"Of course you will not go to Cape1 May till the season opens. You might as well go to a race-track the day there is no race." It was Mrs. Cortlandt who was speaking, and the remonstrance2 was addressed to Mr. Stanhope King, and a young gentleman, Mr. Graham Forbes, who had just been presented to her as an artist, in the railway station at Philadelphia, that comfortable home of the tired and bewildered traveler. Mr. Forbes, with his fresh complexion3, closely cropped hair, and London clothes, did not look at all like the traditional artist, although the sharp eyes of Mrs. Cortlandt detected a small sketch4-book peeping out of his side pocket.
"On the contrary, that is why we go," said Mr. King. "I've a fancy that I should like to open a season once myself."
"Besides," added Mr. Forbes, "we want to see nature unadorned. You know, Mrs. Cortlandt, how people sometimes spoil a place."
"I'm not sure," answered the lady, laughing, "that people have not spoiled you two and you need a rest. Where else do you go?"
"Well, I thought," replied Mr. King, "from what I heard, that Atlantic City might appear best with nobody there."
"Oh, there's always some one there. You know, it is a winter resort now. And, by the way--But there's my train, and the young ladies are beckoning6 to me." (Mrs. Cortlandt was never seen anywhere without a party of young ladies.) "Yes, the Bensons passed through Washington the other day from the South, and spoke7 of going to Atlantic City to tone up a little before the season, and perhaps you know that Mrs. Benson took a great fancy to you, Mr. King. Good-by, au revoir," and the lady was gone with her bevy8 of girls, struggling in the stream that poured towards one of the wicket-gates.
"Atlantic City? Why, Stanhope, you don't think of going there also?"
"I didn't think of it, but, hang it all, my dear fellow, duty is duty. There are some places you must see in order to be well informed. Atlantic City is an important place; a great many of its inhabitants spend their winters in Philadelphia."
"And this Mrs. Benson?"
"No, I'm not going down there to see Mrs. Benson."
Expectancy9 was the word when our travelers stepped out of the car at Cape May station. Except for some people who seemed to have business there, they were the only passengers. It was the ninth of June. Everything was ready--the sea, the sky, the delicious air, the long line of gray-colored coast, the omnibuses, the array of hotel tooters. As they stood waiting in irresolution10 a grave man of middle age and a disinterested11 manner sauntered up to the travelers, and slipped into friendly relations with them. It was impossible not to incline to a person so obliging and well stocked with local information. Yes, there were several good hotels open. It didn't make much difference; there was one near at hand, not pretentious12, but probably as comfortable as any. People liked the table; last summer used to come there from other hotels to get a meal. He was going that way, and would walk along with them. He did, and conversed13 most interestingly on the way. Our travelers felicitated themselves upon falling into such good hands, but when they reached the hotel designated it had such a gloomy and in fact boardinghouse air that they hesitated, and thought they would like to walk on a little farther and see the town before settling. And their friend appeared to feel rather grieved about it, not for himself, but for them. He had moreover, the expression of a fisherman who has lost a fish after he supposed it was securely hooked. But our young friends had been angled for in a good many waters, and they told the landlord, for it was the landlord, that while they had no doubt his was the best hotel in the place, they would like to look at some not so good. The one that attracted them, though they could not see in what the attraction lay, was a tall building gay with fresh paint in many colors, some pretty window balconies, and a portico15 supported by high striped columns that rose to the fourth story. They were fond of color, and were taken by six little geraniums planted in a circle amid the sand in front of the house, which were waiting for the season to open before they began to grow. With hesitation16 they stepped upon the newly varnished18 piazza19 and the newly varnished office floor, for every step left a footprint. The chairs, disposed in a long line on the piazza, waiting for guests, were also varnished, as the artist discovered when he sat in one of them and was held fast. It was all fresh and delightful20. The landlord and the clerks had smiles as wide as the open doors; the waiters exhibited in their eagerness a good imitation of unselfish service.
It was very pleasant to be alone in the house, and to be the first-fruits of such great expectations. The first man of the season is in such a different position from the last. He is like the King of Bavaria alone in his royal theatre. The ushers21 give him the best seat in the house, he hears the tuning22 of the instruments, the curtain is about to rise, and all for him. It is a very cheerful desolation, for it has a future, and everything quivers with the expectation of life and gayety. Whereas the last man is like one who stumbles out among the empty benches when the curtain has fallen and the play is done. Nothing is so melancholy23 as the shabbiness of a watering-place at the end of the season, where is left only the echo of past gayety, the last guests are scurrying24 away like leaves before the cold, rising wind, the varnish17 has worn off, shutters25 are put up, booths are dismantled26, the shows are packing up their tawdry ornaments27, and the autumn leaves collect in the corners of the gaunt buildings.
Could this be the Cape May about which hung so many traditions of summer romance? Where were those crowds of Southerners, with slaves and chariots, and the haughtiness28 of a caste civilization, and the belles29 from Baltimore and Philadelphia and Charleston and Richmond, whose smiles turned the heads of the last generation? Had that gay society danced itself off into the sea, and left not even a phantom31 of itself behind? As he sat upon the veranda32, King could not rid himself of the impression that this must be a mocking dream, this appearance of emptiness and solitude33. Why, yes, he was certainly in a delusion34, at least in a reverie. The place was alive. An omnibus drove to the door (though no sound of wheels was heard); the waiters rushed out, a fat man descended35, a little girl was lifted down, a pretty woman jumped from the steps with that little extra bound on the ground which all women confessedly under forty always give when they alight from a vehicle, a large woman lowered herself cautiously out, with an anxious look, and a file of men stooped and emerged, poking36 their umbrellas and canes37 in each other's backs. Mr. King plainly saw the whole party hurry into the office and register their names, and saw the clerk repeatedly touch a bell and throw back his head and extend his hand to a servant. Curious to see who the arrivals were, he went to the register. No names were written there. But there were other carriages at the door, there was a pile of trunks on the veranda, which he nearly stumbled over, although his foot struck nothing, and the chairs were full, and people were strolling up and down the piazza. He noticed particularly one couple promenading38--a slender brunette, with a brilliant complexion; large dark eyes that made constant play--could it be the belle30 of Macon?--and a gentleman of thirty-five, in black frock-coat, unbuttoned, with a wide-brimmed soft hat-clothes not quite the latest style--who had a good deal of manner, and walked apart from the young lady, bending towards her with an air of devotion. Mr. King stood one side and watched the endless procession up and down, up and down, the strollers, the mincers, the languid, the nervous steppers; noted40 the eye-shots, the flashing or the languishing41 look that kills, and never can be called to account for the mischief42 it does; but not a sound did he hear of the repartee43 and the laughter. The place certainly was thronged44. The avenue in front was crowded with vehicles of all sorts; there were groups strolling on the broad beach-children with their tiny pails and shovels45 digging pits close to the advancing tide, nursery-maids in fast colors, boys in knickerbockers racing46 on the beach, people lying on the sand, resolute47 walkers, whose figures loomed48 tall in the evening light, doing their constitutional. People were passing to and fro on the long iron pier49 that spider-legged itself out into the sea; the two rooms midway were filled with sitters taking the evening breeze; and the large ball and music room at the end, with its spacious50 outside promenade51-yes, there were dancers there, and the band was playing. Mr. King could see the fiddlers draw their bows, and the corneters lift up their horns and get red in the face, and the lean man slide his trombone, and the drummer flourish his sticks, but not a note of music reached him. It might have been a performance of ghosts for all the effect at this distance. Mr. King remarked upon this dumb-show to a gentleman in a blue coat and white vest and gray hat, leaning against a column near him. The gentleman made no response. It was most singular. Mr. King stepped back to be out of the way of some children racing down the piazza, and, half stumbling, sat down in the lap of a dowager--no, not quite; the chair was empty, and he sat down in the fresh varnish, to which his clothes stuck fast. Was this a delusion? No. The tables were filled in the dining-room, the waiters were scurrying about, there were ladies on the balconies looking dreamily down upon the animated52 scene below; all the movements of gayety and hilarity53 in the height of a season. Mr. King approached a group who were standing54 waiting for a carriage, but they did not see him, and did not respond to his trumped-up question about the next train. Were these, then, shadows, or was he a spirit himself? Were these empty omnibuses and carriages that discharged ghostly passengers? And all this promenading and flirting55 and languishing and love-making, would it come to nothing-nothing more than usual? There was a charm about it all--the movement, the color, the gray sand, and the rosy56 blush on the sea--a lovely place, an enchanted57 place. Were these throngs58 the guests that were to come, or those that had been herein other seasons? Why could not the former "materialize" as well as the latter? Is it not as easy to make nothing out of what never yet existed as out of what has ceased to exist? The landlord, by faith, sees all this array which is prefigured so strangely to Mr. King; and his comely59 young wife sees it and is ready for it; and the fat son at the supper table--a living example of the good eating to be had here--is serene60, and has the air of being polite and knowing to a houseful. This scrap61 of a child, with the aplomb62 of a man of fifty, wise beyond his fatness, imparts information to the travelers about the wine, speaks to the waiter with quiet authority, and makes these mature men feel like boys before the gravity of our perfect flower of American youth who has known no childhood. This boy at least is no phantom; the landlord is real, and the waiters, and the food they bring.
"I suppose," said Mr. King to his friend, "that we are opening the season. Did you see anything outdoors?"
"Yes; a horseshoe-crab about a mile below here on the smooth sand, with a long dotted trail behind him, a couple of girls in a pony-cart who nearly drove over me, and a tall young lady with a red parasol, accompanied by a big black-and-white dog, walking rapidly, close to the edge of the sea, towards the sunset. It's just lovely, the silvery sweep of coast in this light."
"It seems a refined sort of place in its outlines, and quietly respectable. They tell me here that they don't want the excursion crowds that overrun Atlantic City, but an Atlantic City man, whom I met at the pier, said that Cape May used to be the boss, but that Atlantic City had got the bulge63 on it now--had thousands to the hundreds here. To get the bulge seems a desirable thing in America, and I think we'd better see what a place is like that is popular, whether fashion recognizes it or not."
The place lost nothing in the morning light, and it was a sparkling morning with a fresh breeze. Nature, with its love of simple, sweeping64 lines, and its feeling for atmospheric65 effect, has done everything for the place, and bad taste has not quite spoiled it. There is a sloping, shallow beach, very broad, of fine, hard sand, excellent for driving or for walking, extending unbroken three miles down to Cape May Point, which has hotels and cottages of its own, and lifesaving and signal stations. Off to the west from this point is the long sand line to Cape Henlopen, fourteen miles away, and the Delaware shore. At Cape May Point there is a little village of painted wood houses, mostly cottages to let, and a permanent population of a few hundred inhabitants. From the pier one sees a mile and a half of hotels and cottages, fronting south, all flaming, tasteless, carpenter's architecture, gay with paint. The sea expanse is magnificent, and the sweep of beach is fortunately unencumbered, and vulgarized by no bath-houses or show-shanties66. The bath-houses are in front of the hotels and in their enclosures; then come the broad drive, and the sand beach, and the sea. The line is broken below by the lighthouse and a point of land, whereon stands the elephant. This elephant is not indigenous67, and he stands alone in the sand, a wooden sham68 without an explanation. Why the hotel-keeper's mind along the coast regards this grotesque69 structure as a summer attraction it is difficult to see. But when one resort had him, he became a necessity everywhere. The travelers walked down to this monster, climbed the stairs in one of his legs, explored the rooms, looked out from the saddle, and pondered on the problem. This beast was unfinished within and unpainted without, and already falling into decay. An elephant on the desert, fronting the Atlantic Ocean, had, after all, a picturesque70 aspect, and all the more so because he was a deserted71 ruin.
The elephant was, however, no emptier than the cottages about which our friends strolled. But the cottages were all ready, the rows of new chairs stood on the fresh piazzas72, the windows were invitingly73 open, the pathetic little patches of flowers in front tried hard to look festive74 in the dry sands, and the stout75 landladies76 in their rocking-chairs calmly knitted and endeavored to appear as if they expected nobody, but had almost a houseful.
Yes, the place was undeniably attractive. The sea had the blue of Nice; why must we always go to the Mediterranean77 for an aqua marina, for poetic78 lines, for delicate shades? What charming gradations had this picture-gray sand, blue waves, a line of white sails against the pale blue sky! By the pier railing is a bevy of little girls grouped about an ancient colored man, the very ideal old Uncle Ned, in ragged79, baggy80, and disreputable clothes, lazy good-nature oozing81 out of every pore of him, kneeling by a telescope pointed82 to a bunch of white sails on the horizon; a dainty little maiden83, in a stiff white skirt and golden hair, leans against him and tiptoes up to the object-glass, shutting first one eye and then the other, and making nothing out of it all. "Why, ov co'se you can't see nuffln, honey," said Uncle Ned, taking a peep, "wid the 'scope p'inted up in the sky."
In order to pass from Cape May to Atlantic City one takes a long circuit by rail through the Jersey84 sands. Jersey is a very prolific85 State, but the railway traveler by this route is excellently prepared for Atlantic City, for he sees little but sand, stunted86 pines, scrub oaks, small frame houses, sometimes trying to hide in the clumps87 of scrub oaks, and the villages are just collections of the same small frame houses hopelessly decorated with scroll-work and obtrusively88 painted, standing in lines on sandy streets, adorned5 with lean shade-trees. The handsome Jersey people were not traveling that day--the two friends had a theory about the relation of a sandy soil to female beauty--and when the artist got out his pencil to catch the types of the country, he was well rewarded. There were the fat old women in holiday market costumes, strong-featured, positive, who shook their heads at each other and nodded violently and incessantly89, and all talked at once; the old men in rusty90 suits, thin, with a deprecatory manner, as if they had heard that clatter91 for fifty years, and perky, sharp-faced girls in vegetable hats, all long-nosed and thin-lipped. And though the day was cool, mosquitoes had the bad taste to invade the train. At the junction92, a small collection of wooden shanties, where the travelers waited an hour, they heard much of the glories of Atlantic City from the postmistress, who was waiting for an excursion some time to go there (the passion for excursions seems to be a growing one), and they made the acquaintance of a cow tied in the room next the ticket-office, probably also waiting for a passage to the city by the sea.
And a city it is. If many houses, endless avenues, sand, paint, make a city, the artist confessed that this was one. Everything is on a large scale. It covers a large territory, the streets run at right angles, the avenues to the ocean take the names of the states. If the town had been made to order and sawed out by one man, it could not be more beautifully regular and more satisfactorily monotonous93. There is nothing about it to give the most commonplace mind in the world a throb94 of disturbance95. The hotels, the cheap shops, the cottages, are all of wood, and, with three or four exceptions in the thousands, they are all practically alike, all ornamented96 with scroll-work, as if cut out by the jig-saw, all vividly97 painted, all appealing to a primitive98 taste just awakening99 to the appreciation100 of the gaudy101 chromo and the illuminated102 and consoling household motto. Most of the hotels are in the town, at considerable distance from the ocean, and the majestic103 old sea, which can be monotonous but never vulgar, is barricaded105 from the town by five or six miles of stark-naked plank106 walk, rows on rows of bath closets, leagues of flimsy carpentry-work, in the way of cheap-John shops, tin-type booths, peep-shows, go-rounds, shooting-galleries, pop-beer and cigar shops, restaurants, barber shops, photograph galleries, summer theatres. Sometimes the plank walk runs for a mile or two, on its piles, between rows of these shops and booths, and again it drops off down by the waves. Here and there is a gayly-painted wooden canopy107 by the shore, with chairs where idlers can sit and watch the frolicking in the water, or a space railed off, where the select of the hotels lie or lounge in the sand under red umbrellas. The calculating mind wonders how many million feet of lumber108 there are in this unpicturesque barricade104, and what gigantic forests have fallen to make this timber front to the sea. But there is one thing man cannot do. He has made this show to suit himself, he has pushed out several iron piers109 into the sea, and erected110, of course, a skating rink on the end of one of them. But the sea itself, untamed, restless, shining, dancing, raging, rolls in from the southward, tossing the white sails on its vast expanse, green, blue, leaden, white-capped, many-colored, never two minutes the same, sounding with its eternal voice I knew not what rebuke111 to man.
When Mr. King wrote his and his friend's name in the book at the Mansion112 House, he had the curiosity to turn over the leaves, and it was not with much surprise that he read there the names of A. J. Benson, wife, and daughter, Cyrusville, Ohio.
"Oh, I see!" said the artist; "you came down here to see Mr. Benson!"
That gentleman was presently discovered tilted113 back in a chair on the piazza, gazing vacantly into the vacant street with that air of endurance that fathers of families put on at such resorts. But he brightened up when Mr. King made himself known.
"I'm right glad to see you, sir. And my wife and daughter will be. I was saying to my wife yesterday that I couldn't stand this sort of thing much longer."
"You don't find it lively?"
"Well, the livelier it is the less I shall like it, I reckon. The town is well enough. It's one of the smartest places on the coast. I should like to have owned the ground and sold out and retired114. This sand is all gold. They say they sell the lots by the bushel and count every sand. You can see what it is, boards and paint and sand. Fine houses, too; miles of them."
"And what do you do?"
"Oh, they say there's plenty to do. You can ride around in the sand; you can wade115 in it if you want to, and go down to the beach and walk up and down the plank walk--walk up and down--walk up and down. They like it. You can't bathe yet without getting pneumonia116. They have gone there now. Irene goes because she says she can't stand the gayety of the parlor117."
From the parlor came the sound of music. A young girl who had the air of not being afraid of a public parlor was drumming out waltzes on the piano, more for the entertainment of herself than of the half-dozen ladies who yawned over their worsted-work. As she brought her piece to an end with a bang, a pretty, sentimental118 miss with a novel in her hand, who may not have seen Mr. King looking in at the door, ran over to the player and gave her a hug. "That's beautiful! that's perfectly119 lovely, Mamie!"--"This," said the player, taking up another sheet, "has not been played much in New York." Probably not, in that style, thought Mr. King, as the girl clattered120 through it.
There was no lack of people on the promenade, tramping the boards, or hanging about the booths where the carpenters and painters were at work, and the shop men and women were unpacking121 the corals and the sea-shells, and the cheap jewelry122, and the Swiss wood-carving, the toys, the tinsel brooches, and agate123 ornaments, and arranging the soda124 fountains, and putting up the shelves for the permanent pie. The sort of preparation going on indicated the kind of crowd expected. If everything had a cheap and vulgar look, our wandering critics remembered that it is never fair to look behind the scenes of a show, and that things would wear a braver appearance by and by. And if the women on the promenade were homely125 and ill-dressed, even the bonnes in unpicturesque costumes, and all the men were slouchy and stolid126, how could any one tell what an effect of gayety and enjoyment127 there might be when there were thousands of such people, and the sea was full of bathers, and the flags were flying, and the bands were tooting, and all the theatres were opened, and acrobats128 and spangled women and painted red-men offered those attractions which, like government, are for the good of the greatest number? What will you have? Shall vulgarity be left just vulgar, and have no apotheosis129 and glorification130? This is very fine of its kind, and a resort for the million. The million come here to enjoy themselves. Would you have an art-gallery here, and high-priced New York and Paris shops lining131 the way?
"Look at the town," exclaimed the artist, "and see what money can do, and satisfy the average taste without the least aid from art. It's just wonderful. I've tramped round the place, and, taking out a cottage or two, there isn't a picturesque or pleasing view anywhere. I tell you people know what they want, and enjoy it when they get it."
"You needn't get excited about it," said Mr. King. "Nobody said it wasn't commonplace, and glaringly vulgar if you like, and if you like to consider it representative of a certain stage in national culture, I hope it is not necessary to remind you that the United States can beat any other people in any direction they choose to expand themselves. You'll own it when you've seen watering-places enough."
After this defense132 of the place, Mr. King owned it might be difficult for Mr. Forbes to find anything picturesque to sketch. What figures, to be sure! As if people were obliged to be shapely or picturesque for the sake of a wandering artist! "I could do a tree," growled133 Mr. Forbes, "or a pile of boards; but these shanties!"
When they were well away from the booths and bath-houses, Mr. King saw in the distance two ladies. There was no mistaking one of them--the easy carriage, the grace of movement. No such figure had been afield all day. The artist was quick to see that. Presently they came up with them, and found them seated on a bench, looking off upon Brigantine Island, a low sand dune134 with some houses and a few trees against the sky, the most pleasing object in view.
Mrs. Benson did not conceal135 the pleasure she felt in seeing Mr. King again, and was delighted to know his friend; and, to say the truth, Miss Irene gave him a very cordial greeting.
"I'm 'most tired to death," said Mrs. Benson, when they were all seated. "But this air does me good. Don't you like Atlantic City?"
"I like it better than I did at first." If the remark was intended for Irene, she paid no attention to it, being absorbed in explaining to Mr. Forbes why she preferred the deserted end of the promenade.
"It's a place that grows on you. I guess it's grown the wrong way on Irene and father; but I like the air--after the South. They say we ought to see it in August, when all Philadelphia is here."
"I should think it might be very lively."
"Yes; but the promiscuous136 bathing. I don't think I should like that. We are not brought up to that sort of thing in Ohio."
"No? Ohio is more like France, I suppose?"
"Like France!" exclaimed the old lady, looking at him in amazement--"like France! Why, France is the wickedest place in the world."
"No doubt it is, Mrs. Benson. But at the sea resorts the sexes bathe separately."
"Well, now! I suppose they have to there."
"Yes; the older nations grow, the more self-conscious they become."
"I don't believe, for all you say, Mr. King, the French have any more conscience than we have."
"Nor do I, Mrs. Benson. I was only trying to say that they pay more attention to appearances."
"Well, I was brought up to think it's one thing to appear, and another thing to be," said Mrs. Benson, as dismissing the subject. "So your friend's an artist? Does he paint? Does he take portraits? There was an artist at Cyrusville last winter who painted portraits, but Irene wouldn't let him do hers. I'm glad we've met Mr. Forbes. I've always wanted to have--"
"Oh, mother," exclaimed Irene, who always appeared to keep one ear for her mother's conversation, "I was just saying to Mr. Forbes that he ought to see the art exhibitions down at the other end of the promenade, and the pictures of the people who come here in August. Are you rested?"
The party moved along, and Mr. King, by a movement that seemed to him more natural than it did to Mr. Forbes, walked with Irene, and the two fell to talking about the last spring's trip in the South.
"Yes, we enjoyed the exhibition, but I am not sure but I should have enjoyed New Orleans more without the exhibition. That took so much time. There is nothing so wearisome as an exhibition. But New Orleans was charming. I don't know why, for it's the flattest, dirtiest, dampest city in the world; but it is charming. Perhaps it's the people, or the Frenchiness of it, or the tumble-down, picturesque old creole quarter, or the roses; I didn't suppose there were in the world so many roses; the town was just wreathed and smothered137 with them. And you did not see it?"
"No; I have been to exhibitions, and I thought I should prefer to take New Orleans by itself some other time. You found the people hospitable138?"
"Well, they were not simply hospitable; they were that, to be sure, for father had letters to some of the leading men; but it was the general air of friendliness139 and good-nature everywhere, of agreeableness--it went along with the roses and the easy-going life. You didn't feel all the time on a strain. I don't suppose they are any better than our people, and I've no doubt I should miss a good deal there after a while--a certain tonic140 and purpose in life. But, do you know, it is pleasant sometimes to be with people who haven't so many corners as our people have. But you went south from Fortress141 Monroe?"
"Yes; I went to Florida."
"Oh, that must be a delightful country!"
"Yes, it's a very delightful land, or will be when it is finished. It needs advertising142 now. It needs somebody to call attention to it. The modest Northerners who have got hold of it, and staked it all out into city lots, seem to want to keep it all to themselves."
"How do you mean 'finished'?"
"Why, the State is big enough, and a considerable portion of it has a good foundation. What it wants is building up. There's plenty of water and sand, and palmetto roots and palmetto trees, and swamps, and a perfectly wonderful vegetation of vines and plants and flowers. What it needs is land--at least what the Yankees call land. But it is coming on. A good deal of the State below Jacksonville is already ten to fifteen feet above the ocean."
"But it's such a place for invalids143!"
"Yes, it is a place for invalids. There are two kinds of people there--invalids and speculators. Thousands of people in the bleak144 North, and especially in the Northwest, cannot live in the winter anywhere else than in Florida. It's a great blessing145 to this country to have such a sanitarium. As I said, all it needs is building up, and then it wouldn't be so monotonous and malarious146."
"But I had such a different idea of it!"
"Well, your idea is probably right. You cannot do justice to a place by describing it literally147. Most people are fascinated by Florida: the fact is that anything is preferable to our Northern climate from February to May."
"And you didn't buy an orange plantation148, or a town?"
"No; I was discouraged. Almost any one can have a town who will take a boat and go off somewhere with a surveyor, and make a map."
The truth is--the present writer had it from Major Blifill, who runs a little steamboat upon one of the inland creeks149 where the alligator150 is still numerous enough to be an entertainment--that Mr. King was no doubt malarious himself when he sailed over Florida. Blifill says he offended a whole boatfull one day when they were sailing up the St. John's. Probably he was tired of water, and swamp and water, and scraggy trees and water. The captain was on the bow, expatiating151 to a crowd of listeners on the fertility of the soil and the salubrity of the climate. He had himself bought a piece of ground away up there somewhere for two hundred dollars, cleared it up, and put in orange-trees, and thousands wouldn't buy it now. And Mr. King, who listened attentively152, finally joined in with the questioners, and said, "Captain, what is the average price of land down in this part of Florida by the--gallon?"
They had come down to the booths, and Mrs. Benson was showing the artist the shells, piles of conchs, and other outlandish sea-fabrications in which it is said the roar of the ocean can be heard when they are hundreds of miles away from the sea. It was a pretty thought, Mr. Forbes said, and he admired the open shells that were painted on the inside--painted in bright blues153 and greens, with dabs154 of white sails and a lighthouse, or a boat with a bare-armed, resolute young woman in it, sending her bark spinning over waves mountain-high.
"Yes," said the artist, "what cheerfulness those works of art will give to the little parlors155 up in the country, when they are set up with other shells on the what-not in the corner! These shells always used to remind me of missionaries156 and the cause of the heathen; but when I see them now I shall think of Atlantic City."
"But the representative things here," interrupted Irene, "are the photographs, the tintypes. To see them is just as good as staying here to see the people when they come."
"Yes," responded Mr. King, "I think art cannot go much further in this direction."
If there were not miles of these show-cases of tintypes, there were at least acres of them. Occasionally an instantaneous photograph gave a lively picture of the beach, when the water was full of bathers-men, women, children, in the most extraordinary costumes for revealing or deforming157 the human figure--all tossing about in the surf. But most of the pictures were taken on dry land, of single persons, couples, and groups in their bathing suits. Perhaps such an extraordinary collection of humanity cannot be seen elsewhere in the world, such a uniformity of one depressing type reduced to its last analysis by the sea-toilet. Sometimes it was a young man and a maiden, handed down to posterity158 in dresses that would have caused their arrest in the street, sentimentally159 reclining on a canvas rock. Again it was a maiden with flowing hair, raised hands clasped, eyes upturned, on top of a crag, at the base of which the waves were breaking in foam160. Or it was the same stalwart maiden, or another as good, in a boat which stood on end, pulling through the surf with one oar14, and dragging a drowning man (in a bathing suit also) into the boat with her free hand. The legend was, "Saved." There never was such heroism161 exhibited by young women before, with such raiment, as was shown in these rare works of art.
As they walked back to the hotel through a sandy avenue lined with jig-saw architecture, Miss Benson pointed out to them some things that she said had touched her a good deal. In the patches of sand before each house there was generally an oblong little mound162 set about with a rim39 of stones, or, when something more artistic163 could be afforded, with shells. On each of these little graves was a flower, a sickly geranium, or a humble164 marigold, or some other floral token of affection.
Mr. Forbes said he never was at a watering-place before where they buried the summer boarders in the front yard. Mrs. Benson didn't like joking on such subjects, and Mr. King turned the direction of the conversation by remarking that these seeming trifles were really of much account in these days, and he took from his pocket a copy of the city newspaper, 'The Summer Sea-Song,' and read some of the leading items: "S., our eye is on you." "The Slopers have come to their cottage on Q Street, and come to stay." "Mr. E. P. Borum has painted his front steps." "Mr. Diffendorfer's marigold is on the blow." And so on, and so on. This was probably the marigold mentioned that they were looking at.
The most vivid impression, however, made upon the visitor in this walk was that of paint. It seemed unreal that there could be so much paint in the world and so many swearing colors. But it ceased to be a dream, and they were taken back into the hard, practical world, when, as they turned the corner, Irene pointed out her favorite sign:
Silas Lapham, mineral paint.
Branch Office.
The artist said, a couple of days after this morning, that he had enough of it. "Of course," he added, "it is a great pleasure to me to sit and talk with Mrs. Benson, while you and that pretty girl walk up and down the piazza all the evening; but I'm easily satisfied, and two evenings did for me."
So that, much as Mr. King was charmed with Atlantic City, and much as he regretted not awaiting the arrival of the originals of the tintypes, he gave in to the restlessness of the artist for other scenes; but not before he had impressed Mrs. Benson with a notion of the delights of Newport in July.
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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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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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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42
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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46
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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49
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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50
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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51
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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52
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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53
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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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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55
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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56
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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61
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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62
aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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63
bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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81
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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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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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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101
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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104
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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106
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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108
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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109
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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110
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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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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112
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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113
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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114
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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115
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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116
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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117
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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118
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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119
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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120
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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121
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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122
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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123
agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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124
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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125
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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127
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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128
acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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129
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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glorification
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| n.赞颂 | |
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131
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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132
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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133
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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134
dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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135
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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137
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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138
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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139
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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140
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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142
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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malarious
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| （患）疟疾的，（有）瘴气的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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149
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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150
alligator
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| n.短吻鳄(一种鳄鱼) | |
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151
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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152
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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153
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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154
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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156
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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157
deforming
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| 使变形，使残废，丑化( deform的现在分词 ) | |
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158
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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159
sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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160
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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161
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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162
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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163
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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164
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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