Dickson McCunn was never to forget the first stage in that pilgrimage. A little after midday he descended1 from a grimy third-class carriage at a little station whose name I have forgotten. In the village near-by he purchased some new-baked buns and ginger2 biscuits, to which he was partial, and followed by the shouts of urchins3, who admired his pack—"Look at the auld4 man gaun to the schule"—he emerged into open country. The late April noon gleamed like a frosty morning, but the air, though tonic5, was kind. The road ran over sweeps of moorland where curlews wailed7, and into lowland pastures dotted with very white, very vocal8 lambs. The young grass had the warm fragrance9 of new milk. As he went he munched10 his buns, for he had resolved to have no plethoric11 midday meal, and presently he found the burnside nook of his fancy, and halted to smoke. On a patch of turf close to a grey stone bridge he had out his Walton and read the chapter on "The Chavender or Chub." The collocation of words delighted him and inspired him to verse. "Lavender or Lub"—"Pavender or Pub"—"Gravender or Grub"—but the monosyllables proved too vulgar for poetry. Regretfully he desisted.[Pg 29]
The rest of the road was as idyllic12 as the start. He would tramp steadily13 for a mile or so and then saunter, leaning over bridges to watch the trout14 in the pools, admiring from a dry-stone dyke15 the unsteady gambols16 of new-born lambs, kicking up dust from strips of moor6-burn on the heather. Once by a fir-wood he was privileged to surprise three lunatic hares waltzing. His cheeks glowed with the sun; he moved in an atmosphere of pastoral, serene17 and contented18. When the shadows began to lengthen19 he arrived at the village of Cloncae, where he proposed to lie. The inn looked dirty, but he found a decent widow, above whose door ran the legend in home-made lettering, "Mrs. brockie tea and Coffee," and who was willing to give him quarters. There he supped handsomely off ham and eggs, and dipped into a work called Covenanting20 Worthies21, which garnished22 a table decorated with sea-shells. At half-past nine precisely23 he retired24 to bed and unhesitating sleep.
Next morning he awoke to a changed world. The sky was grey and so low that his outlook was bounded by a cabbage garden, while a surly wind prophesied25 rain. It was chilly26, too, and he had his breakfast beside the kitchen fire. Mrs. Brockie could not spare a capital letter for her surname on the signboard, but she exalted28 it in her talk. He heard of a multitude of Brockies, ascendant, descendant and collateral29, who seemed to be in a fair way to inherit the earth. Dickson listened sympathetically, and lingered by the fire. He felt stiff from yesterday's exercise, and the edge was off his spirit.[Pg 30]
The start was not quite what he had pictured. His pack seemed heavier, his boots tighter, and his pipe drew badly. The first miles were all uphill, with a wind tingling30 his ears, and no colours in the landscape but brown and grey. Suddenly he awoke to the fact that he was dismal31, and thrust the notion behind him. He expanded his chest and drew in long draughts32 of air. He told himself that this sharp weather was better than sunshine. He remembered that all travellers in romances battled with mist and rain. Presently his body recovered comfort and vigour33, and his mind worked itself into cheerfulness.
He overtook a party of tramps and fell into talk with them. He had always had a fancy for the class, though he had never known anything nearer it than city beggars. He pictured them as philosophic34 vagabonds, full of quaint35 turns of speech, unconscious Borrovians. With these samples his disillusionment was speedy. The party was made up of a ferret-faced man with a red nose, a draggle-tailed woman, and a child in a crazy perambulator. Their conversation was one-sided, for it immediately resolved itself into a whining36 chronicle of misfortunes and petitions for relief. It cost him half a crown to be rid of them.
The road was alive with tramps that day. The next one did the accosting37. Hailing Mr. McCunn as "Guv'nor," he asked to be told the way to Manchester. The objective seemed so enterprising that Dickson was impelled38 to ask questions, and heard, in what appeared to be in the accents of the[Pg 31] Colonies, the tale of a career of unvarying calamity39. There was nothing merry or philosophic about this adventurer. Nay40, there was something menacing. He eyed his companion's waterproof41 covetously42, and declared that he had had one like it which had been stolen from him the day before. Had the place been lonely he might have contemplated43 highway robbery, but they were at the entrance to a village, and the sight of a public-house awoke his thirst. Dickson parted with him at the cost of sixpence for a drink.
He had no more company that morning except an aged44 stone-breaker whom he convoyed for half a mile. The stone-breaker also was soured with the world. He walked with a limp, which, he said, was due to an accident years before, when he had been run into by "ane o' thae damned velocipeeds." The word revived in Dickson memories of his youth, and he was prepared to be friendly. But the ancient would have none of it. He inquired morosely45 what he was after, and, on being told, remarked that he might have learned more sense. "It's a daft-like thing for an auld man like you to be traivellin' the roads. Ye maun be ill-off for a job." Questioned as to himself he became, as the newspapers say, "reticent," and having reached his bing of stones, turned rudely to his duties. "Awa' hame wi' ye," were his parting words. "It's idle scoondrels like you that maks wark for honest folk like me."
The morning was not a success, but the strong air had given Dickson such an appetite that he re[Pg 32]solved to break his rule, and, on reaching the little town of Kilchrist, he sought luncheon46 at the chief hotel. There he found that which revived his spirits. A solitary47 bagman shared the meal, who revealed the fact that he was in the grocery line. There followed a well-informed and most technical conversation. He was drawn48 to speak of the United Supply Stores, Limited, of their prospects49 and of their predecessor50, Mr. McCunn, whom he knew well by repute but had never met. "Yon's the clever one," he observed. "I've always said there's no longer head in the city of Glasgow than McCunn. An old-fashioned firm, but it has aye managed to keep up with the times. He's just retired, they tell me, and in my opinion it's a big loss to the provision trade...." Dickson's heart glowed within him. Here was Romance; to be praised incognito51; to enter a casual inn and find that fame had preceded him. He warmed to the bagman, insisted on giving him a liqueur and a cigar, and finally revealed himself. "I'm Dickson McCunn," he said, "taking a bit holiday. If there's anything I can do for you when I get back, just let me know." With mutual52 esteem53 they parted.
He had need of all his good spirits, for he emerged into an unrelenting drizzle54. The environs of Kilchrist are at the best unlovely, and in the wet they were as melancholy55 as a graveyard56. But the encounter with the bagman had worked wonders with Dickson, and he strode lustily into the weather, his waterproof collar buttoned round his chin. The road climbed to a bare moor, where lagoons58 had[Pg 33] formed in the ruts, and the mist showed on each side only a yard or two of soaking heather. Soon he was wet; presently every part of him, boots, body and pack, was one vast sponge. The waterproof was not water-proof, and the rain penetrated59 to his most intimate garments. Little he cared. He felt lighter60, younger, than on the idyllic previous day. He enjoyed the buffets61 of the storm, and one wet mile succeeded another to the accompaniment of Dickson's shouts and laughter. There was no one abroad that afternoon, so he could talk aloud to himself and repeat his favourite poems. About five in the evening there presented himself at the Black Bull Inn at Kirkmichael a soaked, disreputable, but most cheerful traveller.
Now the Black Bull at Kirkmichael is one of the few very good inns left in the world. It is an old place and an hospitable62, for it has been for generations a haunt of anglers, who above all other men understand comfort. There are always bright fires there, and hot water, and old soft leather armchairs, and an aroma63 of good food and good tobacco, and giant trout in glass cases, and pictures of Captain Barclay of Urie walking to London, and Mr. Ramsay of Barnton winning a horse-race, and the three-volume edition of the Waverley Novels with many volumes missing, and indeed all those things which an inn should have. Also there used to be—there may still be—sound vintage claret in the cellars. The Black Bull expects its guests to arrive in every stage of dishevelment, and Dickson was received by a cordial landlord, who offered dry[Pg 34] garments as a matter of course. The pack proved to have resisted the elements, and a suit of clothes and slippers64 were provided by the house. Dickson, after a glass of toddy, wallowed in a hot bath, which washed all the stiffness out of him. He had a fire in his bedroom, beside which he wrote the opening passages of that diary he had vowed65 to keep, descanting lyrically upon the joys of ill weather. At seven o'clock, warm and satisfied in soul, and with his body clad in raiment several sizes too large for it, he descended to dinner.
At one end of the long table in the dining-room sat a group of anglers. They looked jovial66 fellows, and Dickson would fain have joined them; but, having been fishing all day in the Loch o' the Threshes, they were talking their own talk, and he feared that his admiration67 for Izaak Walton did not qualify him to butt57 into the erudite discussions of fishermen. The landlord seemed to think likewise, for he drew back a chair for him at the other end, where sat a young man absorbed in a book. Dickson gave him good evening and got an abstracted reply. The young man supped the Black Bull's excellent broth68 with one hand, and with the other turned the pages of his volume. A glance convinced Dickson that the work was French, a literature which did not interest him. He knew little of the tongue and suspected it of impropriety.
Another guest entered and took the chair opposite the bookish young man. He was also young—not more than thirty-three—and to Dickson's eye, was the kind of person he would have liked to re[Pg 35]semble. He was tall and free from any superfluous69 flesh; his face was lean, fine-drawn and deeply sunburnt so that the hair above showed oddly pale; the hands were brown and beautifully shaped, but the forearm revealed by the loose cuffs70 of his shirt was as brawny71 as a blacksmith's. He had rather pale blue eyes, which seemed to have looked much at the sun, and a small moustache the colour of ripe hay. His voice was low and pleasant, and he pronounced his words precisely, like a foreigner.
He was very ready to talk, but in defiance72 of Dr. Johnson's warning, his talk was all questions. He wanted to know everything about the neighbourhood—who lived in what houses, what were the distances between the towns, what harbours would admit what class of vessel73. Smiling agreeably, he put Dickson through a catechism to which he knew none of the answers. The landlord was called in, and proved more helpful. But on one matter he was fairly at a loss. The catechist asked about a house called Darkwater, and was met with a shake of the head. "I know no sic-like name in this countryside, sir," and the catechist looked disappointed.
The literary young man said nothing, but ate trout abstractedly, one eye on his book. The fish had been caught by the anglers in the Loch o' the Threshes, and phrases describing their capture floated from the other end of the table. The young man had a second helping74, and then refused the excellent hill mutton that followed, contenting himself with cheese. Not so Dickson and the catechist. They ate everything that was set before them, top[Pg 36]ping up with a glass of port. Then the latter, who had been talking illuminatingly75 about Spain, rose, bowed and left the table, leaving Dickson, who liked to linger over his meals, to the society of the ichthyophagous student.
He nodded towards the book. "Interesting?" he asked.
The young man shook his head and displayed the name on the cover. "Anatole France. I used to be crazy about him, but now he seems rather a back number." Then he glanced towards the just-vacated chair. "Australian," he said.
"How d'you know?"
"Can't mistake them. There's nothing else so lean and fine produced on the globe to-day. I was next door to them at Pozières and saw them fight. Lord! Such men! Now and then you had a freak, but most looked like Phœbus Apollo."
Dickson gazed with a new respect at his neighbour, for he had not associated him with battle-fields. During the war he had been a fervent76 patriot77, but, though he had never heard a shot himself, so many of his friends' sons and nephews, not to mention cousins of his own, had seen service, that he had come to regard the experience as commonplace. Lions in Africa and bandits in Mexico seemed to him novel and romantic things, but not trenches78 and airplanes which were the whole world's property. But he could scarcely fit his neighbour into even his haziest79 picture of war. The young man was tall and a little round-shouldered; he had short-sighted, rather prominent brown eyes, untidy[Pg 37] black hair and dark eyebrows80 which came near to meeting. He wore a knickerbocker suit of bluish-grey tweed, a pale blue shirt, a pale blue collar and a dark blue tie—a symphony of colour which seemed too elaborately considered to be quite natural. Dickson had set him down as an artist or a newspaper correspondent, objects to him of lively interest. But now the classification must be reconsidered.
"So you were in the war," he said encouragingly.
"Four blasted years," was the savage81 reply. "And I never want to hear the name of the beastly thing again."
"You said he was an Australian," said Dickson, casting back. "But I thought Australians had a queer accent, like the English."
"They've all kind of accents, but you can never mistake their voice. It's got the sun in it. Canadians have got grinding ice in theirs, and Virginians have got butter. So have the Irish. In Britain there are no voices, only speaking tubes. It isn't safe to judge men by their accent only. You yourself I take to be Scotch82, but for all I know you may be a senator from Chicago or a Boer General."
"I'm from Glasgow. My name's Dickson McCunn." He had a faint hope that the announcement might affect the other as it had affected83 the bagman at Kilchrist.
"Golly, what a name!" exclaimed the young man rudely.
"Which—Christian name or surname?" Then the young man appeared to think he had gone too far, for he smiled pleasantly. "And a very good name too. Mine is prosaic85 by comparison. They call me John Heritage."
"That," said Dickson, mollified, "is like a name out of a book. With that name by rights you should be a poet."
Gloom settled on the young man's countenance86. "It's a dashed sight too poetic87. It's like Edwin Arnold and Alfred Austin and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Great poets have vulgar monosyllables for names, like Keats. The new Shakespeare when he comes along will probably be called Grubb or Jubber, if he isn't Jones. With a name like yours I might have a chance. You should be the poet."
"I'm very fond of reading," said Dickson modestly.
A slow smile crumpled88 Mr. Heritage's face. "There's a fire in the smoking-room," he observed as he rose. "We'd better bag the armchairs before these fishing louts take them." Dickson followed obediently. This was the kind of chance acquaintance for whom he had hoped, and he was prepared to make the most of him.
The fire burned bright in the little dusky smoking-room, lighted by one oil-lamp. Mr. Heritage flung himself into a chair, stretched his long legs and lit a pipe.
"You like reading?" he asked. "What sort? Any use for poetry?"[Pg 39]
"Plenty," said Dickson. "I've aye been fond of learning it up and repeating it to myself when I had nothing to do. In church and waiting on trains, like. It used to be Tennyson, but now it's more Browning. I can say a lot of Browning."
The other screwed his face into an expression of disgust. "I know the stuff. 'Damask cheeks and dewy sister eyelids89.' Or else the Ercles vein—'God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world.' No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers. Poetry's not a thing of pretty round phrases or noisy invocations. It's life itself, with the tang of the raw world in it—not a sweetmeat for middle-class women in parlours."
"Are you a poet, Mr. Heritage?"
"No, Dogson, I'm a paper-maker."
This was a new view to Mr. McCunn. "I just once knew a paper-maker," he observed reflectively. "They called him Tosh. He drank a bit."
"Well, I don't drink," said the other. "I'm a paper-maker, but that's for my bread and butter. Some day for my own sake I may be a poet."
"Have you published anything?"
The eager admiration in Dickson's tone gratified Mr. Heritage. He drew from his pocket a slim book. "My firstfruits," he said, rather shyly.
Dickson received it with reverence90. It was a small volume in grey paper boards with a white label on the back, and it was lettered: "Whorls—John Heritage's Book." He turned the pages and read a little. "It's a nice wee book," he observed at length.[Pg 40]
"Good God, if you call it nice, I must have failed pretty badly," was the irritated answer.
Dickson read more deeply and was puzzled. It seemed worse than the worst of Browning to understand. He found one poem about a garden entitled "Revue." "Crimson91 and resonant92 clangs the dawn," said the poet. Then he went on to describe noonday:
Madden the drunkard bees."
This seemed to him an odd way to look at things, and he boggled over a phrase about an "epicene lily." Then came evening: "The painted gauze of the stars flutters in a fold of twilight97 crape," sang Mr. Heritage; and again, "The moon's pale leprosy sloughs98 the fields."
Dickson turned to other verses which apparently99 enshrined the writer's memory of the trenches. They were largely compounded of oaths, and rather horrible, lingering lovingly over sights and smells which every one is aware of, but most people contrive100 to forget. He did not like them. Finally he skimmed a poem about a lady who turned into a bird. The evolution was described with intimate anatomical details which scared the honest reader.
He kept his eyes on the book for he did not know what to say. The trick seemed to be to describe[Pg 41] nature in metaphors101 mostly drawn from music-halls and haberdashers' shops, and, when at a loss, to fall to cursing. He thought it frankly102 very bad, and he laboured to find words which would combine politeness and honesty.
"Well?" said the poet.
"There's a lot of fine things here, but—but the lines don't just seem to scan very well."
Mr. Heritage laughed. "Now I can place you exactly. You like the meek103 rhyme and the conventional epithet104. Well, I don't. The world has passed beyond that prettiness. You want the moon described as a Huntress or a gold disc or a flower—I say it's oftener like a beer barrel or a cheese. You want a wealth of jolly words and real things ruled out as unfit for poetry. I say there's nothing unfit for poetry. Nothing, Dogson! Poetry's everywhere, and the real thing is commoner among drabs and pot-houses and rubbish heaps than in your Sunday parlours. The poet's business is to distil105 it out of rottenness, and show that it is all one spirit, the thing that keeps the stars in their place.... I wanted to call my book 'Drains,' for drains are sheer poetry, carrying off the excess and discards of human life to make the fields green and the corn ripen106. But the publishers kicked. So I called it 'Whorls,' to express my view of the exquisite107 involution of all things. Poetry is the fourth dimension of the soul.... Well, let's hear about your taste in prose."
Mr. McCunn was much bewildered, and a little inclined to be cross. He disliked being called[Pg 42] Dogson, which seemed to him an abuse of his etymological108 confidences. But his habit of politeness held.
He explained rather haltingly his preferences in prose.
Mr. Heritage listened with wrinkled brows.
"You're even deeper in the mud than I thought," he remarked. "You live in a world of painted laths and shadows. All this passion for the picturesque109! Trash, my dear man, like a schoolgirl's novelette heroes. You make up romances about gipsies and sailors and the blackguards they call pioneers, but you know nothing about them. If you did, you would find they had none of the gilt110 and gloss111 you imagine. But the great things they have got in common with all humanity you ignore. It's like—it's like sentimentalising about a pancake because it looked like a buttercup, and all the while not knowing that it was good to eat."
At that moment the Australian entered the room to get a light for his pipe. He wore a motor-cyclist's overalls112 and appeared to be about to take the road. He bade them good night and it seemed to Dickson that his face, seen in the glow of the fire, was drawn and anxious, unlike that of the agreeable companion at dinner.
"There," said Mr. Heritage, nodding after the departing figure. "I dare say you have been telling yourself stories about that chap—life in the bush, stock-riding and the rest of it. But probably he's a bank-clerk from Melbourne.... Your romanticism is one vast self-delusion and it blinds your eye[Pg 43] to the real thing. We have got to clear it out and with it all the damnable humbug113 of the Kelt."
Mr. McCunn, who spelt the word with a soft "C," was puzzled. "I thought a kelt was a kind of a no-weel fish," he interposed.
But the other, in the flood-tide of his argument, ignored the interruption. "That's the value of the war," he went on. "It has burst up all the old conventions, and we've got to finish the destruction before we can build. It is the same with literature and religion and society and politics. At them with the axe114, say I. I have no use for priests and pedants115. I've no use for upper classes and middle classes. There's only one class that matters, the plain man, the workers, who live close to life."
"The place for you," said Dickson dryly, "is in Russia among the Bolsheviks."
Mr. Heritage approved. "They are doing a great work in their own fashion. We needn't imitate all their methods—they're a trifle crude and have too many Jews among them—but they've got hold of the right end of the stick. They seek truth and reality."
Mr. McCunn was slowly being roused.
"What brings you wandering hereaways?" he asked.
"Exercise," was the answer. "I've been kept pretty closely tied up all winter. And I want leisure and quiet to think over things."
"Well, there's one subject you might turn your attention to. You'll have been educated like a gentleman?"[Pg 44]
"Nine wasted years—five at Harrow, four at Cambridge."
"See here, then. You're daft about the working-class and have no use for any other. But what in the name of goodness do you know about working-men?... I come out of them myself, and have lived next door to them all my days. Take them one way and another, they're a decent sort, good and bad like the rest of us. But there's a wheen daft folk that would set them up as models—close to truth and reality, says you. It's sheer ignorance, for you're about as well acquaint with the working-man as with King Solomon. You say I make up fine stories about tinklers and sailor-men because I know nothing about them. That's maybe true. But you're at the same job yourself. You ideelise the working-man, you and your kind, because you're ignorant. You say that he's seeking for truth, when he's only looking for a drink and a rise in wages. You tell me he's near reality, but I tell you that his notion of reality is often just a short working day and looking on at a footba'-match on Saturday.... And when you run down what you call the middle-classes that do three-quarters of the world's work and keep the machine going and the working man in a job, then I tell you you're talking havers. Havers!"
Mr. McCunn, having delivered his defence of the bourgeoisie, rose abruptly116 and went to bed. He felt jarred and irritated. His innocent little private domain117 had been badly trampled118 by this stray bull of a poet. But as he lay in bed, before blowing out[Pg 45] his candle, he had recourse to Walton, and found a passage on which, as on a pillow, he went peacefully to sleep:
"As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me; 'twas a handsome milkmaid, that had not yet attained119 so much age and wisdom as to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sang like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was the smooth song that was made by Kit27 Marlow now at least fifty years ago. And the milkmaid's mother sung an answer to it, which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days. They were old-fashioned poetry, but choicely good; I think much better than the strong lines that are now in fashion in this critical age."[Pg 46]
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
ginger
|
|
| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
urchins
|
|
| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
auld
|
|
| adj.老的，旧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
tonic
|
|
| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
moor
|
|
| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
wailed
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
vocal
|
|
| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
fragrance
|
|
| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
munched
|
|
| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
plethoric
|
|
| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
12
idyllic
|
|
| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
trout
|
|
| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
dyke
|
|
| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
gambols
|
|
| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
17
serene
|
|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
lengthen
|
|
| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
covenanting
|
|
| v.立约，立誓( covenant的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
21
worthies
|
|
| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
garnished
|
|
| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
prophesied
|
|
| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
chilly
|
|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
kit
|
|
| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
exalted
|
|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
collateral
|
|
| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
tingling
|
|
| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
draughts
|
|
| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
philosophic
|
|
| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
whining
|
|
| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
accosting
|
|
| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
impelled
|
|
| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
calamity
|
|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
waterproof
|
|
| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
covetously
|
|
| adv.妄想地，贪心地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
contemplated
|
|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
aged
|
|
| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
morosely
|
|
| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
prospects
|
|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
predecessor
|
|
| n.前辈，前任 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
incognito
|
|
| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
esteem
|
|
| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
drizzle
|
|
| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
graveyard
|
|
| n.坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
butt
|
|
| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
lagoons
|
|
| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
lighter
|
|
| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
buffets
|
|
| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
hospitable
|
|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
aroma
|
|
| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
slippers
|
|
| n. 拖鞋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
vowed
|
|
| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
jovial
|
|
| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
broth
|
|
| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
superfluous
|
|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
cuffs
|
|
| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
brawny
|
|
| adj.强壮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
illuminatingly
|
|
| adv.照亮地，启蒙地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
76
fervent
|
|
| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
patriot
|
|
| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
trenches
|
|
| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
haziest
|
|
| 有薄雾的( hazy的最高级 )； 模糊的； 不清楚的； 糊涂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
nettled
|
|
| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
prosaic
|
|
| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
poetic
|
|
| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
crumpled
|
|
| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
eyelids
|
|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
resonant
|
|
| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
ogle
|
|
| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
fumes
|
|
| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
frail
|
|
| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
petals
|
|
| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
sloughs
|
|
| n.沼泽( slough的名词复数 )；苦难的深渊；难以改变的不良心情；斯劳(Slough)v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的第三人称单数 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
metaphors
|
|
| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
meek
|
|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
epithet
|
|
| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
distil
|
|
| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
ripen
|
|
| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
etymological
|
|
| adj.语源的，根据语源学的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
picturesque
|
|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
gilt
|
|
| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
gloss
|
|
| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
overalls
|
|
| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
humbug
|
|
| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
axe
|
|
| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
pedants
|
|
| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
domain
|
|
| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
trampled
|
|
| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
attained
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |