We are going to talk, if you please, in the ensuing chapters, of what was going on in Chapelizod about a hundred years ago. A hundred years, to be sure, is a good while; but though fashions have changed, some old phrases dropped out, and new ones come in; and snuff and hair-powder, and sacques and solitaires quite passed away — yet men and women were men and women all the same — as elderly fellows, like your humble1 servant, who have seen and talked with rearward stragglers of that generation — now all and long marched off — can testify, if they will.
In those days Chapelizod was about the gayest and prettiest of the outpost villages in which old Dublin took a complacent2 pride. The poplars which stood, in military rows, here and there, just showed a glimpse of formality among the orchards4 and old timber that lined the banks of the river and the valley of the Liffey, with a lively sort of richness. The broad old street looked hospitable6 and merry, with steep roofs and many coloured hall-doors. The jolly old inn, just beyond the turnpike at the sweep of the road, leading over the buttressed7 bridge by the mill, was first to welcome the excursionist from Dublin, under the sign of the Phoenix8. There, in the grand wainscoted back-parlour, with ‘the great and good King William,’ in his robe, garter, periwig, and sceptre presiding in the panel over the chimneypiece, and confronting the large projecting window, through which the river, and the daffodils, and the summer foliage9 looked so bright and quiet, the Aldermen of Skinner’s Alley5 — a club of the ‘true blue’ dye, as old as the Jacobite wars of the previous century — the corporation of shoemakers, or of tailors, or the freemasons, or the musical clubs, loved to dine at the stately hour of five, and deliver their jokes, sentiments, songs, and wisdom, on a pleasant summer’s evening. Alas10! the inn is as clean gone as the guests — a dream of the shadow of smoke.
Lately, too, came down the old ‘Salmon11 House’— so called from the blazonry of that noble fish upon its painted sign-board — at the other end of the town, that, with a couple more, wheeled out at right angles from the line of the broad street, and directly confronting the passenger from Dublin, gave to it something of the character of a square, and just left room for the high road and Martin’s Row to slip between its flank and the orchard3 that overtopped the river wall. Well! it is gone. I blame nobody. I suppose it was quite rotten, and that the rats would soon have thrown up their lease of it; and that it was taken down, in short, chiefly, as one of the players said of ‘Old Drury,’ to prevent the inconvenience of its coming down of itself. Still a peevish12 but harmless old fellow — who hates change, and would wish things to stay as they were just a little, till his own great change comes; who haunts the places where his childhood was passed, and reverences13 the homeliest relics15 of by-gone generations — may be allowed to grumble17 a little at the impertinences of improving proprietors18 with a taste for accurate parallelograms and pale new brick.
Then there was the village church, with its tower dark and rustling19 from base to summit, with thick piled, bowering20 ivy21. The royal arms cut in bold relief in the broad stone over the porch — where, pray, is that stone now, the memento22 of its old viceregal dignity? Where is the elevated pew, where many a lord lieutenant23, in point, and gold lace, and thunder-cloud periwig, sate24 in awful isolation25, and listened to orthodox and loyal sermons, and took French rappee; whence too, he stepped forth26 between the files of the guard of honour of the Royal Irish Artillery27 from the barrack over the way, in their courtly uniform, white, scarlet28, and blue, cocked hats, and cues, and ruffles29, presenting arms — into his emblazoned coach and six, with hanging footmen, as wonderful as Cinderella’s, and out-riders out-blazing the liveries of the troops, and rolling grandly away in sunshine and dust.
The ‘Ecclesiastical Commissioners’ have done their office here. The tower, indeed, remains30, with half its antique growth of ivy gone; but the body of the church is new, and I, and perhaps an elderly fellow or two more, miss the old-fashioned square pews, distributed by a traditional tenure31 among the families and dignitaries of the town and vicinage (who are they now?), and sigh for the queer, old, clumsy reading-desk and pulpit, grown dearer from the long and hopeless separation; and wonder where the tables of the Ten Commandments, in long gold letters of Queen Anne’s date, upon a vivid blue ground, arched above, and flanking the communion-table, with its tall thin rails, and fifty other things that appeared to me in my nonage, as stable as the earth, and as sacred as the heavens, are gone to.
As for the barrack of the Royal Irish Artillery, the great gate leading into the parade ground, by the river side, and all that, I believe the earth, or rather that grim giant factory, which is now the grand feature and centre of Chapelizod, throbbing32 all over with steam, and whizzing with wheels, and vomiting33 pitchy smoke, has swallowed them up.
A line of houses fronting this — old familiar faces — still look blank and regretfully forth, through their glassy eyes, upon the changed scene. How different the company they kept some ninety or a hundred years ago!
Where is the mill, too, standing34 fast by the bridge, the manorial35 appendage36 of the town, which I loved in my boyhood for its gaunt and crazy aspect and dim interior, whence the clapper kept time mysteriously to the drone of the mill-sluice? I think it is gone. Surely that confounded thing can’t be my venerable old friend in masquerade!
But I can’t expect you, my reader — polite and patient as you manifestly are — to potter about with me, all the summer day, through this melancholy37 and mangled38 old town, with a canopy39 of factory soot40 between your head and the pleasant sky. One glance, however, before you go, you will vouchsafe41 at the village tree — that stalworth elm. It has not grown an inch these hundred years. It does not look a day older than it did fifty years ago, I can tell you. There he stands the same; and yet a stranger in the place of his birth, in a new order of things, joyless, busy, transformed Chapelizod, listening, as it seems to me, always to the unchanged song and prattle42 of the river, with his reveries and affections far away among by-gone times and a buried race. Thou hast a story, too, to tell, thou slighted and solitary43 sage44, if only the winds would steal it musically forth, like the secret of Mildas from the moaning reeds.
The palmy days of Chapelizod were just about a hundred years ago, and those days — though I am jealous of their pleasant and kindly45 fame, and specially46 for the preservation47 of the few memorials they have left behind, were yet, I may say, in your ear, with all their colour and adventure — perhaps, on the whole, more pleasant to read about, and dream of, than they were to live in. Still their violence, follies48, and hospitalities, softened49 by distance, and illuminated50 with a sort of barbaric splendour, have long presented to my fancy the glowing and ever-shifting combinations upon which, as on the red embers, in a winter’s gloaming, I love to gaze, propping51 my white head upon my hand, in a lazy luxury of reverie, from my own arm-chair, while they drop, ever and anon, into new shapes, and silently tell their ‘winter’s tales.’
When your humble servant, Charles de Cresseron, the compiler of this narrative52, was a boy some fourteen years old — how long ago precisely53 that was, is nothing to the purpose, ’tis enough to say he remembers what he then saw and heard a good deal better than what happened a week ago — it came to pass that he was spending a pleasant week of his holidays with his benign54 uncle and godfather, the curate of Chapelizod. On the second day of his, or rather my sojourn55 (I take leave to return to the first person), there was a notable funeral of an old lady. Her name was Darby, and her journey to her last home was very considerable, being made in a hearse, by easy stages, from her house of Lisnabane, in the county of Sligo, to the church-yard of Chapelizod. There was a great flat stone over that small parcel of the rector’s freehold, which the family held by a tenure, not of lives, but of deaths, renewable for ever. So that my uncle, who was a man of an anxious temperament56, had little trouble in satisfying himself of the meerings and identity of this narrow tenement57, to which Lemuel Mattocks, the sexton, led him as straight and confidently as he could have done to the communion-table.
My uncle, therefore, fiated the sexton’s presentment, and the work commenced forthwith. I don’t know whether all boys have the same liking58 for horrors which I am conscious of having possessed59 — I only know that I liked the churchyard, and deciphering tombstones, and watching the labours of the sexton, and hearing the old world village talk that often got up over the relics.
When this particular grave was pretty nearly finished — it lay from east to west — a lot of earth fell out at the northern side, where an old coffin60 had lain, and good store of brown dust and grimy bones, and the yellow skull61 itself came tumbling about the sexton’s feet. These fossils, after his wont62, he lifted decently with the point of his shovel63, and pitched into a little nook beside the great mound64 of mould at top.
‘Be the powers o’ war! here’s a battered65 head-piece for yez,’ said young Tim Moran, who had picked up the cranium, and was eyeing it curiously66, turning it round the while.
‘Show it here, Tim;’ ‘let me look,’ cried two or three neighbours, getting round as quickly as they could.
‘Oh! murdher;’ said one.
‘Oh! be the powers o’ Moll Kelly!’ cried another.
‘Oh! bloody67 wars!’ exclaimed a third.
‘That poor fellow got no chance for his life at all, at all!’ said Tim.
‘That was a bullet,’ said one of them, putting his finger into a clean circular aperture68 as large as a half-penny.
‘An’ look at them two cracks. Och, murther!’
‘There’s only one. Oh, I see you’re right, two, begorra!’
‘Aich o’ them a wipe iv a poker69.’
Mattocks had climbed nimbly to the upper level, and taking the skull in his fist, turned it about this way and that, curiously. But though he was no chicken, his memory did not go far enough back to throw any light upon the matter.
‘Could it be the Mattross that was shot in the year ‘90, as I often heerd, for sthrikin’ his captain?’ suggested a by-stander.
‘Oh! that poor fellow’s buried round by the north side of the church,’ said Mattocks, still eyeing the skull. ‘It could not be Counsellor Gallagher, that was kilt in the jewel with Colonel Ruck — he was hot in the head — bud it could not be-augh! not at all.’
‘Why not, Misther Mattocks?’
‘No, nor the Mattross neither. This, ye see, is a dhry bit o’ the yard here; there’s ould Darby’s coffin, at the bottom, down there, sound enough to stand on, as you see, wid a plank70; an’ he was buried in the year ‘93. Why, look at the coffin this skull belongs to, ‘tid go into powdher between your fingers; ’tis nothin’ but tindher.’
‘I believe you’re right, Mr. Mattocks.’
‘Phiat! to be sure. ’Tis longer undher ground by thirty years, good, or more maybe.’
Just then the slim figure of my tall mild uncle, the curate, appeared, and his long thin legs, in black worsted stockings and knee-breeches, stepped reverently71 and lightly among the graves. The men raised their hats, and Mattocks jumped lightly into the grave again, while my uncle returned their salute72 with the sad sort of smile, a regretful kindness, which he never exceeded, in these solemn precincts.
It was his custom to care very tenderly for the bones turned up by the sexton, and to wait with an awful solicitude73 until, after the reading of the funeral service, he saw them gently replaced, as nearly as might be, in their old bed; and discouraging all idle curiosity or levity74 respecting them, with a solemn rebuke75, which all respected. Therefore it was, that so soon as he appeared the skull was, in Hibernian phrase, ‘dropt like a hot potato,’ and the grave-digger betook himself to his spade so nimbly.
‘Oh! Uncle Charles,’ I said, taking his hand, and leading him towards the foot of the grave; ‘such a wonderful skull has come up! It is shot through with a bullet, and cracked with a poker besides.’
‘’Tis thrue for him, your raverence; he was murthered twiste over, whoever he was — rest his sowl;’ and the sexton, who had nearly completed his work, got out of the grave again, with a demure76 activity, and raising the brown relic16 with great reverence14, out of regard for my good uncle, he turned it about slowly before the eyes of the curate, who scrutinised it, from a little distance, with a sort of melancholy horror.
‘Yes, Lemuel,’ said my uncle, still holding my hand, ‘’twas undoubtedly77 a murder; ay, indeed! He sustained two heavy blows, beside that gunshot through the head.’
‘‘Twasn’t gunshot, Sir; why the hole ‘id take in a grape-shot,’ said an old fellow, just from behind my uncle, in a pensioner’s cocked hat, leggings, and long old-world red frock-coat, speaking with a harsh reedy voice, and a grim sort of reserved smile.
I moved a little aside, with a sort of thrill, to give him freer access to my uncle, in the hope that he might, perhaps, throw a light upon the history of this remarkable78 memorial. The old fellow had a rat-like gray eye — the other was hid under a black patch — and there was a deep red scar across his forehead, slanting79 from the patch that covered the extinguished orb80. His face was purplish, the tinge81 deepening towards the lumpish top of his nose, on the side of which stood a big wart82, and he carried a great walking-cane83 over his shoulder, and bore, as it seemed to me, an intimidating84, but caricatured resemblance to an old portrait of Oliver Cromwell in my Whig grandfather’s parlour.
‘You don’t think it a bullet wound, Sir?’ said my uncle, mildly, and touching85 his hat — for coming of a military stock himself, he always treated an old soldier with uncommon86 respect.
‘Why, please your raverence,’ replied the man, reciprocating87 his courtesy; ‘I know it’s not.’
‘And what is it, then, my good man?’ interrogated88 the sexton, as one in authority, and standing on his own dunghill.
‘The trepan,’ said the fogey, in the tone in which he’d have cried ‘attention’ to a raw recruit, without turning his head, and with a scornful momentary89 skew-glance from his gray eye.
‘And do you know whose skull that was, Sir?’ asked the curate.
‘Ay do I, Sir, well,’ with the same queer smile, he answered. ‘Come, now, you’re a grave-digger, my fine fellow,’ he continued, accosting90 the sexton cynically91; ‘how long do you suppose that skull’s been under ground?’
‘Long enough; but not so long, my fine fellow, as yours has been above ground.’
‘Well, you’re right there, for I seen him buried,’ and he took the skull from the sexton’s hands; ‘and I’ll tell you more, there was some dry eyes, too, at his funeral — ha, ha, ha!’
‘You were a resident in the town, then?’ said my uncle, who did not like the turn his recollections were taking.
‘Ay, Sir, that I was,’ he replied; ‘see that broken tooth, there — I forgot ’twas there — and the minute I seen it, I remembered it like this morning — I could swear to it — when he laughed; ay, and that sharp corner to it — hang him,’ and he twirled the loose tooth, the last but two of all its fellows, from’ its socket92, and chucked it into the grave.
‘And were you — you weren’t in the army, then?’ enquired93 the curate, who could not understand the sort of scoffing94 dislike he seemed to bear it.
‘Be my faith I was so, Sir — the Royal Irish Artillery,’ replied he, promptly95.
‘And in what capacity?’ pursued his reverence.
‘Drummer,’ answered the mulberry-faced veteran.
‘Ho!— Drummer? That’s a good time ago, I dare say,’ said my uncle, looking on him reflectively.
‘Well, so it is, not far off fifty years,’ answered he. ‘He was a hard-headed codger, he was; but you see the sprig of shillelagh was too hard for him — ha, ha, ha!’ and he gave the skull a smart knock with his walking-cane, as he grinned at it and wagged his head.
‘Gently, gently, my good man,’ said the curate, placing his hand hastily upon his arm, for the knock was harder than was needed for the purpose of demonstration96.
‘You see, Sir, at that time, our Colonel-inChief was my Lord Blackwater,’ continued the old soldier, ‘not that we often seen him, for he lived in France mostly; the Colonel-enSecond was General Chattesworth, and Colonel Stafford was Lieutenant–Colonel, and under him Major O’Neill; Captains, four — Cluffe, Devereux, Barton, and Burgh: First Lieutenants97 — Puddock, Delany, Sackville, and Armstrong; Second Lieutenants — Salt; Barber, Lillyman, and Pringle; Lieutenant Fireworkers — O’Flaherty —’
‘I beg your pardon,’ interposed my uncle, ‘Fireworkers, did you say?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And what, pray, does a Lieutenant Fireworker mean?’
‘Why, law bless you, Sir! a Fireworker! ’twas his business to see that the men loaded, sarved, laid, and fired the gun all right. But that doesn’t signify; you see this old skull, Sir: well, ’twas a nine days’ wonder, and the queerest business you ever heerd tell of. Why, Sir, the women was frightened out of their senses, an’ the men puzzled out o’ their wits — they wor — ha, ha, ha! an’ I can tell you all about it — a mighty98 black and bloody business it was —’
‘I— I beg your pardon, Sir: but I think — yes — the funeral has arrived; and for the present, I must bid you good-morning.’
And so my uncle hurried to the church, where he assumed his gown, and the solemn rite99 proceeded.
When all was over, my uncle, after his wont, waited until he had seen the disturbed remains re-deposited decently in their place; and then, having disrobed, I saw him look with some interest about the church-yard, and I knew ’twas in quest of the old soldier.
‘I saw him go away during the funeral,’ I said.
‘Ay, the old pensioner,’ said my uncle, peering about in quest of him.
And we walked through the town, and over the bridge, and we saw nothing of his cocked hat and red single-breasted frock, and returned rather disappointed to tea.
I ran into the back room which commanded the church-yard in the hope of seeing the old fellow once more, with his cane shouldered, grinning among the tombstones in the evening sun. But there was no sign of him, or indeed of anyone else there. So I returned, just as my uncle, having made the tea, shut down the lid of his silver tea-pot with a little smack100; and with a kind but absent smile upon me, he took his book, sat down and crossed one of his thin legs over the other, and waited pleasantly until the delightful101 infusion102 should be ready for our lips, reading his old volume, and with his disengaged hand gently stroking his long shin-bone.
In the meantime, I, who thirsted more for that tale of terror which the old soldier had all but begun, of which in that strangely battered skull I had only an hour ago seen face to face so grizzly103 a memento, and of which in all human probability I never was to hear more, looked out dejectedly from the window, when, whom should I behold104 marching up the street, at slow time, towards the Salmon House, but the identical old soldier, cocked-hat, copper105 nose, great red single-breasted coat with its prodigious106 wide button-holes, leggings, cane, and all, just under the village tree.
‘Here he is, oh! Uncle Charles, here he comes,’ I cried.
‘Eh, the soldier, is he?’ said my uncle, tripping in the carpet in his eagerness, and all but breaking the window.
‘So it is, indeed; run down, my boy, and beg him to come up.’
But by the time I had reached the street, which you may be sure was not very long, I found my uncle had got the window up and was himself inviting107 the old boy, who having brought his left shoulder forward, thanked the curate, saluting108 soldier-fashion, with his hand to his hat, palm foremost. I’ve observed, indeed, than those grim old campaigners who have seen the world, make it a principle to accept anything in the shape of a treat. If it’s bad, why, it costs them nothing; and if good, so much the better.
So up he marched, and into the room with soldierly self-possession, and being offered tea, preferred punch, and the ingredients were soon on the little round table by the fire, which, the evening being sharp, was pleasant; and the old fellow being seated, he brewed109 his nectar, to his heart’s content; and as we sipped110 our tea in pleased attention, he, after his own fashion, commenced the story, to which I listened with an interest which I confess has never subsided111.
Many years after, as will sometimes happen, a flood of light was unexpectedly poured over the details of his narrative; on my coming into possession of the diary, curiously minute, and the voluminous correspondence of Rebecca, sister to General Chattesworth, with whose family I had the honour to be connected. And this journal, to me, with my queer cat-like affection for this old village, a perfect treasure — and the interminable bundles of letters, sorted and arranged so neatly112, with little abstracts of their contents in red ink, in her own firm thin hand upon the covers, from all and to all manner of persons — for the industrious113 lady made fair copies of all the letters she wrote — formed for many years my occasional, and always pleasant winter night’s reading.
I wish I could infuse their spirit into what I am going to tell, and above all that I could inspire my readers with ever so little of the peculiar114 interest with which the old town has always been tinted115 and saddened to my eye. My boyish imagination, perhaps, kindled116 all the more at the story, by reason of it being a good deal connected with the identical old house in which we three — my dear uncle, my idle self, and the queer old soldier — were then sitting. But wishes are as vain as regrets; so I’ll just do my best, bespeaking117 your attention, and submissively abiding118 your judgment119.
收听单词发音 |
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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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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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reverences
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| n.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的名词复数 )；敬礼 | |
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reverence
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| 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 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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bowering
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| vt.荫蔽（bower的现在分词形式） | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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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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manorial
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| adj.庄园的 | |
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appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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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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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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41
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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42
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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43
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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44
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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45
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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46
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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47
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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48
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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49
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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50
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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51
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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52
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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53
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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54
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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55
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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56
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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57
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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58
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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59
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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60
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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61
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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62
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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63
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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64
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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65
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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66
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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67
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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68
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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69
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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70
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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71
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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72
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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73
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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74
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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75
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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76
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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77
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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78
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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80
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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81
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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82
wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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83
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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84
intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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85
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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86
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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87
reciprocating
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| adj.往复的；来回的；交替的；摆动的v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的现在分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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88
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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89
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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90
accosting
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| 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 | |
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91
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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92
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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93
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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94
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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95
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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96
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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97
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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98
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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99
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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100
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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101
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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102
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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103
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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104
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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105
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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106
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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107
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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108
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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109
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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110
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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112
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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113
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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114
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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115
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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117
bespeaking
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| v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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118
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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119
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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