We went into camp on that wild spot to which that ram1 had brought us. The men were greatly fatigued2. Their conviction that we were lost was forgotten in the cheer of a good supper, and before the reaction had a chance to set in, I loaded them up with paregoric and put them to bed.
Next morning I was considering in my mind our desperate situation and trying to think of a remedy, when Harris came to me with a Baedeker map which showed conclusively3 that the mountain we were on was still in Switzerland—yes, every part of it was in Switzerland. So we were not lost, after all. This was an immense relief; it lifted the weight of two such mountains from my breast. I immediately had the news disseminated4 and the map was exhibited. The effect was wonderful. As soon as the men saw with their own eyes that they knew where they were, and that it was only the summit that was lost and not themselves, they cheered up instantly and said with one accord, let the summit take care of itself.
Our distresses5 being at an end, I now determined6 to rest the men in camp and give the scientific department of the Expedition a chance. First, I made a barometric7 observation, to get our altitude, but I could not perceive that there was any result. I knew, by my scientific reading, that either thermometers or barometers8 ought to be boiled, to make them accurate; I did not know which it was, so I boiled them both. There was still no result; so I examined these instruments and discovered that they possessed10 radical11 blemishes12: the barometer9 had no hand but the brass13 pointer and the ball of the thermometer was stuffed with tin-foil. I might have boiled those things to rags, and never found out anything.
I hunted up another barometer; it was new and perfect. I boiled it half an hour in a pot of bean soup which the cooks were making. The result was unexpected: the instrument was not affecting at all, but there was such a strong barometer taste to the soup that the head cook, who was a most conscientious14 person, changed its name in the bill of fare. The dish was so greatly liked by all, that I ordered the cook to have barometer soup every day.
It was believed that the barometer might eventually be injured, but I did not care for that. I had demonstrated to my satisfaction that it could not tell how high a mountain was, therefore I had no real use for it. Changes in the weather I could take care of without it; I did not wish to know when the weather was going to be good, what I wanted to know was when it was going to be bad, and this I could find out from Harris’s corns. Harris had had his corns tested and regulated at the government observatory15 in Heidelberg, and one could depend upon them with confidence. So I transferred the new barometer to the cooking department, to be used for the official mess. It was found that even a pretty fair article of soup could be made from the defective16 barometer; so I allowed that one to be transferred to the subordinate mess.
I next boiled the thermometer, and got a most excellent result; the mercury went up to about 200 degrees Fahrenheit17. In the opinion of the other scientists of the Expedition, this seemed to indicate that we had attained18 the extraordinary altitude of two hundred thousand feet above sea-level. Science places the line of eternal snow at about ten thousand feet above sea-level. There was no snow where we were, consequently it was proven that the eternal snow-line ceases somewhere above the ten-thousand-foot level and does not begin any more. This was an interesting fact, and one which had not been observed by any observer before. It was as valuable as interesting, too, since it would open up the deserted19 summits of the highest Alps to population and agriculture. It was a proud thing to be where we were, yet it caused us a pang20 to reflect that but for that ram we might just as well have been two hundred thousand feet higher.
The success of my last experiment induced me to try an experiment with my photographic apparatus21. I got it out, and boiled one of my cameras, but the thing was a failure; it made the wood swell22 up and burst, and I could not see that the lenses were any better than they were before.
I now concluded to boil a guide. It might improve him, it could not impair23 his usefulness. But I was not allowed to proceed. Guides have no feeling for science, and this one would not consent to be made uncomfortable in its interest.
In the midst of my scientific work, one of those needless accidents happened which are always occurring among the ignorant and thoughtless. A porter shot at a chamois and missed it and crippled the Latinist. This was not a serious matter to me, for a Latinist’s duties are as well performed on crutches24 as otherwise—but the fact remained that if the Latinist had not happened to be in the way a mule25 would have got that load. That would have been quite another matter, for when it comes down to a question of value there is a palpable difference between a Latinist and a mule. I could not depend on having a Latinist in the right place every time; so, to make things safe, I ordered that in the future the chamois must not be hunted within limits of the camp with any other weapon than the forefinger26.
My nerves had hardly grown quiet after this affair when they got another shake-up—one which utterly27 unmanned me for a moment: a rumor28 swept suddenly through the camp that one of the barkeepers had fallen over a precipice29!
However, it turned out that it was only a chaplain. I had laid in an extra force of chaplains, purposely to be prepared for emergencies like this, but by some unaccountable oversight30 had come away rather short-handed in the matter of barkeepers.
On the following morning we moved on, well refreshed and in good spirits. I remember this day with peculiar31 pleasure, because it saw our road restored to us. Yes, we found our road again, and in quite an extraordinary way. We had plodded32 along some two hours and a half, when we came up against a solid mass of rock about twenty feet high. I did not need to be instructed by a mule this time. I was already beginning to know more than any mule in the Expedition. I at once put in a blast of dynamite33, and lifted that rock out of the way. But to my surprise and mortification34, I found that there had been a chalet on top of it.
I picked up such members of the family as fell in my vicinity, and subordinates of my corps35 collected the rest. None of these poor people were injured, happily, but they were much annoyed. I explained to the head chaleteer just how the thing happened, and that I was only searching for the road, and would certainly have given him timely notice if I had known he was up there. I said I had meant no harm, and hoped I had not lowered myself in his estimation by raising him a few rods in the air. I said many other judicious36 things, and finally when I offered to rebuild his chalet, and pay for the breakages, and throw in the cellar, he was mollified and satisfied. He hadn’t any cellar at all, before; he would not have as good a view, now, as formerly37, but what he had lost in view he had gained in cellar, by exact measurement. He said there wasn’t another hole like that in the mountains—and he would have been right if the late mule had not tried to eat up the nitroglycerin.
I put a hundred and sixteen men at work, and they rebuilt the chalet from its own debris38 in fifteen minutes. It was a good deal more picturesque39 than it was before, too. The man said we were now on the Feil-Stutz, above the Schwegmatt—information which I was glad to get, since it gave us our position to a degree of particularity which we had not been accustomed to for a day or so. We also learned that we were standing40 at the foot of the Riffelberg proper, and that the initial chapter of our work was completed.
We had a fine view, from here, of the energetic Visp, as it makes its first plunge41 into the world from under a huge arch of solid ice, worn through the foot-wall of the great Gorner Glacier42; and we could also see the Furggenbach, which is the outlet43 of the Furggen Glacier.
The mule-road to the summit of the Riffelberg passed right in front of the chalet, a circumstance which we almost immediately noticed, because a procession of tourists was filing along it pretty much all the time.
“Pretty much” may not be elegant English, but it is high time it was. There is no elegant word or phrase which means just what it means.—M.T.
The chaleteer’s business consisted in furnishing refreshments44 to tourists. My blast had interrupted this trade for a few minutes, by breaking all the bottles on the place; but I gave the man a lot of whiskey to sell for Alpine45 champagne46, and a lot of vinegar which would answer for Rhine wine, consequently trade was soon as brisk as ever.
Leaving the Expedition outside to rest, I quartered myself in the chalet, with Harris, proposing to correct my journals and scientific observations before continuing the ascent47. I had hardly begun my work when a tall, slender, vigorous American youth of about twenty-three, who was on his way down the mountain, entered and came toward me with that breezy self-complacency which is the adolescent’s idea of the well-bred ease of the man of the world. His hair was short and parted accurately48 in the middle, and he had all the look of an American person who would be likely to begin his signature with an initial, and spell his middle name out. He introduced himself, smiling a smirky49 smile borrowed from the courtiers of the stage, extended a fair-skinned talon50, and while he gripped my hand in it he bent51 his body forward three times at the hips52, as the stage courtier does, and said in the airiest and most condescending53 and patronizing way—I quite remember his exact language:
“Very glad to make your acquaintance, ’m sure; very glad indeed, assure you. I’ve read all your little efforts and greatly admired them, and when I heard you were here, I ...”
I indicated a chair, and he sat down. This grandee54 was the grandson of an American of considerable note in his day, and not wholly forgotten yet—a man who came so near being a great man that he was quite generally accounted one while he lived.
I slowly paced the floor, pondering scientific problems, and heard this conversation:
GRANDSON. First visit to Europe?
HARRIS. Mine? Yes.
G.S. (With a soft reminiscent sigh suggestive of bygone joys that may be tasted in their freshness but once.) Ah, I know what it is to you. A first visit!—ah, the romance of it! I wish I could feel it again.
H. Yes, I find it exceeds all my dreams. It is enchantment55. I go...
G.S. (With a dainty gesture of the hand signifying “Spare me your callow enthusiasms, good friend.”) Yes, _I_ know, I know; you go to cathedrals, and exclaim; and you drag through league-long picture-galleries and exclaim; and you stand here, and there, and yonder, upon historic ground, and continue to exclaim; and you are permeated56 with your first crude conceptions of Art, and are proud and happy. Ah, yes, proud and happy—that expresses it. Yes-yes, enjoy it—it is right—it is an innocent revel57.
H. And you? Don’t you do these things now?
G.S. I! Oh, that is very good! My dear sir, when you are as old a traveler as I am, you will not ask such a question as that. _I_ visit the regulation gallery, moon around the regulation cathedral, do the worn round of the regulation sights, yet?—Excuse me!
H. Well, what do you do, then?
G.S. Do? I flit—and flit—for I am ever on the wing—but I avoid the herd58. Today I am in Paris, tomorrow in Berlin, anon in Rome; but you would look for me in vain in the galleries of the Louvre or the common resorts of the gazers in those other capitals. If you would find me, you must look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never think of going. One day you will find me making myself at home in some obscure peasant’s cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castle worshiping some little gem59 or art which the careless eye has overlooked and which the unexperienced would despise; again you will find me as guest in the inner sanctuaries60 of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers61 by feeing a servant.
H. You are a guest in such places?
G.S. And a welcoming one.
H. It is surprising. How does it come?
G.S. My grandfather’s name is a passport to all the courts in Europe. I have only to utter that name and every door is open to me. I flit from court to court at my own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome. I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are among your relatives. I know every titled person in Europe, I think. I have my pockets full of invitations all the time. I am under promise to go to Italy, where I am to be the guest of a succession of the noblest houses in the land. In Berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in the imperial palace. It is the same, wherever I go.
H. It must be very pleasant. But it must make Boston seem a little slow when you are at home.
G.S. Yes, of course it does. But I don’t go home much. There’s no life there—little to feed a man’s higher nature. Boston’s very narrow, you know. She doesn’t know it, and you couldn’t convince her of it—so I say nothing when I’m there: where’s the use? Yes, Boston is very narrow, but she has such a good opinion of herself that she can’t see it. A man who has traveled as much as I have, and seen as much of the world, sees it plain enough, but he can’t cure it, you know, so the best is to leave it and seek a sphere which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture. I run across there, once a year, perhaps, when I have nothing important on hand, but I’m very soon back again. I spend my time in Europe.
H. I see. You map out your plans and ...
G.S. No, excuse me. I don’t map out any plans. I simply follow the inclination62 of the day. I am limited by no ties, no requirements, I am not bound in any way. I am too old a traveler to hamper63 myself with deliberate purposes. I am simply a traveler—an inveterate64 traveler—a man of the world, in a word—I can call myself by no other name. I do not say, “I am going here, or I am going there”—I say nothing at all, I only act. For instance, next week you may find me the guest of a grandee of Spain, or you may find me off for Venice, or flitting toward Dresden. I shall probably go to Egypt presently; friends will say to friends, “He is at the Nile cataracts”—and at that very moment they will be surprised to learn that I’m away off yonder in India somewhere. I am a constant surprise to people. They are always saying, “Yes, he was in Jerusalem when we heard of him last, but goodness knows where he is now.”
Presently the Grandson rose to leave—discovered he had an appointment with some Emperor, perhaps. He did his graces over again: gripped me with one talon, at arm’s-length, pressed his hat against his stomach with the other, bent his body in the middle three times, murmuring:
“Pleasure, ’m sure; great pleasure, ’m sure. Wish you much success.”
Then he removed his gracious presence. It is a great and solemn thing to have a grandfather.
I have not purposed to misrepresent this boy in any way, for what little indignation he excited in me soon passed and left nothing behind it but compassion65. One cannot keep up a grudge66 against a vacuum. I have tried to repeat this lad’s very words; if I have failed anywhere I have at least not failed to reproduce the marrow67 and meaning of what he said. He and the innocent chatterbox whom I met on the Swiss lake are the most unique and interesting specimens68 of Young America I came across during my foreign tramping. I have made honest portraits of them, not caricatures.
The Grandson of twenty-three referred to himself five or six times as an “old traveler,” and as many as three times (with a serene69 complacency which was maddening) as a “man of the world.” There was something very delicious about his leaving Boston to her “narrowness,” unreproved and uninstructed.
I formed the caravan70 in marching order, presently, and after riding down the line to see that it was properly roped together, gave the command to proceed. In a little while the road carried us to open, grassy71 land. We were above the troublesome forest, now, and had an uninterrupted view, straight before us, of our summit—the summit of the Riffelberg.
We followed the mule-road, a zigzag72 course, now to the right, now to the left, but always up, and always crowded and incommoded by going and coming files of reckless tourists who were never, in a single instance, tied together. I was obliged to exert the utmost care and caution, for in many places the road was not two yards wide, and often the lower side of it sloped away in slanting73 precipices74 eight and even nine feet deep. I had to encourage the men constantly, to keep them from giving way to their unmanly fears.
We might have made the summit before night, but for a delay caused by the loss of an umbrella. I was allowing the umbrella to remain lost, but the men murmured, and with reason, for in this exposed region we stood in peculiar need of protection against avalanches75; so I went into camp and detached a strong party to go after the missing article.
The difficulties of the next morning were severe, but our courage was high, for our goal was near. At noon we conquered the last impediment—we stood at last upon the summit, and without the loss of a single man except the mule that ate the glycerin. Our great achievement was achieved—the possibility of the impossible was demonstrated, and Harris and I walked proudly into the great dining-room of the Riffelberg Hotel and stood our alpenstocks up in the corner.
Yes, I had made the grand ascent; but it was a mistake to do it in evening dress. The plug hats were battered76, the swallow-tails were fluttering rags, mud added no grace, the general effect was unpleasant and even disreputable.
There were about seventy-five tourists at the hotel—mainly ladies and little children—and they gave us an admiring welcome which paid us for all our privations and sufferings. The ascent had been made, and the names and dates now stand recorded on a stone monument there to prove it to all future tourists.
I boiled a thermometer and took an altitude, with a most curious result: the summit was not as high as the point on the mountainside where i had taken the first altitude. Suspecting that I had made an important discovery, I prepared to verify it. There happened to be a still higher summit (called the Gorner Grat), above the hotel, and notwithstanding the fact that it overlooks a glacier from a dizzy height, and that the ascent is difficult and dangerous, I resolved to venture up there and boil a thermometer. So I sent a strong party, with some borrowed hoes, in charge of two chiefs of service, to dig a stairway in the soil all the way up, and this I ascended77, roped to the guides. This breezy height was the summit proper—so I accomplished78 even more than I had originally purposed to do. This foolhardy exploit is recorded on another stone monument.
I boiled my thermometer, and sure enough, this spot, which purported79 to be two thousand feet higher than the locality of the hotel, turned out to be nine thousand feet lower. Thus the fact was clearly demonstrated that, above a certain point, the higher a point seems to be, the lower it actually is. Our ascent itself was a great achievement, but this contribution to science was an inconceivably greater matter.
Cavilers object that water boils at a lower and lower temperature the higher and higher you go, and hence the apparent anomaly. I answer that I do not base my theory upon what the boiling water does, but upon what a boiled thermometer says. You can’t go behind the thermometer.
I had a magnificent view of Monte Rosa, and apparently80 all the rest of the Alpine world, from that high place. All the circling horizon was piled high with a mighty81 tumult82 of snowy crests83. One might have imagined he saw before him the tented camps of a beleaguering84 host of Brobdingnagians.
NOTE.—I had the very unusual luck to catch one little momentary85 glimpse of the Matterhorn wholly unencumbered by clouds. I leveled my photographic apparatus at it without the loss of an instant, and should have got an elegant picture if my donkey had not interfered86. It was my purpose to draw this photograph all by myself for my book, but was obliged to put the mountain part of it into the hands of the professional artist because I found I could not do landscape well.
But lonely, conspicuous87, and superb, rose that wonderful upright wedge, the Matterhorn. Its precipitous sides were powdered over with snow, and the upper half hidden in thick clouds which now and then dissolved to cobweb films and gave brief glimpses of the imposing88 tower as through a veil. A little later the Matterhorn took to himself the semblance89 of a volcano; he was stripped naked to his apex—around this circled vast wreaths of white cloud which strung slowly out and streamed away slantwise toward the sun, a twenty-mile stretch of rolling and tumbling vapor90, and looking just as if it were pouring out of a crater91. Later again, one of the mountain’s sides was clean and clear, and another side densely92 clothed from base to summit in thick smokelike cloud which feathered off and flew around the shaft’s sharp edge like the smoke around the corners of a burning building. The Matterhorn is always experimenting, and always gets up fine effects, too. In the sunset, when all the lower world is palled93 in gloom, it points toward heaven out of the pervading94 blackness like a finger of fire. In the sunrise—well, they say it is very fine in the sunrise.
Authorities agree that there is no such tremendous “layout” of snowy Alpine magnitude, grandeur95, and sublimity96 to be seen from any other accessible point as the tourist may see from the summit of the Riffelberg. Therefore, let the tourist rope himself up and go there; for I have shown that with nerve, caution, and judgment97, the thing can be done.
I wish to add one remark, here—in parentheses98, so to speak—suggested by the word “snowy,” which I have just used. We have all seen hills and mountains and levels with snow on them, and so we think we know all the aspects and effects produced by snow. But indeed we do not until we have seen the Alps. Possibly mass and distance add something—at any rate, something is added. Among other noticeable things, there is a dazzling, intense whiteness about the distant Alpine snow, when the sun is on it, which one recognizes as peculiar, and not familiar to the eye. The snow which one is accustomed to has a tint99 to it—painters usually give it a bluish cast—but there is no perceptible tint to the distant Alpine snow when it is trying to look its whitest. As to the unimaginable splendor100 of it when the sun is blazing down on it—well, it simply is unimaginable.
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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disseminated
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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barometric
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| 大气压力 | |
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barometers
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| 气压计，晴雨表( barometer的名词复数 ) | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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crutches
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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utterly
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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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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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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formerly
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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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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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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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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46
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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47
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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smirky
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| adj.假笑的，傻笑的，得意地笑的 | |
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talon
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| n.爪；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物 | |
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51
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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52
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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53
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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54
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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55
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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58
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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60
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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62
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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avalanches
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| n.雪崩( avalanche的名词复数 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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82
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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83
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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beleaguering
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| v.围攻( beleaguer的现在分词 )；困扰；骚扰 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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88
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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91
crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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92
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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95
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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96
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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98
parentheses
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲（ parenthesis的名词复数 ） | |
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99
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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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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