The sea she never took for a friend. With no harbour, nor any visible island to tempt4 her to adventure, and no sailor blood in her veins5, she hated and feared the sea, and thought of it with ill-will. There is little of the wistfulness of romance in her thought of the dwellers6 in its uttermost parts; little of the sense of beauty in her poetry of the breaking waves. She views the Ph?nician trader who does business on the ocean as a person to be astonished at rather than to be counted heroic. She exults7 in the fact that God has his path on the great waters, but has no wish to make any journey there herself. Her angels plant their feet upon the sea, and she looks forward almost triumphantly8 to the time when it will be dried up and disappear. Meanwhile its inaccessible9 huge depth is for her poets a sort of Gehenna—a fit place for throwing off evil things beyond the chance of their reappearing. Sins are to be cast into it, and offenders10, with millstones at their necks.
The desert was Israel’s real neighbour. South-east from her it stretched for a thousand miles. From N.N.E. round through E. and S. to W. it hemmed11 her in. To a Briton, watching the departure of the Bagdad dromedary post from Damascus, the desert seems infinitely12 more appalling13 and unnatural14 than the sea. For ten days these uncanny beasts and men will travel, marching (it is said) twenty hours out of every twenty-four. The stretch of dreariness16 which opens to the Western imagination, as you watch the lessening17 specks18 in the tawny19 distance, is indescribable. To the{22} Eastern it is not so, and it never was so. He knows its horrors, and yet he loves it. The modern Arab calls it Nefud (i.e. “exhausted,” “spent”), and, according to Palgrave, there are in the Arabian desert sands no less than 600 feet in depth. Yet with all its horrors it is after all his home.
The desert is not all consecrated20 to death. Besides the occasional oases21 which dot its barren expanse, there are many regions where grass and herbage may be had continually so long as the flocks keep wandering. Accordingly the long low black tent, with its obliquely22 pitched tent-ropes and skilfully24 driven pegs25, takes the place of such substantial building as might create a city. It has been so for countless26 generations, until now the desert Arab fears walls and will not be persuaded to enter them. Kinglake gives a remarkable27 instance of this, telling of a journey to Gaza on which his Arabs actually abandoned their camels rather than accompany them within the gates.[1]
Colonel Conder insists that the Arabs are entirely28 distinct from the Fellahin of the Syrian villages; yet he and other writers call attention to the borderland east of Jordan where the boundaries of the rival races swing to and fro with the varying successes or failures of the years. In places where the land lies open, as at the Plain of Esdraelon, the east invades the west. No one who travels in Palestine can fail to be impressed—most will probably be surprised—by the frequency with which those black hair-cloth tents are{23} seen, sprawling29 like the skin of some wild-cat pegged30 out along the ground. If the question be asked what becomes of them, the day’s journey will likely enough supply the answer. In the market-place of a town you may see their inhabitants trading their desert ware31 for city produce. But even such slight contact of city with desert evidently has its temptations. In the valley below, the tent is pitched on the edge of a field rudely cultivated. The nomad32 here has already yielded to the agriculturist. Descend33 to the Jordan valley, and you shall see the hair-cloth covering a hut whose sides are of woven reeds from the river, and a little farther on the covering itself will be exchanged for a roof of reeds. Finally, you may look from the road that runs between the two main sources of the Jordan, and see in the southern distance, shining out against the lush verdure of the Huleh morass34, the red-tiled roof of a two-storey villa—the house of the Sheikh of the local tribe of Arabs![2] This immigration has gone on from time immemorial, and it was some such process by which Palestine received all her earlier inhabitants. Once fixed35 in cities and settled down to the cultivation36 of the fields, their character and way of life so changed that the desert and its folk became their enemies. Yet a deeper loyalty37 remained through all such alienation38; and, in spite of dangers and even hostilities39, the desert was still their former home.{24}
It is not only by its neighbourhood, however, that the desert has influenced Palestine. Nature has done her best to shut it off from the land, from the eastern side at least, by the tremendous barrier of the Jordan valley. Not even the angel of the wilderness40, one would think, might cross that defence. Yet even that barrier has been crossed, and a bird’s-eye view of Palestine shews a land bitten into by great tracts41 of real desert west of Jordan. In a modified degree, the whole of Judea—that great stone wedge to which reference was made in Chapter I.—exemplifies this. Half the Judean territory is wilderness, and the other half is only kept back from the desert by sheer force of industry. Even on the western side this is strikingly seen. As viewed from the ocean, the desolate42 sand and scrub of the coast seems to clutch at the land, stretching here and there far inland from the shore. But the desert of Judah, in the south-east of the country, is the great intrusion of the desert upon Palestine. The sea-board of Palestine is perhaps the smoothest and most unbroken of any country in the world. But if a coast-line of the desert were sketched43 in the same way as a sea-coast is shewn on maps, the edge would show an outline almost as broken as that of the Greek coast, with many a bay and creek44. The desert is the sea of Syria, and its inthrust is like that of great fingers feeling their way through the pastures to the very gates of her cities, and at one place reaching a point within a mile or two of her capital. Disraeli describes graphically45 the transition from Canaan to{25}
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ON THE ROAD FROM JERUSALEM TO BETHANY.
stony46 Arabia—the first sandy patches; the herbage gradually disappearing till all that is left of it is shrubs47 tufting the ridges48 of low undulating sand-hills; then the sand becoming stony, with no plant-life remaining but an occasional thorn, until plains of sand end in dull ranges of mountains covered with loose flints. In the journey from Bethlehem to the Dead Sea the transition is even more abrupt50. Hardly have you left the “fields of the shepherds” when you perceive that the herbs, though still plentiful51 among the stones, are parched52. In a mile or two there is nothing round you but wild greyish-yellow sand and rock. You thread your way precariously53 along the sides of gorges55 till you reach that sheer yellow cleft56 down which Kidron is slicing its way with the air of a suicide to the sea. Then you come up to a lofty ridge49 from which are seen the dreary57 towers of Mar15 Saba, like the “blind squat58 turret” of Childe Roland’s adventure, “with low grey rocks girt round, chin upon hand, to see the game at bay.” So you journey on, feeling at times that this is not scenery, it is being buried alive in great stone chambers59 beneath the surface; at other times welcoming the sight of a broom bush like that under which Elijah lay down and prayed that he might die. The carcase of a horse or the skeleton of a camel are almost welcome, breaking the monotonous60 emptiness of this land of death.
The physical influence of the desert on the land is evident in many ways. Greece and Britain are not more truly children of the sea than is Syria the desert’s{26} child. Even those who have had no experience of the desert proper, but have only made the regulation tour in Palestine, will have memories of what they saw recalled to them in every page of a book descriptive of the desert. The land throughout has ominously61 much in common with its desolate neighbour—so much so as to suggest a territory rescued from the desert and kept from reverting62 only by strenuous63 handling.
Many things go to confirm this impression. The winds that blow from east or south have crossed the sand before they reach the mountains. When they are cool, they are pure and fresh, unbreathed before, “virgin air.” The evening breeze of Syria is “the respiration64 of the desert” after its breathless heat of day. When the wind is hot, it is terrible as only wind can be that comes off burning sand. The shirky, or sirocco, interprets the desert in a fashion which the traveller is not likely to forget. We rode against it half the length of the Plain of Esdraelon, when the thermometer registered 104° in the shade, until the steel of our coloured eye-glasses became so hot that we were glad to remove them, and endure the glare by preference.
The plant-life of the desert has its counterpart in the land. Loti describes it with his usual vividness. There is the furze dusted with fine sand; there are the strange sand-flowers of yellow or violet colours, the spikes65 shot out of the soil without leafage, the balls of thorn which wound the feet, the occasional palm-tree, the white edible66 manna plant. And there is the exquisite67 scent68 of these after rain, so strong that one might think a jar of perfume had been broken at the tent door—a{27} perfume in which one distinguishes the scents69 of resin70, lemon, geranium, and myrrh. All this the Palestine traveller seems to recognise; in that curious but familiar flora71, and that pungent72 aromatic73 smell, we have the intrusion of the desert again.
The colour of the land has already been described, and here again we have the touch of the wilderness. The colouring is no doubt partly due to the quality of the air, dry and crisp as nothing but those miles of sand could make it. Having absolutely no concerns of its own, as wooded or grassy74 lands have, the desert abandons itself to the sun. It takes and gives the sunlight wholly, making itself a mere75 reflector for the light and heat. “Everything in this desert is of one colour—a tawny yellow. The rocks, the partridges, the camels, the foxes, the ibex, are all of this shade.”[3] Yet this absolutely neutral region, just because of its neutrality, catches the sunrise and the sunset in a brilliance76 that is all its own, and deepens its shadows to liquid depths of indigo77 and violet. In this we see the extreme and untempered form of that interplay of faint background with intense foreground which is the characteristic feature of the colour-scheme of Syria.
It is the same as regards form. The two towers of Mar Saba are among the most impressive of all the Syrian spectacles. Pitilessly unsuggestive, they are the most unhomely things one ever saw, like the mere skeletons of habitations. But part of this impression comes from the shape of the surrounding hills. Ranged{28} in a wide semicircle, their fronts eaten out with land-slips and torrents78, they are polished and smooth like gigantic sculptures. In some parts the regularity79 of their cones80 and tables suggests the work of purposeless but mighty81 builders. In other parts the rocks are twisted as if by tormentors, or tumbled in utter confusion. This too, as we shall see, has its modified counterpart in the land.
If the desert has thus produced a strong physical effect upon the land, its moral effects are even more apparent. We have seen how to the dwellers west of Jordan it was at once an abiding82 enemy and an ancient home. Shut out from it by the huge trench83 of the Jordan valley and the barricade84 of the eastern mountains, the Syrian still feels enough of the desert’s fiery85 touch to fear it as an enemy. Its wind blasts his crops and its heat drives him from his valleys to the hill country for the breath of life. Every traveller speaks of the “positive weight” of heat that makes men bend low in their saddles. Others besides the Persians are constrained86, as Kinglake puts it, to bow down before the sun, whose “fierce will” is most terribly felt in those tracts of the land which the desert has claimed for its own. In the desert there are the same conditions which are to be found in the land, only in extreme forms and without mitigation. It is the place of tempests, fires, and reptiles87. These visit the land at times, but they abide88 in that weird89 country into whose distances the Syrian may peer from most of his mountain tops. There, too, abide those dark and occult powers of{29} evil in which every Eastern man believes. The magic of the desert—its treacherous90 mirage91, its genii (by no means difficult to imagine in the forms of sandy whirlwinds whose march is strewn with corpses), and its infinite unexplored possibilities of terror—all this is very real to the native imagination. Its inhabitants, too, are uncanny to think of. The true Arabian, whom perhaps they may have met on a journey, with his jade-handled jewelled sword and his shrunken skin; the lunatics who have wandered to its congenial wildness; the anchorites and ascetics92 whom, like the scapegoat93 of ancient times, sin has driven forth94 to its unwalled prison-house,—all these fill in for Syrians the ghastly picture, and its tales of wars and massacres95 add the last touch of horror.
Nothing proves and exemplifies all this more strikingly than the apparently96 unreasonable97 view of the fertility, beauty, and general perfection of Palestine which its inhabitants have always cherished. Visitors from the West are often disappointed, and as they move from place to place their wonder grows as they recall the Biblical descriptions of the land flowing with milk and honey. Allowing for the many centuries of misrule and deterioration99, it still remains100 obvious that Palestine never can have been that dreamland of natural delight which piety101 has imagined. But the inhabitant views it, as Dr. Smith has pointed98 out, not in contrast with the West, but in contrast with the desert. We have to remember how “its eastern forests, its immense wheat-fields, its streams, the oases round its perennial{30} fountains, the pride of Jordan, impress the immigrant nomad.” This contrast exaggerates all his blessings102 in a heat of appreciation103. Coming in from the desert, a man sees trees and fountains not as they are in themselves, but as they are in contrast with burning sand: he welcomes them as the gift of God’s grace. The sound of wind among the leaves or of flowing water is to him truly the speech of a god.[4] To many a wayfarer104 the poorest outskirts105 of the Syrian land have meant salvation106 from imminent107 death, and so appreciation enlarges to optimism, and the very barrenness of the desert becomes a challenge to hope and faith. Streams will break forth there, as in his happy experience they have already broken forth, until the whole barren waste shall blossom as the rose. It is by such hope and faith that the tribes of Palestine have lived. There is a magnificent indomitableness in the spectacle of Jews after two thousand years of exile still celebrating their vintage festival in the slums of great cities, or in the “squalid quarter of some bleak108 northern town where there is never a sun that can at any rate ripen109 grapes.” One seems to find the key to this in that tradition of the Arabs that certain ruins near the Dead Sea are the remains of ancient vineyards. The Syrian land can never be seen but as a miracle of life and beauty rescued from the desert, and that appreciation becomes the incentive110 for a larger hope.
Yet it is not as an enemy, however wonderfully conquered or strenuously111 held at bay, that the desert{31} appeals most to the Syrian. As he looks eastward112 to the hills of Moab and dreams of what lies beyond them, there is perhaps more of wistfulness than of terror in his heart. The melancholy113 note of his music, heard by every camp-fire in the long evenings, is infinitely suggestive as well as pathetic. Where was that note learned if not in black tents pitched in the boundless114 waste, where man’s littleness, in contrast with the great powers of Nature, oppressed him into prone115 fatalism, or revealed to him the infinite refuge and comfort of the Everlasting116 Arms? He whose fathers have sung such songs will not satisfy his soul with the bustle117 of towns. He will need the desert for retreat, that his confused mind may calm itself down to order and find new revelations of truth. And when the Syrian retreats to the desert he seems rather to be going home than abroad. David and Elijah, Paul and Mohammed, for various reasons, but with the same urgency, betook themselves to the solitude118. Jesus Christ himself was driven of the Spirit into the wilderness. If temptation waited them there, and the sense of exile and desertion, it was there also that angels ministered to them; and ancient prophecies were fulfilled in those “streams of spiritual originality119 which broke forth in the deserts of moral routine” of their times. To their spirit, and to the spirit of all dwellers in the land, the desert is not enemy only, it is home.
This fact is abundantly borne out by many traits of character which are the survivals of a desert ancestry120.{32} There is nothing in Syria which can explain the fact that the most skilful23 dragoman cannot understand a map, nor guide you to your destination by geographical121 directions. On unknown ground a Syrian is of little use as guide. On one occasion some of us set out on a journey of five or six miles in Hauran under the guidance of an excellent lad who started with the air of a Napoleon Bonaparte. His directions were to go straight from Muzerib to Sheikh Miskin—two stations on the railway south of Damascus, between which the railway line runs in a wide curve. Our route was the bow-string, while the line was the bent122 bow. For a little way he boldly marched forward, but soon began to edge towards the rails, and finally lost his head altogether, crossed the line, and set out on a route whose only apparent destination was Persia! This was too much for us, and we mutinied and reversed the direction, arriving at Sheikh Miskin in less than an hour, with our guide under a cloud. There could not have been a better illustration of a Syrian’s helplessness on ground without familiar landmarks123. He finds his way partly by a nomad instinct, very difficult to account for; partly by the habit of noticing minute features of the road which entirely escape the ordinary observer. A story is told of a thief in a certain town in Palestine who entered a house and stole nothing. He simply went out and claimed the house before the judge. When the case came to trial, the thief challenged the owner to tell how many steps were in the stair, how many panes124 of glass in the windows and a long catalogue of other such{33}
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THE HILLS ROUND NAZARETH, FROM THE PLAIN OF ESDRAELON.
The village of Nazareth shows out white in the dip between the hills.
details. This the owner could not do, and when the thief gave the numbers correctly, the house was at once given to him as its obvious possessor. The tale at once recalls the Arab of our childhood who described the route of the strayed camel.
The Syrian character is nothing if not complex, a mass of paradox125 whose contradictory126 elements it seems hopeless to attempt to reconcile. The politest and the most ruffianly of men, the most effusively127 frank and the most impenetrably wary128, the most silent and the most voluble, the gayest in laughter and the most melancholy in song, is the Syrian. He will bully129 you so long as he has the majority, and he will beg for the privilege of tying your shoe’s latchet if the majority is with you. He will row a boat or drive a donkey under a noonday sun with a violence which threatens apoplexy; he will suddenly subside130 into a repose131 which no surrounding bustle can disturb. The captain of the Rob Roy tells how in the Huleh region a native boy running alongside pointed his long gun at him at least twenty times with the cry of bakhshish, so close that he once knocked the barrel aside with his paddle; and yet in the tent that evening this same youngster “was my greatest favourite from his lively laugh and eyes like diamonds, and his quick perception of all I explained.” In a note on page 39 an adventure of our own is told which illustrates132 sufficiently133 the rapidity of change in the mood of the native. He is a civilised barbarian134, a scrupulous135 fraud, an aged136 little child. No doubt so complex a character is traceable to many causes, but{34} in the main it is the work of the desert. There the extreme conditions—the long hunger and the occasional surfeit137, the great silence and the shrill138 speech in which that silence unburdens itself, the demand for desperate exertion139 and the long deep rest—these call forth the most opposite qualities, each in exaggerated degree.
Perhaps the most important contributions of the desert to the Syrian character have been two. There is a certain hardiness140 and strenuous carelessness of comfort, which produces a rather bleak impression on European travellers, but which nevertheless has counted for a great deal in national life. It has told in opposite ways. Judea’s success has been undoubtedly141 due to the fact that it had to be fought for against such bitter odds142. On the other hand, this same independence of fate has led the nation to settle down in a too easy contentment. Defeat, and even oppression, sit more lightly on people who are indifferent to circumstances; and if the artificial demands for luxury have been the ruin of some nations, they have been the saving of others, keeping alive in them their vigour143 and whetting144 their ambition. The other contribution is the instinctive145 kindliness146 and hospitality which are well known as characteristic of the desert tribes. Where life is so precarious54, it inevitably147 comes to be regarded as an inviolable trust by the man on whose mercy it is cast. Accordingly the wandering Arab has but to draw in the sand a circle round his laden148 camel in order to secure every scrap149 of his possessions from robbery; and the bitterest enemies are sure of{35} safety so long as they abide in each other’s tents. A little incident which occurred to ourselves brought home to us vividly150 the real kindliness of the Eastern sense of guest-right. It was in Damascus, and after nightfall. Some of us, wishing to see how the city amused itself, set out for a ramble151 through the streets. It was only nine o’clock, yet everything was shut up and the bazaars153 and thoroughfares silent and deserted154. At last we found a little café still doing business at the end of the high black vault155 of a bazaar152. Seats were placed in the open air in front of it, while from within came the rattle156 of dice157 and the voices of one or two gamblers. Sitting down on the outside bench, we asked for coffee, which was immediately brought. A stylishly158 dressed Moslem159, in an indescribable flow of robes, took his seat silently opposite us and sat smoking his nargileh. When we rose to go we found that he had paid for us all, and when we would have thanked him he would have none of it, satisfied with the consciousness of having shewn hospitality to strangers sojourning in his land. We could not help wondering how long our friend might have continued making the circuit of London restaurants before a similar experience would have fallen his way! There is a tale of a scoundrel who acts as guide to English travellers, and presents to each of them a certificate from a former victim, which invariably makes them laugh. The writing is, “I was a stranger and ye took me in.” It was pleasing to find that this testimony161 need not always be ironical162.{36}
EXTRACT FROM JOURNAL
One of the horses had been stolen in the night. It was the last on the line, and beyond it Harun was sleeping on the ground. At 11.30 all was right, but by 12.30 it had disappeared. By 1 A.M. the village had been roused, and the head men were coming in to the camp offering us one of their mares in compensation. The mares, which were wretched skeletons of beasts, were refused, and the horse demanded. Nothing could persuade them to bring him back, or to acknowledge any cognisance of him whatever. They said that passing robbers had taken him, and begged us not to report the affair. Our dragoman, however, took another view. He wrote a letter, long and circumstantial, describing us as “Hawajas” (merchants, gentlemen), travelling for information under tescera from the Sultan. The touch of genius in the letter was its insistence163 upon the seriousness of this affair on the ground that we were travelling under three flags, the union Jack164, the Turkish flag, and the Stars and Stripes. This letter was sent, by one of our men on horseback, to the Kaimakham, governor of the district, at a place some distance from where we were. The Kaimakham passed him on to the Mudir at another village, a person of terrible reputation, of whom everybody in the neighbourhood was afraid. The upshot of it all was that Mohammed, the messenger, returned to camp accompanied by two soldiers, powerful and intelligent young fellows, but savage-looking and rather ragged165. The taller of the two, named Nimr (the leopard), was armed with bayonet, rifle, and revolver, while a double belt of cartridges166 added to the effect. His orders were to take the thirteen leading men of Banias in irons, and march them off “shoulder-tight” to prison at Mejdel. During the day a great meeting was held in the dragoman’s tent, the soldiers on one side, the “leading men” on the other. One of the latter protested that this was unfair—they had expected the dragoman to grow cooler, but although he had been hot at first, he was getting hotter instead of cooler. The reply was—(may it be forgiven!)—that he had meant to get cooler, but the Hawajas were getting hotter steadily167, owing to the three flags aforesaid. After a long parley168 it was arranged that they should send to another village for a horse worth ￡20, the value of the stolen one. They stoutly169 maintained that a stranger, and none of themselves, had committed the robbery, and that it was a bitter day when the Hawajas had pitched their tents among them. Nimr the soldier sat frowning and beating the ground savagely170 with a stick between his wide open legs. He repeated several times, with gusto, the aphorism171, “Better to touch fire and scorpions172 than the property of Hawajas,” to which the rueful answer of the Sheikh was that it would be better! All was gloom, and when at last a messenger was sent off to procure173 a horse worth ￡20, the grandees174 went to their houses with the air of men doomed175. Next morning the horse was brought, and was to be seen at the end of the line kicking and biting viciously. Its worth was only ￡15, but the balance was condoned176. We expected that this would draw forth gratitude177 and even some gladness; but instead it brought them all to tears, and drew from them many assurances of the miserable178 poverty of their condition, and the inevitable179 ruin that awaited them if we actually accepted this horse which they had brought. To these pleadings the dragoman was deaf, insisting that we must now at least let things take their course. When they saw that this was the final position of affairs, they ceased from wailing180. Within five minutes our own original horse was led into the camp, and their new one removed! Their game had been played to its very last turn, and having failed was laid aside. During the rest of our sojourn160 there these same men lingered in the camp, manifesting neither regret nor shame, but smoking, chatting, and laughing with our company in the highest possible good-humour.
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overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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exults
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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10
offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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oases
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲( oasis的名词复数 )；（困苦中）令人快慰的地方（或时刻）；乐土；乐事 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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28
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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29
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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30
pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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31
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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32
nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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33
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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34
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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35
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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36
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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37
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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38
alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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39
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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40
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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41
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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42
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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43
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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45
graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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46
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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47
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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48
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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49
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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50
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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51
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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52
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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53
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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54
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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55
gorges
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|
| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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56
cleft
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|
| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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57
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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58
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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59
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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60
monotonous
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|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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61
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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62
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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63
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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64
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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65
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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66
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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67
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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68
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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69
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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70
resin
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| n.树脂，松香，树脂制品；vt.涂树脂 | |
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71
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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72
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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73
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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74
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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77
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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78
torrents
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|
| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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79
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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80
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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81
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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82
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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83
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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84
barricade
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|
| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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85
fiery
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|
| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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86
constrained
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|
| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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87
reptiles
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| n.爬行动物，爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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88
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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89
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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90
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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91
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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92
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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93
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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94
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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96
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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97
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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98
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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99
deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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100
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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101
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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102
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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103
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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104
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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105
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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106
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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107
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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108
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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109
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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110
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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111
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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112
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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113
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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114
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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115
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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116
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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117
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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118
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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119
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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120
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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121
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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122
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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123
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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124
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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125
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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126
contradictory
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|
| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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127
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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128
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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129
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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130
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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131
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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132
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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133
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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134
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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135
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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136
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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137
surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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138
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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139
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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140
hardiness
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| n.耐劳性，强壮；勇气，胆子 | |
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141
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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142
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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143
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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144
whetting
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的现在分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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145
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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146
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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147
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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148
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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149
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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150
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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151
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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152
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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153
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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154
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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155
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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156
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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157
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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158
stylishly
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| adv.时髦地，新式地 | |
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159
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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160
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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161
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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162
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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163
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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164
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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165
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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166
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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167
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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168
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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169
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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170
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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171
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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172
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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173
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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174
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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175
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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176
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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178
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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179
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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180
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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