obliged to give them up, I couldn’t stand them. There was no sufficient change from day-gear to night-gear. I missed the refreshing5 and luxurious6 sense, induced by the night-gown, of being undressed, emancipated7, set free from restraints and trammels. In place of that, I had the worried, confined, oppressed, suffocated8 sense of being abed with my clothes on. All through the warm half of the night the coarse surfaces irritated my skin and made it feel baked and feverish9, and the dreams which came in the fitful flurries of slumber10 were such as distress11 the sleep of the damned, or ought to; and all through the cold other half of the night I could get no time for sleep because I had to employ it all in stealing blankets. But blankets are of no value at such a time; the higher they are piled the more effectively they cork12 the cold in and keep it from getting out. The result is that your legs are ice, and you know how you will feel by and by when you are buried. In a sane13 interval14 I discarded the pyjamas, and led a rational and comfortable life thenceforth.
Out in the country in India, the day begins early. One sees a plain, perfectly15 flat, dust-colored and brick-yardy, stretching limitlessly away on every side in the dim gray light, striped everywhere with hard-beaten narrow paths, the vast flatness broken at wide intervals16 by bunches of spectral17 trees that mark where villages are; and along all the paths are slender women and the black forms of lanky18 naked men moving, to their work, the women with brass19 water-jars on their heads, the men carrying hoes. The man is not entirely20 naked; always there is a bit of white rag, a loin-cloth; it amounts to a bandage, and is a white accent on his black person, like the silver band around the middle of a pipe-stem. Sometimes he also wears a fluffy21 and voluminous white turban, and this adds a second accent. He then answers properly to Miss Gordon Cumming’s flash-light picture of him—as a person who is dressed in “a turban and a pocket handkerchief.”
All day long one has this monotony of dust-colored dead levels and scattering22 bunches of trees and mud villages. You soon realize that India is not beautiful; still there is an enchantment23 about it that is beguiling24, and which does not pall25. You cannot tell just what it is that makes the spell, perhaps, but you feel it and confess it, nevertheless. Of course, at bottom, you know in a vague way that it is history; it is that that affects you, a haunting sense of the myriads26 of human lives that have blossomed, and withered27, and perished here, repeating and repeating and repeating, century after century, and age after age, the barren and meaningless process; it is this sense that gives to this forlorn, uncomely land power to speak to the spirit and make friends with it; to speak to it with a voice bitter with satire29, but eloquent30 with melancholy31. The deserts of Australia and the ice-barrens of Greenland have no speech, for they have no venerable history; with nothing to tell of man and his vanities, his fleeting32 glories and his miseries33, they have nothing wherewith to spiritualize their ugliness and veil it with a charm.
There is nothing pretty about an Indian village—a mud one—and I do not remember that we saw any but mud ones on that long flight to Allahabad. It is a little bunch of dirt-colored mud hovels jammed together within a mud wall. As a rule, the rains had beaten down parts of some of the houses, and this gave the village the aspect of a mouldering34 and hoary35 ruin. I believe the cattle and the vermin live inside the wall; for I saw cattle coming out and cattle going in; and whenever I saw a villager, he was scratching. This last is only circumstantial evidence, but I think it has value. The village has a battered36 little temple or two, big enough to hold an idol37, and with custom enough to fat-up a priest and keep him comfortable. Where there are Mohammedans there are generally a few sorry tombs outside the village that have a decayed and neglected look. The villages interested me because of things which Major Sleeman says about them in his books—particularly what he says about the division of labor38 in them. He says that the whole face of India is parceled out into estates of villages; that nine-tenths of the vast population of the land consist of cultivators of the soil; that it is these cultivators who inhabit the villages; that there are certain “established” village servants—mechanics and others who are apparently39 paid a wage by the village at large, and whose callings remain in certain families and are handed down from father to son, like an estate. He gives a list of these established servants: Priest, blacksmith, carpenter, accountant, washerman, basketmaker, potter, watchman, barber, shoemaker, brazier, confectioner, weaver40, dyer, etc. In his day witches abounded41, and it was not thought good business wisdom for a man to marry his daughter into a family that hadn’t a witch in it, for she would need a witch on the premises42 to protect her children from the evil spells which would certainly be cast upon them by the witches connected with the neighboring families.
The office of midwife was hereditary43 in the family of the basket-maker. It belonged to his wife. She might not be competent, but the office was hers, anyway. Her pay was not high—25 cents for a boy, and half as much for a girl. The girl was not desired, because she would be a disastrous44 expense by and by. As soon as she should be old enough to begin to wear clothes for propriety’s sake, it would be a disgrace to the family if she were not married; and to marry her meant financial ruin; for by custom the father must spend upon feasting and wedding-display everything he had and all he could borrow—in fact, reduce himself to a condition of poverty which he might never more recover from.
It was the dread45 of this prospective46 ruin which made the killing47 of girl-babies so prevalent in India in the old days before England laid the iron hand of her prohibitions48 upon the piteous slaughter49. One may judge of how prevalent the custom was, by one of Sleeman’s casual electrical remarks, when he speaks of children at play in villages—where girl-voices were never heard!
The wedding-display folly50 is still in full force in India, and by consequence the destruction of girl-babies is still furtively51 practiced; but not largely, because of the vigilance of the government and the sternness of the penalties it levies52.
In some parts of India the village keeps in its pay three other servants: an astrologer to tell the villager when he may plant his crop, or make a journey, or marry a wife, or strangle a child, or borrow a dog, or climb a tree, or catch a rat, or swindle a neighbor, without offending the alert and solicitous53 heavens; and what his dream means, if he has had one and was not bright enough to interpret it himself by the details of his dinner; the two other established servants were the tiger-persuader and the hailstorm discourager. The one kept away the tigers if he could, and collected the wages anyway, and the other kept off the hailstorms, or explained why he failed. He charged the same for explaining a failure that he did for scoring a success. A man is an idiot who can’t earn a living in India.
Major Sleeman reveals the fact that the trade union and the boycott54 are antiquities55 in India. India seems to have originated everything. The “sweeper” belongs to the bottom caste; he is the lowest of the low—all other castes despise him and scorn his office. But that does not trouble him. His caste is a caste, and that is sufficient for him, and so he is proud of it, not ashamed. Sleeman says:
“It is perhaps not known to many of my countrymen, even in India, that in every town and city in the country the right of sweeping56 the houses and streets is a monopoly, and is supported entirely by the pride of castes among the scavengers, who are all of the lowest class. The right of sweeping within a certain range is recognized by the caste to belong to a certain member; and if any other member presumes to sweep within that range, he is excommunicated—no other member will smoke out of his pipe or drink out of his jug58; and he can get restored to caste only by a feast to the whole body of sweepers. If any housekeeper59 within a particular circle happens to offend the sweeper of that range, none of his filth60 will be removed till he pacifies61 him, because no other sweeper will dare to touch it; and the people of a town are often more tyrannized over by these people than by any other.”
A footnote by Major Sleeman’s editor, Mr. Vincent Arthur Smith, says that in our day this tyranny of the sweepers’ guild62 is one of the many difficulties which bar the progress of Indian sanitary63 reform. Think of this:
“The sweepers cannot be readily coerced64, because no Hindoo or Mussulman would do their work to save his life, nor will he pollute himself by beating the refractory65 scavenger57.”
They certainly do seem to have the whip-hand; it would be difficult to imagine a more impregnable position. “The vested rights described in the text are so fully66 recognized in practice that they are frequently the subject of sale or mortgage.”
Just like a milk-route; or like a London crossing-sweepership. It is said that the London crossing-sweeper’s right to his crossing is recognized by the rest of the guild; that they protect him in its possession; that certain choice crossings are valuable property, and are saleable at high figures. I have noticed that the man who sweeps in front of the Army and Navy Stores has a wealthy South African aristocratic style about him; and when he is off his guard, he has exactly that look on his face which you always see in the face of a man who is saving up his daughter to marry her to a duke.
It appears from Sleeman that in India the occupation of elephant-driver is confined to Mohammedans. I wonder why that is. The water-carrier (‘bheestie’) is a Mohammedan, but it is said that the reason of that is, that the Hindoo’s religion does not allow him to touch the skin of dead kine, and that is what the water-sack is made of; it would defile67 him. And it doesn’t allow him to eat meat; the animal that furnished the meat was murdered, and to take any creature’s life is a sin. It is a good and gentle religion, but inconvenient68.
A great Indian river, at low water, suggests the familiar anatomical picture of a skinned human body, the intricate mesh69 of interwoven muscles and tendons to stand for water-channels, and the archipelagoes of fat and flesh inclosed by them to stand for the sandbars. Somewhere on this journey we passed such a river, and on a later journey we saw in the Sutlej the duplicate of that river. Curious rivers they are; low shores a dizzy distance apart, with nothing between but an enormous acreage of sand-flats with sluggish70 little veins71 of water dribbling72 around amongst them; Saharas of sand, smallpox-pitted with footprints punctured73 in belts as straight as the equator clear from the one shore to the other (barring the channel-interruptions)—a dry-shod ferry, you see. Long railway bridges are required for this sort of rivers, and India has them. You approach Allahabad by a very long one. It was now carrying us across the bed of the Jumna, a bed which did not seem to have been slept in for one while or more. It wasn’t all river-bed—most of it was overflow74 ground.
Allahabad means “City of God.” I get this from the books. From a printed curiosity—a letter written by one of those brave and confident Hindoo strugglers with the English tongue, called a “babu”—I got a more compressed translation: “Godville.” It is perfectly correct, but that is the most that can be said for it.
We arrived in the forenoon, and short-handed; for Satan got left behind somewhere that morning, and did not overtake us until after nightfall. It seemed very peaceful without him. The world seemed asleep and dreaming.
I did not see the native town, I think. I do not remember why; for an incident connects it with the Great Mutiny, and that is enough to make any place interesting. But I saw the English part of the city. It is a town of wide avenues and noble distances, and is comely28 and alluring75, and full of suggestions of comfort and leisure, and of the serenity76 which a good conscience buttressed77 by a sufficient bank account gives. The bungalows79 (dwellings) stand well back in the seclusion80 and privacy of large enclosed compounds (private grounds, as we should say) and in the shade and shelter of trees. Even the photographer and the prosperous merchant ply81 their industries in the elegant reserve of big compounds, and the citizens drive in there upon their business occasions. And not in cabs—no; in the Indian cities cabs are for the drifting stranger; all the white citizens have private carriages; and each carriage has a flock of white-turbaned black footmen and drivers all over it. The vicinity of a lecture-hall looks like a snowstorm,—and makes the lecturer feel like an opera. India has many names, and they are correctly descriptive. It is the Land of Contradictions, the Land of Subtlety82 and Superstition83, the Land of Wealth and Poverty, the Land of Splendor84 and Desolation, the Land of Plague and Famine, the Land of the Thug and the Poisoner, and of the Meek85 and the Patient, the Land of the Suttee, the Land of the Unreinstatable Widow, the Land where All Life is Holy, the Land of Cremation86, the Land where the Vulture is a Grave and a Monument, the Land of the Multitudinous Gods; and if signs go for anything, it is the Land of the Private Carriage.
In Bombay the forewoman of a millinery shop came to the hotel in her private carriage to take the measure for a gown—not for me, but for another. She had come out to India to make a temporary stay, but was extending it indefinitely; indeed, she was purposing to end her days there. In London, she said, her work had been hard, her hours long; for economy’s sake she had had to live in shabby rooms and far away from the shop, watch the pennies, deny herself many of the common comforts of life, restrict herself in effect to its bare necessities, eschew87 cabs, travel third-class by underground train to and from her work, swallowing coal-smoke and cinders88 all the way, and sometimes troubled with the society of men and women who were less desirable than the smoke and the cinders. But in Bombay, on almost any kind of wages, she could live in comfort, and keep her carriage, and have six servants in place of the woman-of-all-work she had had in her English home. Later, in Calcutta, I found that the Standard Oil clerks had small one-horse vehicles, and did no walking; and I was told that the clerks of the other large concerns there had the like equipment. But to return to Allahabad.
I was up at dawn, the next morning. In India the tourist’s servant does not sleep in a room in the hotel, but rolls himself up head and ears in his blanket and stretches himself on the veranda89, across the front of his master’s door, and spends the night there. I don’t believe anybody’s servant occupies a room. Apparently, the bungalow78 servants sleep on the veranda; it is roomy, and goes all around the house. I speak of menservants; I saw none of the other sex. I think there are none, except child-nurses. I was up at dawn, and walked around the veranda, past the rows of sleepers90. In front of one door a Hindoo servant was squatting91, waiting for his master to call him. He had polished the yellow shoes and placed them by the door, and now he had nothing to do but wait. It was freezing cold, but there he was, as motionless as a sculptured image, and as patient. It troubled me. I wanted to say to him, “Don’t crouch92 there like that and freeze; nobody requires it of you; stir around and get warm.” But I hadn’t the words.
I thought of saying ‘jeldy jow’, but I couldn’t remember what it meant, so I didn’t say it. I knew another phrase, but it wouldn’t come to my mind. I moved on, purposing to dismiss him from my thoughts, but his bare legs and bare feet kept him there. They kept drawing me back from the sunny side to a point whence I could see him. At the end of an hour he had not changed his attitude in the least degree. It was a curious and impressive exhibition of meekness93 and patience, or fortitude94 or indifference95, I did not know which. But it worried me, and it was spoiling my morning. In fact, it spoiled two hours of it quite thoroughly96. I quitted this vicinity, then, and left him to punish himself as much as he might want to. But up to that time the man had not changed his attitude a hair. He will always remain with me, I suppose; his figure never grows vague in my memory. Whenever I read of Indian resignation, Indian patience under wrongs, hardships, and misfortunes, he comes before me. He becomes a personification, and stands for India in trouble. And for untold97 ages India in trouble has been pursued with the very remark which I was going to utter but didn’t, because its meaning had slipped me: “Jeldy jow!” (“Come, shove along!”)
Why, it was the very thing.
In the early brightness we made a long drive out to the Fort. Part of the way was beautiful. It led under stately trees and through groups of native houses and by the usual village well, where the picturesque98 gangs are always flocking to and fro and laughing and chattering99; and this time brawny100 men were deluging101 their bronze bodies with the limpid102 water, and making a refreshing and enticing103 show of it; enticing, for the sun was already transacting104 business, firing India up for the day. There was plenty of this early bathing going on, for it was getting toward breakfast time, and with an unpurified body the Hindoo must not eat.
Then we struck into the hot plain, and found the roads crowded with pilgrims of both sexes, for one of the great religious fairs of India was being held, just beyond the Fort, at the junction105 of the sacred rivers, the Ganges and the Jumna. Three sacred rivers, I should have said, for there is a subterranean106 one. Nobody has seen it, but that doesn’t signify. The fact that it is there is enough. These pilgrims had come from all over India; some of them had been months on the way, plodding107 patiently along in the heat and dust, worn, poor, hungry, but supported and sustained by an unwavering faith and belief; they were supremely108 happy and content, now; their full and sufficient reward was at hand; they were going to be cleansed109 from every vestige110 of sin and corruption111 by these holy waters which make utterly112 pure whatsoever113 thing they touch, even the dead and rotten. It is wonderful, the power of a faith like that, that can make multitudes upon multitudes of the old and weak and the young and frail114 enter without hesitation115 or complaint upon such incredible journeys and endure the resultant miseries without repining. It is done in love, or it is done in fear; I do not know which it is. No matter what the impulse is, the act born of it is beyond imagination marvelous to our kind of people, the cold whites. There are choice great natures among us that could exhibit the equivalent of this prodigious116 self-sacrifice, but the rest of us know that we should not be equal to anything approaching it. Still, we all talk self-sacrifice, and this makes me hope that we are large enough to honor it in the Hindoo.
Two millions of natives arrive at this fair every year. How many start, and die on the road, from age and fatigue117 and disease and scanty118 nourishment119, and how many die on the return, from the same causes, no one knows; but the tale is great, one may say enormous. Every twelfth year is held to be a year of peculiar120 grace; a greatly augmented121 volume of pilgrims results then. The twelfth year has held this distinction since the remotest times, it is said. It is said also that there is to be but one more twelfth year—for the Ganges. After that, that holiest of all sacred rivers will cease to be holy, and will be abandoned by the pilgrim for many centuries; how many, the wise men have not stated. At the end of that interval it will become holy again. Meantime, the data will be arranged by those people who have charge of all such matters, the great chief Brahmins. It will be like shutting down a mint. At a first glance it looks most unbrahminically uncommercial, but I am not disturbed, being soothed122 and tranquilized by their reputation. “Brer fox he lay low,” as Uncle Remus says; and at the judicious123 time he will spring something on the Indian public which will show that he was not financially asleep when he took the Ganges out of the market.
Great numbers of the natives along the roads were bringing away holy water from the rivers. They would carry it far and wide in India and sell it. Tavernier, the French traveler (17th century), notes that Ganges water is often given at weddings, “each guest receiving a cup or two, according to the liberality of the host; sometimes 2,000 or 3,000 rupees’ worth of it is consumed at a wedding.”
The Fort is a huge old structure, and has had a large experience in religions. In its great court stands a monolith which was placed there more than 2,000 years ago to preach (Budhism) by its pious124 inscription125; the Fort was built three centuries ago by a Mohammedan Emperor—a resanctification of the place in the interest of that religion. There is a Hindoo temple, too, with subterranean ramifications126 stocked with shrines127 and idols128; and now the Fort belongs to the English, it contains a Christian129 Church. Insured in all the companies.
From the lofty ramparts one has a fine view of the sacred rivers. They join at that point—the pale blue Jumna, apparently clean and clear, and the muddy Ganges, dull yellow and not clean. On a long curved spit between the rivers, towns of tents were visible, with a multitude of fluttering pennons, and a mighty130 swarm131 of pilgrims. It was a troublesome place to get down to, and not a quiet place when you arrived; but it was interesting. There was a world of activity and turmoil132 and noise, partly religious, partly commercial; for the Mohammedans were there to curse and sell, and the Hindoos to buy and pray. It is a fair as well as a religious festival. Crowds were bathing, praying, and drinking the purifying waters, and many sick pilgrims had come long journeys in palanquins to be healed of their maladies by a bath; or if that might not be, then to die on the blessed banks and so make sure of heaven. There were fakeers in plenty, with their bodies dusted over with ashes and their long hair caked together with cow-dung; for the cow is holy and so is the rest of it; so holy that the good Hindoo peasant frescoes133 the walls of his hut with this refuse, and also constructs ornamental134 figures out of it for the gracing of his dirt floor. There were seated families, fearfully and wonderfully painted, who by attitude and grouping represented the families of certain great gods. There was a holy man who sat naked by the day and by the week on a cluster of iron spikes135, and did not seem to mind it; and another holy man, who stood all day holding his withered arms motionless aloft, and was said to have been doing it for years. All of these performers have a cloth on the ground beside them for the reception of contributions, and even the poorest of the people give a trifle and hope that the sacrifice will be blessed to him. At last came a procession of naked holy people marching by and chanting, and I wrenched136 myself away.
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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spectral
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lanky
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brass
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entirely
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fluffy
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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enchantment
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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myriads
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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eloquent
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melancholy
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fleeting
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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35
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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36
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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37
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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38
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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39
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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40
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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41
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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43
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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44
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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45
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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46
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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47
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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48
prohibitions
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| 禁令，禁律( prohibition的名词复数 )； 禁酒； 禁例 | |
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49
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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50
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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51
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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52
levies
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| （部队）征兵( levy的名词复数 )； 募捐； 被征募的军队 | |
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53
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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54
boycott
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| n./v.(联合)抵制，拒绝参与 | |
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55
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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56
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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57
scavenger
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| n.以腐尸为食的动物，清扫工 | |
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58
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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59
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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60
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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61
pacifies
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的第三人称单数 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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62
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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63
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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64
coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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65
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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66
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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67
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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68
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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69
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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70
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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71
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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72
dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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73
punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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74
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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75
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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76
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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77
buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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79
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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80
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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81
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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82
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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83
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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84
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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85
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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86
cremation
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| n.火葬，火化 | |
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87
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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88
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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89
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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90
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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91
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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92
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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93
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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94
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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95
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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96
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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97
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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98
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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99
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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100
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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101
deluging
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| v.使淹没( deluge的现在分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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102
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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103
enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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104
transacting
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的现在分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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105
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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106
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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107
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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108
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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109
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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111
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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112
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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113
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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114
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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115
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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116
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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117
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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118
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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119
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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120
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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121
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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122
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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123
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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124
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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125
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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126
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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127
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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128
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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129
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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130
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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131
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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132
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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133
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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134
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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135
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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136
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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