The peculiarity7 of “Hymns on the Hill” was the celebration of the poetry of London as distinct from the poetry of the country. This sentiment or affectation was, of course, not uncommon8 in the twentieth century, nor was it, although sometimes exaggerated, and sometimes artificial, by any means without a great truth at its root, for there is one respect in which a town must be more poetical9 than the country, since it is closer to the spirit of man; for London, if it be not one of the masterpieces of man, is at least one of his sins. A street is really more poetical than a meadow, because a street has a secret. A street is going somewhere, and a meadow nowhere. But, in the case of the book called “Hymns on the Hill,” there was another peculiarity, which the King pointed11 out with great acumen12 in his review. He was naturally interested in the matter, for he had himself published a volume of lyrics13 about London under his pseudonym15 of “Daisy Daydream16.”
This difference, as the King pointed out, consisted in the fact that, while mere17 artificers like “Daisy Daydream” (on whose elaborate style the King, over his signature of “Thunderbolt,” was perhaps somewhat too severe) thought to praise London by comparing it to the country — using nature, that is, as a background from which all poetical images had to be drawn18 — the more robust19 author of “Hymns on the Hill” praised the country, or nature, by comparing it to the town, and used the town itself as a background. “Take,” said the critic, “the typically feminine lines, ‘To the Inventor of The Hansom Cab’—
‘Poet, whose cunning carved this amorous20 shell,
Where twain may dwell.’”
“Surely,” wrote the King, “no one but a woman could have written those lines. A woman has always a weakness for nature; with her art is only beautiful as an echo or shadow of it. She is praising the hansom cab by theme and theory, but her soul is still a child by the sea, picking up shells. She can never be utterly21 of the town, as a man can; indeed, do we not speak (with sacred propriety) of ‘a man about town’? Who ever spoke22 of a woman about town? However much, physically23, ‘about town’ a woman may be, she still models herself on nature; she tries to carry nature with her; she bids grasses to grow on her head, and furry24 beasts to bite her about the throat. In the heart of a dim city, she models her hat on a flaring25 cottage garden of flowers. We, with our nobler civic26 sentiment, model ours on a chimney pot; the ensign of civilisation27. And rather than be without birds, she will commit massacre28, that she may turn her head into a tree, with dead birds to sing on it.”
This kind of thing went on for several pages, and then the critic remembered his subject, and returned to it.
“Poet, whose cunning carved this amorous shell,
Where twain may dwell.”
“The peculiarity of these fine though feminine lines,” continued “Thunderbolt,” “is, as we have said, that they praise the hansom cab by comparing it to the shell, to a natural thing. Now, hear the author of ‘Hymns on the Hill,’ and how he deals with the same subject. In his fine nocturne, entitled ‘The Last Omnibus’ he relieves the rich and poignant29 melancholy30 of the theme by a sudden sense of rushing at the end —
‘The wind round the old street corner
Swung sudden and quick as a cab.’
“Here the distinction is obvious. ‘Daisy Daydream’ thinks it a great compliment to a hansom cab to be compared to one of the spiral chambers31 of the sea. And the author of ‘Hymns on the Hill’ thinks it a great compliment to the immortal32 whirlwind to be compared to a hackney coach. He surely is the real admirer of London. We have no space to speak of all his perfect applications of the idea; of the poem in which, for instance, a lady’s eyes are compared, not to stars, but to two perfect street-lamps guiding the wanderer. We have no space to speak of the fine lyric14, recalling the Elizabethan spirit, in which the poet, instead of saying that the rose and the lily contend in her complexion33, says, with a purer modernism, that the red omnibus of Hammersmith and the white omnibus of Fulham fight there for the mastery. How perfect the image of two contending omnibuses!”
Here, somewhat abruptly34, the review concluded, probably because the King had to send off his copy at that moment, as he was in some want of money. But the King was a very good critic, whatever he may have been as King, and he had, to a considerable extent, hit the right nail on the head. “Hymns on the Hill” was not at all like the poems originally published in praise of the poetry of London. And the reason was that it was really written by a man who had seen nothing else but London, and who regarded it, therefore, as the universe. It was written by a raw, red-headed lad of seventeen, named Adam Wayne, who had been born in Notting Hill. An accident in his seventh year prevented his being taken away to the seaside, and thus his whole life had been passed in his own Pump Street, and in its neighbourhood. And the consequence was, that he saw the street-lamps as things quite as eternal as the stars; the two fires were mingled35. He saw the houses as things enduring, like the mountains, and so he wrote about them as one would write about mountains. Nature puts on a disguise when she speaks to every man; to this man she put on the disguise of Notting Hill. Nature would mean to a poet born in the Cumberland hills, a stormy sky-line and sudden rocks. Nature would mean to a poet born in the Essex flats, a waste of splendid waters and splendid sunsets. So nature meant to this man Wayne a line of violet roofs and lemon lamps, the chiaroscuro36 of the town. He did not think it clever or funny to praise the shadows and colours of the town; he had seen no other shadows or colours, and so he praised them — because they were shadows and colours. He saw all this because he was a poet, though in practice a bad poet. It is too often forgotten that just as a bad man is nevertheless a man, so a bad poet is nevertheless a poet.
Mr. Wayne’s little volume of verse was a complete failure; and he submitted to the decision of fate with a quite rational humility37, went back to his work, which was that of a draper’s assistant, and wrote no more. He still retained his feeling about the town of Notting Hill, because he could not possibly have any other feeling, because it was the back and base of his brain. But he does not seem to have made any particular attempt to express it or insist upon it.
He was a genuine natural mystic, one of those who live on the border of fairyland. But he was perhaps the first to realise how often the boundary of fairyland runs through a crowded city. Twenty feet from him (for he was very short-sighted) the red and white and yellow suns of the gas-lights thronged38 and melted into each other like an orchard39 of fiery40 trees, the beginning of the woods of elf-land.
But, oddly enough, it was because he was a small poet that he came to his strange and isolated41 triumph. It was because he was a failure in literature that he became a portent42 in English history. He was one of those to whom nature has given the desire without the power of artistic43 expression. He had been a dumb poet from his cradle. He might have been so to his grave, and carried unuttered into the darkness a treasure of new and sensational44 song. But he was born under the lucky star of a single coincidence. He happened to be at the head of his dingy45 municipality at the time of the King’s jest, at the time when all municipalities were suddenly commanded to break out into banners and flowers. Out of the long procession of the silent poets, who have been passing since the beginning of the world, this one man found himself in the midst of an heraldic vision, in which he could act and speak and live lyrically. While the author and the victims alike treated the whole matter as a silly public charade46, this one man, by taking it seriously, sprang suddenly into a throne of artistic omnipotence47. Armour48, music, standards, watch-fires, the noise of drums, all the theatrical49 properties were thrown before him. This one poor rhymster, having burnt his own rhymes, began to live that life of open air and acted poetry of which all the poets of the earth have dreamed in vain; the life for which the Iliad is only a cheap substitute.
Upwards50 from his abstracted childhood, Adam Wayne had grown strongly and silently in a certain quality or capacity which is in modern cities almost entirely51 artificial, but which can be natural, and was primarily almost brutally52 natural in him, the quality or capacity of patriotism53. It exists, like other virtues55 and vices56, in a certain undiluted reality. It is not confused with all kinds of other things. A child speaking of his country or his village may make every mistake in Mandeville or tell every lie in Munchausen, but in his statement there will be no psychological lies any more than there can be in a good song. Adam Wayne, as a boy, had for his dull streets in Notting Hill the ultimate and ancient sentiment that went out to Athens or Jerusalem. He knew the secret of the passion, those secrets which make real old national songs sound so strange to our civilisation. He knew that real patriotism tends to sing about sorrows and forlorn hopes much more than about victory. He knew that in proper names themselves is half the poetry of all national poems. Above all, he knew the supreme57 psychological fact about patriotism, as certain in connection with it as that a fine shame comes to all lovers, the fact that the patriot54 never under any circumstances boasts of the largeness of his country, but always, and of necessity, boasts of the smallness of it.
All this he knew, not because he was a philosopher or a genius, but because he was a child. Any one who cares to walk up a side slum like Pump Street, can see a little Adam claiming to be king of a paving-stone. And he will always be proudest if the stone is almost too narrow for him to keep his feet inside it.
It was while he was in such a dream of defensive58 battle, marking out some strip of street or fortress59 of steps as the limit of his haughty60 claim, that the King had met him, and, with a few words flung in mockery, ratified61 for ever the strange boundaries of his soul. Thenceforward the fanciful idea of the defence of Notting Hill in war became to him a thing as solid as eating or drinking or lighting62 a pipe. He disposed his meals for it, altered his plans for it, lay awake in the night and went over it again. Two or three shops were to him an arsenal63; an area was to him a moat; corners of balconies and turns of stone steps were points for the location of a culverin or an archer64. It is almost impossible to convey to any ordinary imagination the degree to which he had transmitted the leaden London landscape to a romantic gold. The process began almost in babyhood, and became habitual65 like a literal madness. It was felt most keenly at night, when London is really herself, when her lights shine in the dark like the eyes of innumerable cats, and the outline of the dark houses has the bold simplicity66 of blue hills. But for him the night revealed instead of concealing67, and he read all the blank hours of morning and afternoon, by a contradictory68 phrase, in the light of that darkness. To this man, at any rate, the inconceivable had happened. The artificial city had become to him nature, and he felt the curbstones and gas-lamps as things as ancient as the sky.
One instance may suffice. Walking along Pump Street with a friend, he said, as he gazed dreamily at the iron fence of a little front garden, “How those railings stir one’s blood!”
His friend, who was also a great intellectual admirer, looked at them painfully, but without any particular emotion. He was so troubled about it that he went back quite a large number of times on quiet evenings and stared at the railings, waiting for something to happen to his blood, but without success. At last he took refuge in asking Wayne himself. He discovered that the ecstacy lay in the one point he had never noticed about the railings even after his six visits — the fact that they were, like the great majority of others — in London, shaped at the top after the manner of a spear. As a child, Wayne had half unconsciously compared them with the spears in pictures of Lancelot and St. George, and had grown up under the shadow of the graphic69 association. Now, whenever he looked at them, they were simply the serried70 weapons that made a hedge of steel round the sacred homes of Notting Hill. He could not have cleansed71 his mind of that meaning even if he tried. It was not a fanciful comparison, or anything like it. It would not have been true to say that the familiar railings reminded him of spears; it would have been far truer to say that the familiar spears occasionally reminded him of railings.
A couple of days after his interview with the King, Adam Wayne was pacing like a caged lion in front of five shops that occupied the upper end of the disputed street. They were a grocer’s, a chemist’s, a barber’s, an old curiosity shop and a toy-shop that sold also newspapers. It was these five shops which his childish fastidiousness had first selected as the essentials of the Notting Hill campaign, the citadel72 of the city. If Notting Hill was the heart of the universe, and Pump Street was the heart of Notting Hill, this was the heart of Pump Street. The fact that they were all small and side by side realised that feeling for a formidable comfort and compactness which, as we have said, was the heart of his patriotism, and of all patriotism. The grocer (who had a wine and spirit licence) was included because he could provision the garrison73; the old curiosity shop because it contained enough swords, pistols, partisans74, cross-bows, and blunderbusses to arm a whole irregular regiment75; the toy and paper shop because Wayne thought a free press an essential centre for the soul of Pump Street; the chemist’s to cope with outbreaks of disease among the besieged76; and the barber’s because it was in the middle of all the rest, and the barber’s son was an intimate friend and spiritual affinity77.
It was a cloudless October evening settling down through purple into pure silver around the roofs and chimneys of the steep little street, which looked black and sharp and dramatic. In the deep shadows the gas-lit shop fronts gleamed like five fires in a row, and before them, darkly outlined like a ghost against some purgatorial78 furnaces, passed to and fro the tall bird-like figure and eagle nose of Adam Wayne.
He swung his stick restlessly, and seemed fitfully talking to himself.
“There are, after all, enigmas,” he said “even to the man who has faith. There are doubts that remain even after the true philosophy is completed in every rung and rivet80. And here is one of them. Is the normal human need, the normal human condition, higher or lower than those special states of the soul which call out a doubtful and dangerous glory? those special powers of knowledge or sacrifice which are made possible only by the existence of evil? Which should come first to our affections, the enduring sanities of peace or the half-maniacal virtues of battle? Which should come first, the man great in the daily round or the man great in emergency? Which should come first, to return to the enigma79 before me, the grocer or the chemist? Which is more certainly the stay of the city, the swift chivalrous81 chemist or the benignant all-providing grocer? In such ultimate spiritual doubts it is only possible to choose a side by the higher instincts, and to abide82 the issue. In any case, I have made my choice. May I be pardoned if I choose wrongly, but I choose the grocer.”
“Good morning, sir,” said the grocer, who was a middle-aged83 man, partially84 bald, with harsh red whiskers and beard, and forehead lined with all the cares of the small tradesman. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Wayne removed his hat on entering the shop, with a ceremonious gesture, which, slight as it was, made the tradesman eye him with the beginnings of wonder.
“I come, sir,” he said soberly, “to appeal to your patriotism.”
“Why, sir,” said the grocer, “that sounds like the times when I was a boy and we used to have elections.”
“You will have them again,” said Wayne, firmly, “and far greater things. Listen, Mr. Mead10. I know the temptations which a grocer has to a too cosmopolitan85 philosophy. I can imagine what it must be to sit all day as you do surrounded with wares86 from all the ends of the earth, from strange seas that we have never sailed and strange forests that we could not even picture. No Eastern king ever had such argosies or such cargoes87 coming from the sunrise and the sunset, and Solomon in all his glory was not enriched like one of you. India is at your elbow,” he cried, lifting his voice and pointing his stick at a drawer of rice, the grocer making a movement of some alarm, “China is before you, Demerara is behind you, America is above your head, and at this very moment, like some old Spanish admiral, you hold Tunis in your hands.”
Mr. Mead dropped the box of dates which he was just lifting, and then picked it up again vaguely88.
Wayne went on with a heightened colour, but a lowered voice,
“I know, I say, the temptations of so international, so universal a vision of wealth. I know that it must be your danger not to fall like many tradesmen into too dusty and mechanical a narrowness, but rather to be too broad, to be too general, too liberal. If a narrow nationalism be the danger of the pastry-cook, who makes his own wares under his own heavens, no less is cosmopolitanism89 the danger of the grocer. But I come to you in the name of that patriotism which no wanderings or enlightenments should ever wholly extinguish, and I ask you to remember Notting Hill. For, after all, in this cosmopolitan magnificence, she has played no small part. Your dates may come from the tall palms of Barbary, your sugar from the strange islands of the tropics, your tea from the secret villages of the Empire of the Dragon. That this room might be furnished, forests may have been spoiled under the Southern Cross, and leviathans speared under the Polar Star. But you yourself — surely no inconsiderable treasure — you yourself, the brain that wields90 these vast interests — you yourself, at least, have grown to strength and wisdom between these grey houses and under this rainy sky. This city which made you, and thus made your fortunes, is threatened with war. Come forth91 and tell to the ends of the earth this lesson. Oil is from the North and fruits from the South; rices are from India and spices from Ceylon; sheep are from New Zealand and men from Notting Hill.”
The grocer sat for some little while, with dim eyes and his mouth open, looking rather like a fish. Then he scratched the back of his head, and said nothing. Then he said —
“Anything out of the shop, sir?”
Wayne looked round in a dazed way. Seeing a pile of tins of pine-apple chunks92, he waved his stick generally towards them.
“Yes,” he said; “I’ll take those.”
“All those, sir?” said the grocer, with greatly increased interest.
“Yes, yes; all those,” replied Wayne, still a little bewildered, like a man splashed with cold water.
“Very good, sir; thank you, sir,” said the grocer with animation93. “You may count upon my patriotism, sir.”
“I count upon it already,” said Wayne, and passed out into the gathering94 night.
The grocer put the box of dates back in its place.
“What a nice fellow he is!” he said. “It’s odd how often they are nice. Much nicer than those as are all right.”
Meanwhile Adam Wayne stood outside the glowing chemist’s shop, unmistakably wavering.
“What a weakness it is!” he muttered. “I have never got rid of it from childhood — the fear of this magic shop. The grocer is rich, he is romantic, he is poetical in the truest sense, but he is not — no, he is not supernatural. But the chemist! All the other shops stand in Notting Hill, but this stands in Elf-land. Look at those great burning bowls of colour. It must be from them that God paints the sunsets. It is superhuman, and the superhuman is all the more uncanny when it is beneficent. That is the root of the fear of God. I am afraid. But I must be a man and enter.”
He was a man, and entered. A short, dark young man was behind the counter with spectacles, and greeted him with a bright but entirely business-like smile.
“A fine evening, sir,” he said.
“Fine indeed, strange Father,” said Adam, stretching his hands somewhat forward. “It is on such clear and mellow95 nights that your shop is most itself. Then they appear most perfect, those moons of green and gold and crimson96, which from afar oft guide the pilgrim of pain and sickness to this house of merciful witchcraft97.”
“Can I get you anything?” asked the chemist.
“Let me see,” said Wayne, in a friendly but vague manner. “Let me have some sal volatile98.”
“Eightpence, tenpence, or one and sixpence a bottle?” said the young man, genially99.
“One and six — one and six,” replied Wayne, with a wild submissiveness. “I come to ask you, Mr. Bowles, a terrible question.”
He paused and collected himself.
“It is necessary,” he muttered —“it is necessary to be tactful, and to suit the appeal to each profession in turn.”
“I come,” he resumed aloud, “to ask you a question which goes to the roots of your miraculous101 toils102. Mr. Bowles, shall all this witchery cease?” And he waved his stick around the shop.
Meeting with no answer, he continued with animation —
“In Notting Hill we have felt to its core the elfish mystery of your profession. And now Notting Hill itself is threatened.”
“Anything more, sir?” asked the chemist.
“Oh,” said Wayne, somewhat disturbed —“oh, what is it chemists sell? Quinine, I think. Thank you. Shall it be destroyed? I have met these men of Bayswater and North Kensington — Mr. Bowles, they are materialists. They see no witchery in your work, even when it is wrought103 within their own borders. They think the chemist is commonplace. They think him human.”
The chemist appeared to pause, only a moment, to take in the insult, and immediately said —
“And the next article, please?”
“Alum,” said the Provost, wildly. “I resume. It is in this sacred town alone that your priesthood is reverenced104. Therefore, when you fight for us you fight not only for yourself, but for everything you typify. You fight not only for Notting Hill, but for Fairyland, for as surely as Buck105 and Barker and such men hold sway, the sense of Fairyland in some strange manner diminishes.”
“Anything more, sir?” asked Mr. Bowles, with unbroken cheerfulness.
“Oh yes, jujubes — Gregory powder — magnesia. The danger is imminent106. In all this matter I have felt that I fought not merely for my own city (though to that I owe all my blood), but for all places in which these great ideas could prevail. I am fighting not merely for Notting Hill, but for Bayswater itself; for North Kensington itself. For if the gold-hunters prevail, these also will lose all their ancient sentiments and all the mystery of their national soul. I know I can count upon you.”
“Oh yes, sir,” said the chemist, with great animation; “we are always glad to oblige a good customer.”
Adam Wayne went out of the shop with a deep sense of fulfilment of soul.
“It is so fortunate,” he said, “to have tact100, to be able to play upon the peculiar talents and specialities, the cosmopolitanism of the grocer and the world-old necromancy107 of the chemist. Where should I be without tact?”
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1
malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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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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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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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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abruptly
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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charade
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| n.用动作等表演文字意义的字谜游戏 | |
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omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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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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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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purgatorial
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| adj.炼狱的，涤罪的 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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rivet
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| n.铆钉；vt.铆接，铆牢；集中(目光或注意力) | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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89
cosmopolitanism
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| n. 世界性,世界主义 | |
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90
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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95
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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100
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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101
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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102
toils
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| 网 | |
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103
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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104
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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105
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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106
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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107
necromancy
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| n.巫术；通灵术 | |
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