Long ere they reach this region the sea winds have spent their force, and the billows, which in clear weather are still visible far out, have sunk to ripples5 so diminutive6 that the water is not even disturbed. And here, in Staten Island, facing the Kill von Kull, still stands in almost rural quiet and beauty Sailors’ Snug7 Harbor. Long ago this was truly a harbor, snug and undisturbed, a place where the storm-harried mariner8, escaping the moods and dangers of the seven seas, found a still and safe retreat. To-day they come here, weary from a long life voyage, to find a quiet home. And truly it is restful in its arrangements. The grounds are kempt and green, the buildings pleasingly solemn, and the view altogether lovely, a mixture of land and sea.
In the early days this pleasantly quiet harbor was a245 long distance from New York proper. Staten Island was but thinly settled, and the Kill von Kull a passageway seldom used. To-day craft speed in endless procession like glorious birds over the great expanse of water. On a clear day the long narrow skyline of New York is visible, and when fogs make the way of the pilot uncertain the harbor resounds11 with endless monotony of fog-horns, of vessels13 feeling an indefinite way.
Though the surroundings are pastoral, the appearance of the inmates14 of this retreat, as well as their conversation, is of the sea, salty. Housed though they are for the remainder of their days on land, they are still sailors, vain of their service upon the great waters of the world and but little tolerant of landlubbers in general. To the passer-by without the walls they are visible lounging under the trees, their loose-fitting blue suits fluttering light with every breeze and their slouch hats pulled rakishly over their eyes, an abandon characteristic of men whose lives have been spent more or less in direct contact with wind and rain. You may see them in fair weather pacing about the paths of the grounds, or standing15 in groups under the trees. Upon a long bench, immediately in front of the buildings, others are sitting side by side, smoking and chatting. Many were captains, not a few common sailors. But all are now so aged17 that they can scarcely totter18 about, and hair of white is more often seen than that of any other shade.
For a period of nearly a year—a spring, summer and fall—I lived in the immediate16 vicinity of this retreat and was always interested by the types of men finally islanded here. They came, so I was told, from nearly246 all lands, France, Germany, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Iceland, Spain, Austria, Russia, and elsewhere, though the majority chanced to be of English and American extraction. Also, I was told and can well believe they are, a restless if not exactly a troublesome lot, and take their final exile from the sea, due to increasing years and in most instances poverty, with no very great equanimity19. Yet the surroundings and the provision made for them by the founder20 of this institution, who, though not a sea-faring man himself, acquired his fortune through the sea over a century ago, are charming and ample; but the curse, or at least the burden of age and the ending of their vigor21 and activities, rests heavily upon them, I am sure. I have watched them about the very few saloons of the region as well as the coffee-houses, the small lunch counters and the moving picture theaters, and have noted22 a kind of preferred solitude23 and spiritual irritability24 which spells all too plainly intense dissatisfaction at times with their state. Among the quondam rovers are rovers still, men who pine to be out and away and who chafe25 at old age and the few necessary restraints put upon them. They would rather travel, would rather have the money it costs to maintain them annually26 as a pension, outside, than be in the institution. Not many but feel a sort of weariness with days and with each other, and I am quite convinced that they would be happier if pensioned modestly and set free. Yet this is a great institution and indeed a splendid benefaction, but it insists upon what is the bane and destruction of heart and mind: conformity27 to routine, a monotonous28 system which wears247 as the drifting of water and eats as a worm at the heart.
And yet I doubt if a better conducted institution than this could be found, or one more suited to the needs and crotchets of so many men. They have ample liberty, excellent food, clothing and shelter, charming scenery, and all the leisure there is. They are not called upon to do any labor29 of any kind other than that of looking after their rooms and clothes. The grounds are so ample and the buildings so large that the attention of every one is instantly taken. As you enter at the north, where is the main entrance, there is a monument to Robert Richard Randall, the founder of the institution. This marks his final resting-place; the remains30 of the philanthropist were brought here from St. Mark’s Church in New York, where they had lain since 1825.
The facts concerning the founding of this institution have always interested me. It seems that the father of “Captain” Robert Randall, the founder of the Harbor, was a Scotchman, who came to America in 1776 and settled in New Orleans. The Spanish Governor and Intendant of that city, Don Bernardo de Galvez, having declared the port open for the sale of prizes of Yankee privateers, Mr. Randall took an active interest in that great fleet of private-armed vessels whose exploits on the high seas, and even upon the coast of Great Britain itself, did much to contradict the modest assertion of the “British Naval31 Register” that:
And not a sail but by permission spreads.”
248 At his death his son Robert inherited the estate. Accustomed to come north to pass the summer months, Robert made, on one of his trips to New York, the acquaintance of a Mr. Farquhar, a man possessed34 of means but broken down by ill health. The mild climate of Louisiana agreed with the invalid35, and a proposition to exchange estates was considered. After a bonus of five hundred guineas had been sent to Farquhar, this was effected. Mr. Randall then became a suburban37 resident of what was then the little city of New York. His property consisted of real estate fronting both sides of Broadway and adjacent streets, and extending from Eighth to Tenth Streets. At a distance of one-half mile to the westward38, namely, near the site of the old Presbyterian Church on what is now Fifth Avenue, stood the dwelling39 of the Captain. Upon the piazza40 of this house, it is recorded, shaded by a luxuriant growth of ivy41 and clematis, the old gentleman was wont42 to sit in fine weather, with his dog by his side. Before the door were three rows of gladioli, which he carefully nurtured44. He was a bachelor, and on the first day of June, 1801, being very ill and feeble but of “sound, disposing mind and memory,” made his will. Alexander Hamilton and Daniel D. Tompkins drew up the papers. In this document he directed that his just debts be paid; that an annuity45 of forty pounds a year be given to each of the children of his half-brother until they were fifteen years old; a sum of one thousand pounds to each of his nephews upon their twenty-first birthday, and a like sum to his nieces on their marriage. He bequeathed to his housekeeper46 his sleeve-buttons and forty249 pounds, and to another servant his shoe and knee buckles47 and twenty pounds. When this had been recorded he looked up with an expression of anxiety.
“I am thinking,” he said, “how I can dispose of the remainder of my property most wisely. What do you think, General?” turning to Hamilton.
“How did you accumulate the fortune you possess?”
“It was made for me by my father, and at his death became his sole heir.”
“How did he acquire it?” asked Hamilton.
“By honest privateering,” responded Randall.
“Then it might appropriately be left for the benefit of unfortunate and disabled seamen48,” volunteered Hamilton, and thereupon it was so bequeathed.
The early history of Snug Harbor is clouded with legal contests which covered a period of thirty years. Though at the time of the bequest49 Randall’s property was of little value, being mostly farming land, situated50 on the outskirts51 of the populated parts of the city, the heirs foresaw something of its future value. In the National and State Courts they long waged a vigorous war to test the validity of the will. Their surmises52 as to the future value of the property were correct. For, although the income of the bequest was not more than a thousand a year at first, as the population of the city increased the rental53 rose by degrees, until in the present year it has reached a sum bordering $1,500,000, and the rise, even yet, is continuous.
However, the suits were eventually decided54 against the heirs, the court holding the will valid36. As an institution the Harbor was incorporated in 1806, and the250 first building erected55 in 1831 and dedicated56 in 1833. So thirty years passed before the desire of a very plain-speaking document was carried into effect.
In the beginning there were but three buildings, which are to-day the central ones in a main group of nine. In toto, however, there are over sixty, situated in a park.
In a line, in the center of an eighteen hundred-foot lawn, stand the five main buildings, truly substantial and artistic57. The view to the right and left is superb, tall trees shading walks and dividing stretches of lawn, with rows of benches scattered58 here and there. A statue by St. Gaudens beautifies the grounds between the main building and the governor’s residence, while in another direction a fountain fills to the brim a flower-lined marble basin. Everywhere about the grounds and buildings are seen nautical59 signs and many interesting reminders60 of the man who willed the refuge.
The first little chapel61 that was built has long since been succeeded by an imposing62 edifice63, rich in marbles and windows of stained glass. A music hall of stately dimensions, seating over a thousand people, graces a once vacant lawn. A hospital with beds for three hundred is but another addition, and still others are residences for the governor of the institution, the chaplain, physician, engineer, matron, steward64, farmer, baker65, and the buildings for each branch of labor required in the management of what is now a small city. In short, it has risen to the dignity of an immense institution, where a thousand old sailors are quietly anchored for the remainder of their days.
Sailor’s Snug Harbor
Some idea of the lavishness66 of the architecture can251 be had by entering the comparatively new church, where marble and stained glass are harmoniously67 combined. The outer walls are pure white marble, the interior a soothing68 sanctuary69 of many colors. Underfoot is a rich brown marble from the shores of Lake Champlain. The wainscoting is of green rep and red Numidian marble. Eight immense pillars supporting the dome70 are in two shades of yellow Etrurian marble, delicate and unmarked. The altar is of the same shade, but exquisitely71 veined with a darker coloring. Both chancel and choir72 floors are richly mosaiced, the chancel steps being of the same delightful73 coloring as the piers74. To the left of the chancel is the pulpit, an octagonal structure of Alps green, with bands and cornices of Etrurian and Sienna marble supported on eight columns of alternate Alps green and red Numidian, finished with a brass75 railing and Etrurian marble steps. The magnificent organ, with its two thousand three hundred or more pipes, is entirely76 worthy77 its charming setting. Over all falls the rich, warm-tinted light from numerous memorial windows, each a gem10 in design and coloring. On one of these the worshiper is admonished78 to “Be of good cheer, for there shall be no loss of life among ye, but only of the ship.”
Admonish79 as one may, however, the majority of the old seamen are but little moved by such graven beauty; being hardened in simple, unorthodox ways. Not a few of them are given to swearing loudly, drinking frequently, snoring heavily on Sundays and otherwise disporting80 themselves in droll81 and unsanctified ways. To many of them this institution appears to be even a252 wasteful82 affair, intended more to irritate than to aid them. Not a few of them, as you may guess, resent routine, duty, and the very necessary officials, and each other. Although they possess comfortable and even superior living apartments, wholesome83 and abundant food, good clothing, abundant clean linen84, a library of eight thousand volumes, newspapers, periodicals, time and opportunity for the pursuit of any fad85 or fancy, and no restrictions86 at which a reasonable man could demur87, still they are not entirely happy. Life itself is passing, and that is the great sorrow.
And so occasionally there is to be found in that portion of the basement room from which the light is debarred, looking out from behind an iron door upon a company of blind mariners88 who occupy this section, working and telling stories, a mariner or two in jail. And if you venture to inquire, his mates will volunteer the information that he is neither ill nor demented but troubled with that complaint which is common to landsmen and sailors, “pure cussedness.” In some the symptom of this, I am told, will take the form of an unconquerable desire to go from room to room in the early morning and pull aged and irate89 mariners from their comfortable beds. In others it has broken out as a spell of silence, no word for any one, old or young, official or fellow resident. In another drunkenness is the refuge, a protracted90 spell, resulting in dismissal, with an occasional reinstatement. Another will fight with his roommate or his neighbor, sometimes drawing a chalk line between the two halves of a double room and defying the other to cross it at peril91 of his life. There253 have been many public quarrels and fights. Yet, all things considered, and age and temperament92 being taken into consideration, they do well enough. And not a few have sufficient acumen93 and industry to enter upon profitable employments. For there are many visitors, to whom useful or ornamental94 things can be sold. And a few of these salts will even buy from or trade with each other.
In consequence one meets with an odd type of merchant here and there. There is one old seaman95, for instance, a relic96 of Federal service in “’61,” whose chamber97 is ornamented98 to the degree of confusion with things nautical, most of which are for sale. To enter upon him one must pass through a whole fleet of small craft, barks, brigs, schooners99 and sloops—the result of his jacknife leisure—arranged upon chests of drawers. Still another, at the time I visited the place, delighted in painting marine9 views on shells, and a third was fair at photography, having acquired his skill after arriving at the Harbor. He photographed and sold pictures of other inmates and some local scenes. Many can and do weave rugs and mats, others cane100 chairs or hammocks or fish-nets. Still others have a turn for executing small ornaments101 which they produce in great numbers and sell for their own profit. No one is compelled to work, and the result is that nearly all desire to. The perversity102 of human nature expresses itself there. In the long, light basement corridors, where it is warm and cozy103, there are to be found hundreds of old sailors, all hard at work defying monotony with rapid and skilful104 finger movements.
254 All of these are not friendly, however, and many are vastly argumentative. No subject is too small nor any too large for their discussion in this sunlit forum105. Especially are they inclined to belittle106 each other’s experiences when comparing them with their own important past, and so many a word is passed in wrath107.
“I hain’t a-goin’ to hear sich rubbish,” remarked one seaman, who had taken offense108 at another’s detailed109 account of his terrible experience in some sea fight of the Civil War. “Sich things ain’t a-happenin’ to common seamen.”
“Yuh don’t need to, yuh know,” sarcastically110 replied the other. “This here’s a free country, I guess, ’cept for criminals,—and they hain’t all locked up, as they should be.”
“So I thought when I first seed yuh,” came the sneering111 reply, and then followed a hoarse112 chuckle113 which was only silenced by the stamping away of an irate salt with cheeks puffed114 out in rage.
Nearly all are irritatingly independent, resenting the least suggestion of superiority with stubborn sarcasm115 or indifference116. Thus one, who owned his own ship once and had carefully refrained from whistling in deference117 to the superstitious118 line: “If you whistle aloud you’ll call up a blow; if noisy you’ll bring on a calm,” met another strolling about the grounds exuberantly119 indulging a long-restrained propensity120 to “pipe the merry lay.”
“I’ll bet you wouldn’t whistle aboard my ship,” said he insinuatingly121.
“Yeh! But I ain’t aboard yer ship, thankee—I’m255 on my own deck.” And “Haul in the bow lines; Jenny, you’re my darling!” triumphantly122 swelled123 out on the evening breeze.
Down on the unplaned planks124 of the Snug Harbor wharf125 a score of old salts, regardless of slivers126, sit the livelong day and watch the white-winged craft passing up and down. Being “square-riggers”—that is, having served all their lives aboard ship, barks and brigs—they look with silent contempt upon the fore43 and aft vessels of the harbor as they sail by. Presently comes, “Hello, Jim! Goin’ to launch her?” from one who is contemplating127 with a quizzical eye a little weazened old man who comes clambering down the side of the dock with a miniature ship under his arm and a broad smile of satisfaction on his face.
“Ay, that’s it,” answers the newcomer. He has spent many weeks in building the little ship and now will be decided whether or not his skill has been wasted on a bad model. At once the critical faculty128 of the tars129 on the dock is engaged, and he of the boat becomes the subject of a brisk discussion. Sapient130 admonitions, along with long squirts of tobacco juice, are vouchsafed131, the latter most accurately132 aimed at some neighboring target. Sarcasm is not wanting, the ability of the builder as well as the merit of his craft coming in for comment. The launching of such a craft has even engendered133 bitter hatreds134 and not a few fights.
We will say, however, that the craft is successfully launched and with sails full spread runs proudly before a light wind. In such a case invariably all the old sailors will look on with a keen squint135 and a certain256 tremor136 of satisfaction at seeing her behave so gallantly137. Such being the case, the builder is at liberty to make a few sententious remarks anent the art of shipbuilding—not otherwise. And he may then retire after a time, proud in his knowledge and his very certain triumph over those who would have scoffed138 had they had the slightest opportunity.
I troubled to ask a number of these worthies139 from time to time whether, assuming they were young again, they would choose a sea-faring life. “Indeed I would, my boy,” one answered me one morning. And another: “Not I. If I were to sail four thousand times I’d be as seasick140 the last trip as on the first day out. Every blessed trip I made for the first five years I nearly died of seasickness141.”
“Why did you keep it up, then?” I asked.
“Well, when I’d get into port everybody would ask: ‘Well, how did you like it? Are you going again?’ ‘Of course I am,’ I would answer, and went from pure shamefacedness and not to be outdone. After a while I didn’t mind it so much, and finally kept to it ’cause I couldn’t do anything else.”
One of the old basket makers142 at the Harbor had occupied a rolling chair in the hospital and made baskets for nearly thirty-nine years. There was still another, ninety-three years of age, who would have been there forty years the summer I was there. And withal he was a most ingenious basket maker143. One of the old salts kept an eating-stand where appetizing lunches were served, and he bore the distinction of having rounded the Horn forty-nine times in a sailing vessel12. He was one of the257 few who possessed his soul in patience, resting content with his lot and turning to fate a gentle and smiling face.
“Will you tell me of an adventure at sea?” I once asked him.
“I could,” he answered, “but I would rather tell you of thirteen peaceful years here. I came here when I was seventy, though at sixty, when I was weathering a terrible storm around the Cape144 with little hope of ever seeing the rising sun, I promised myself that if ever I reached home again I would stay there. But I didn’t know myself even then. My destiny was to remain on the sea for ten years more, with this Harbor for my few remaining years. At that, if I were young I would go to sea again, I believe. It’s the only life for me.”
Back of all this company of a thousand or more, playing their last parts upon this little Harbor stage, is an interesting mechanism145, the system with which the institution is run. There is a clothing department, where the sailors get their new outfits146 twice a year. I warrant that the quizzical old salt who keeps it knows every rent and tear in every garment of the Harbor. There is a laundry and sewing department, of which the matron has charge. There is a great kitchen, absolutely clean, where is space enough to set up a score of little kitchens. At four p.m. there are visible only two dignitaries in this savory147 realm. At that time one slices tomatoes and the other “puts on tea” for a thousand, the number who regularly dine here. The labor of cutting great stacks of bread is done by a machine. Broiling148 steaks or frying fish for a thousand creates neither excitement258 nor hurry. The entire kitchen staff numbers thirty all told, and the thousand sailors are served with less noise and confusion than an ordinary housewife makes in cooking for a small family.
There are separate buildings devoted149 to baking, vegetable storing and so forth150, and the steward, farmer, baker and engineer, that important quartette, has each his private residence upon the grounds. The hospital, too, is a well-kept building, carefully arranged and bright and cleanly as such institutions can be made.
Passing this place, I have often thought what a really interesting and unique and beautiful charity it is, the orderly and palatial151 buildings, the beautiful lawns and flowers, and then the thousand and one characters who after so many earthly vicissitudes152 have found their way here and who, if left to their own devices, would certainly find the world outside a stormy and desperate affair. So old and so crotchety, most of them are. Where would they go? Who would endure them? Wherewith would they be clothed and fed? And again, after having sailed so many seas and seen so much and been so independent and done heaven only knows what, how odd to find them here, berthed153 into so peaceful a realm and making out after any fashion at all. How quaint33, how na?ve and unbelievable, almost. The blue waters of the bay before them, the smooth even lawn in which the great buildings rest, the flowers, the calm, the order, the security. And yet I know, too, that to the hearts of all of these, as to the hearts of each and every one of us, come such terrific storms of restlessness, such lightnings of anger or temper, such torturing hours of259 ennui154, beside which the windless lifelessness of Sargasso is as activity. How fierce their resentment155 of that onward shift and push of life that eventually loosens each and every barque from its moorings and sets it adrift, rudderless, upon the great, uncharted sea, their eyes and their mood all too plainly show. And yet here they are, and here they will remain until their barque is at last adrift, the last stay worn to a frazzle, the last chain rusted156 to dust. And betimes they wait, the sirenic call of older and better days ever in their ears—those days that can never, never, never be again.
Who would not be ill at ease at times? Who not crotchety, weary, contemptuous, however much he might choose to possess himself in serenity157? There is this material Snug Harbor for their bodies, to be sure. But where is the peaceful haven158 of the heart—on what shore, by what sea—a Snug Harbor for the soul?
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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jersey
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ripples
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diminutive
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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mariner
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marine
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gem
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resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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vessel
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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inmates
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standing
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immediate
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aged
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totter
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equanimity
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Founder
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vigor
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noted
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solitude
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irritability
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chafe
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annually
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conformity
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monotonous
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labor
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remains
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naval
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domain
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quaint
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possessed
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invalid
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valid
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suburban
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westward
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dwelling
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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42
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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43
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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44
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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45
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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46
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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47
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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48
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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49
bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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50
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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51
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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52
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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53
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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55
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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56
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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57
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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58
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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60
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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61
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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62
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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63
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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64
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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65
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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66
lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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67
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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68
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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69
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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70
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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71
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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72
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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73
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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74
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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75
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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76
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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77
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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78
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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79
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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80
disporting
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
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81
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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82
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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83
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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84
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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85
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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86
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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87
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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88
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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89
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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90
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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92
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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93
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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94
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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95
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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96
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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97
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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98
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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100
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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101
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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103
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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104
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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105
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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106
belittle
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| v.轻视，小看，贬低 | |
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107
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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108
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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109
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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110
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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111
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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112
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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113
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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114
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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115
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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116
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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117
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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118
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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119
exuberantly
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| adv.兴高采烈地，活跃地，愉快地 | |
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120
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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121
insinuatingly
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122
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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123
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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124
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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125
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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126
slivers
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| （切割或断裂下来的）薄长条，碎片( sliver的名词复数 ) | |
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127
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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128
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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129
tars
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| 焦油，沥青，柏油( tar的名词复数 ) | |
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130
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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131
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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132
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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133
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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135
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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136
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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137
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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138
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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140
seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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141
seasickness
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| n.晕船 | |
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142
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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143
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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144
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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145
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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146
outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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148
broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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149
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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150
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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151
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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152
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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153
berthed
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| v.停泊( berth的过去式和过去分词 )；占铺位 | |
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154
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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155
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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156
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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158
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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