Monday.—It was, if I remember rightly, five o’clock when we were all signalled to be present at the Ferry Depôt of the railroad. An emigrant ship had arrived at New York on the Saturday night, another on the Sunday morning, our own on Sunday afternoon, a fourth early on Monday; and as there is no emigrant train on Sunday a great part of the passengers from these four ships was concentrated on the train by which I was to travel. There was a babel of bewildered men, women, and children. The wretched little booking-office, and the baggage-room, which was not much larger, were crowded thick with emigrants4, and were heavy and rank with the atmosphere of dripping clothes. Open carts full of bedding stood by the half-hour in the rain. The officials loaded each other with recriminations. A bearded, mildewed5 little man, whom I take to have been an emigrant agent, was all over the place, his mouth full of brimstone, blustering6 and interfering8. It was plain that the whole system, if system there was, had utterly9 broken down under the strain of so many passengers.
My own ticket was given me at once, and an oldish man, who preserved his head in the midst of this turmoil10, got my baggage registered, and counselled me to stay quietly where I was till he should give me the word to move. I had taken along with me a small valise, a knapsack, which I carried on my shoulders, and in the bag of my railway rug the whole of Bancroft’s History of the United States, in six fat volumes. It was as much as I could carry with convenience even for short distances, but it insured me plenty of clothing, and the valise was at that moment, and often after, useful for a stool. I am sure I sat for an hour in the baggage-room, and wretched enough it was; yet, when at last the word was passed to me and I picked up my bundles and got under way, it was only to exchange discomfort11 for downright misery12 and danger.
I followed the porters into a long shed reaching downhill from West Street to the river. It was dark, the wind blew clean through it from end to end; and here I found a great block of passengers and baggage, hundreds of one and tons of the other. I feel I shall have a difficulty to make myself believed; and certainly the scene must have been exceptional, for it was too dangerous for daily repetition. It was a tight jam; there was no fair way through the mingled13 mass of brute14 and living obstruction15. Into the upper skirts of the crowd porters, infuriated by hurry and overwork, clove16 their way with shouts. I may say that we stood like sheep, and that the porters charged among us like so many maddened sheep-dogs; and I believe these men were no longer answerable for their acts. It mattered not what they were carrying, they drove straight into the press, and when they could get no farther, blindly discharged their barrowful. With my own hand, for instance, I saved the life of a child as it sat upon its mother’s knee, she sitting on a box; and since I heard of no accident, I must suppose that there were many similar interpositions in the course of the evening. It will give some idea of the state of mind to which we were reduced if I tell you that neither the porter nor the mother of the child paid the least attention to my act. It was not till some time after that I understood what I had done myself, for to ward17 off heavy boxes seemed at the moment a natural incident of human life. Cold, wet, clamour, dead opposition18 to progress, such as one encounters in an evil dream, had utterly daunted19 the spirits. We had accepted this purgatory20 as a child accepts the conditions of the world. For my part, I shivered a little, and my back ached wearily; but I believe I had neither a hope nor a fear, and all the activities of my nature had become tributary21 to one massive sensation of discomfort.
At length, and after how long an interval22 I hesitate to guess, the crowd began to move, heavily straining through itself. About the same time some lamps were lighted, and threw a sudden flare23 over the shed. We were being filtered out into the river boat for Jersey24 City. You may imagine how slowly this filtering proceeded, through the dense25, choking crush, every one overladen with packages or children, and yet under the necessity of fishing out his ticket by the way; but it ended at length for me, and I found myself on deck under a flimsy awning26 and with a trifle of elbow-room to stretch and breathe in. This was on the starboard; for the bulk of the emigrants stuck hopelessly on the port side, by which we had entered. In vain the seamen27 shouted to them to move on, and threatened them with shipwreck28. These poor people were under a spell of stupor29, and did not stir a foot. It rained as heavily as ever, but the wind now came in sudden claps and capfuls, not without danger to a boat so badly ballasted as ours; and we crept over the river in the darkness, trailing one paddle in the water like a wounded duck, and passed ever and again by huge, illuminated30 steamers running many knots, and heralding31 their approach by strains of music. The contrast between these pleasure embarkations and our own grim vessel32, with her list to port and her freight of wet and silent emigrants, was of that glaring description which we count too obvious for the purposes of art.
The landing at Jersey City was done in a stampede. I had a fixed33 sense of calamity34, and to judge by conduct, the same persuasion35 was common to us all. A panic selfishness, like that produced by fear, presided over the disorder36 of our landing. People pushed, and elbowed, and ran, their families following how they could. Children fell, and were picked up to be rewarded by a blow. One child, who had lost her parents, screamed steadily37 and with increasing shrillness38, as though verging39 towards a fit; an official kept her by him, but no one else seemed so much as to remark her distress40; and I am ashamed to say that I ran among the rest. I was so weary that I had twice to make a halt and set down my bundles in the hundred yards or so between the pier41 and the railway station, so that I was quite wet by the time that I got under cover. There was no waiting-room, no refreshment42 room; the cars were locked; and for at least another hour, or so it seemed, we had to camp upon the draughty, gaslit platform. I sat on my valise, too crushed to observe my neighbours; but as they were all cold, and wet, and weary, and driven stupidly crazy by the mismanagement to which we had been subjected, I believe they can have been no happier than myself. I bought half-a-dozen oranges from a boy, for oranges and nuts were the only refection to be had. As only two of them had even a pretence43 of juice, I threw the other four under the cars, and beheld44, as in a dream, grown people and children groping on the track after my leavings.
At last we were admitted into the cars, utterly dejected, and far from dry. For my own part, I got out a clothes-brush, and brushed my trousers as hard as I could till I had dried them and warmed my blood into the bargain; but no one else, except my next neighbour to whom I lent the brush, appeared to take the least precaution. As they were, they composed themselves to sleep. I had seen the lights of Philadelphia, and been twice ordered to change carriages and twice countermanded45, before I allowed myself to follow their example.
Tuesday.—When I awoke, it was already day; the train was standing46 idle; I was in the last carriage, and, seeing some others strolling to and fro about the lines, I opened the door and stepped forth47, as from a caravan48 by the wayside. We were near no station, nor even, as far as I could see, within reach of any signal. A green, open, undulating country stretched away upon all sides. Locust49 trees and a single field of Indian corn gave it a foreign grace and interest; but the contours of the land were soft and English. It was not quite England, neither was it quite France; yet like enough either to seem natural in my eyes. And it was in the sky, and not upon the earth, that I was surprised to find a change. Explain it how you may, and for my part I cannot explain it at all, the sun rises with a different splendour in America and Europe. There is more clear gold and scarlet51 in our old country mornings; more purple, brown, and smoky orange in those of the new. It may be from habit, but to me the coming of day is less fresh and inspiriting in the latter; it has a duskier glory, and more nearly resembles sunset; it seems to fit some subsequential, evening epoch52 of the world, as though America were in fact, and not merely in fancy, farther from the orient of Aurora54 and the springs of day. I thought so then, by the railroad side in Pennsylvania, and I have thought so a dozen times since in far distant parts of the continent. If it be an illusion it is one very deeply rooted, and in which my eyesight is accomplice55.
Soon after a train whisked by, announcing and accompanying its passage by the swift beating of a sort of chapel56 bell upon the engine; and as it was for this we had been waiting, we were summoned by the cry of “All aboard!” and went on again upon our way. The whole line, it appeared, was topsy-turvy; an accident at midnight having thrown all the traffic hours into arrear57. We paid for this in the flesh, for we had no meals all that day. Fruit we could buy upon the cars; and now and then we had a few minutes at some station with a meagre show of rolls and sandwiches for sale; but we were so many and so ravenous58 that, though I tried at every opportunity, the coffee was always exhausted59 before I could elbow my way to the counter.
Our American sunrise had ushered60 in a noble summer’s day. There was not a cloud; the sunshine was baking; yet in the woody river valleys among which we wound our way, the atmosphere preserved a sparkling freshness till late in the afternoon. It had an inland sweetness and variety to one newly from the sea; it smelt61 of woods, rivers, and the delved62 earth. These, though in so far a country, were airs from home. I stood on the platform by the hour; and as I saw, one after another, pleasant villages, carts upon the highway and fishers by the stream, and heard cockcrows and cheery voices in the distance, and beheld the sun, no longer shining blankly on the plains of ocean, but striking among shapely hills and his light dispersed63 and coloured by a thousand accidents of form and surface, I began to exult64 with myself upon this rise in life like a man who had come into a rich estate. And when I had asked the name of a river from the brakesman, and heard that it was called the Susquehanna, the beauty of the name seemed to be part and parcel of the beauty of the land. As when Adam with divine fitness named the creatures, so this word Susquehanna was at once accepted by the fancy. That was the name, as no other could be, for that shining river and desirable valley.
None can care for literature in itself who do not take a special pleasure in the sound of names; and there is no part of the world where nomenclature is so rich, poetical65, humorous, and picturesque66 as the United States of America. All times, races, and languages have brought their contribution. Pekin is in the same State with Euclid, with Bellefontaine, and with Sandusky. Chelsea, with its London associations of red brick, Sloane Square, and the King’s Road, is own suburb to stately and primeval Memphis; there they have their seat, translated names of cities, where the Mississippi runs by Tennessee and Arkansas; [8] and both, while I was crossing the continent, lay, watched by armed men, in the horror and isolation67 of a plague. Old, red Manhattan lies, like an Indian arrowhead under a steam factory, below anglified New York. The names of the States and Territories themselves form a chorus of sweet and most romantic vocables: Delaware, Ohio, Indiana, Florida, Dakota, Iowa, Wyoming, Minnesota, and the Carolinas; there are few poems with a nobler music for the ear: a songful, tuneful land; and if the new Homer shall arise from the Western continent, his verse will be enriched, his pages sing spontaneously, with the names of states and cities that would strike the fancy in a business circular.
Late in the evening we were landed in a waiting-room at Pittsburg. I had now under my charge a young and sprightly69 Dutch widow with her children; these I was to watch over providentially for a certain distance farther on the way; but as I found she was furnished with a basket of eatables, I left her in the waiting-room to seek a dinner for myself. I mention this meal, not only because it was the first of which I had partaken for about thirty hours, but because it was the means of my first introduction to a coloured gentleman. He did me the honour to wait upon me after a fashion, while I was eating; and with every word, look, and gesture marched me farther into the country of surprise. He was indeed strikingly unlike the negroes of Mrs. Beecher Stowe, or the Christy Minstrels of my youth. Imagine a gentleman, certainly somewhat dark, but of a pleasant warm hue70, speaking English with a slight and rather odd foreign accent, every inch a man of the world, and armed with manners so patronisingly superior that I am at a loss to name their parallel in England. A butler perhaps rides as high over the unbutlered, but then he sets you right with a reserve and a sort of sighing patience which one is often moved to admire. And again, the abstract butler never stoops to familiarity. But the coloured gentleman will pass you a wink71 at a time; he is familiar like an upper form boy to a fag; he unbends to you like Prince Hal with Poins and Falstaff. He makes himself at home and welcome. Indeed, I may say, this waiter behaved himself to me throughout that supper much as, with us, a young, free, and not very self-respecting master might behave to a good-looking chambermaid. I had come prepared to pity the poor negro, to put him at his ease, to prove in a thousand condescensions that I was no sharer in the prejudice of race; but I assure you I put my patronage72 away for another occasion, and had the grace to be pleased with that result.
Seeing he was a very honest fellow, I consulted him upon a point of etiquette73: if one should offer to tip the American waiter? Certainly not, he told me. Never. It would not do. They considered themselves too highly to accept. They would even resent the offer. As for him and me, we had enjoyed a very pleasant conversation; he, in particular, had found much pleasure in my society; I was a stranger; this was exactly one of those rare conjunctures.... Without being very clear seeing, I can still perceive the sun at noonday; and the coloured gentleman deftly74 pocketed a quarter.
Wednesday.—A little after midnight I convoyed my widow and orphans75 on board the train; and morning found us far into Ohio. This had early been a favourite home of my imagination; I have played at being in Ohio by the week, and enjoyed some capital sport there with a dummy76 gun, my person being still unbreeched. My preference was founded on a work which appeared in Cassell’s Family Paper, and was read aloud to me by my nurse. It narrated77 the doings of one Custaloga, an Indian brave, who, in the last chapter, very obligingly washed the paint off his face and became Sir Reginald Somebody-or-other; a trick I never forgave him. The idea of a man being an Indian brave, and then giving that up to be a baronet, was one which my mind rejected. It offended verisimilitude, like the pretended anxiety of Robinson Crusoe and others to escape from uninhabited islands.
But Ohio was not at all as I had pictured it. We were now on those great plains which stretch unbroken to the Rocky Mountains. The country was flat like Holland, but far from being dull. All through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa, or for as much as I saw of them from the train and in my waking moments, it was rich and various, and breathed an elegance78 peculiar79 to itself. The tall corn pleased the eye; the trees were graceful80 in themselves, and framed the plain into long, aërial vistas81; and the clean, bright, gardened townships spoke82 of country fare and pleasant summer evenings on the stoop. It was a sort of flat paradise; but, I am afraid, not unfrequented by the devil. That morning dawned with such a freezing chill as I have rarely felt; a chill that was not perhaps so measurable by instrument, as it struck home upon the heart and seemed to travel with the blood. Day came in with a shudder83. White mists lay thinly over the surface of the plain, as we see them more often on a lake; and though the sun had soon dispersed and drunk them up, leaving an atmosphere of fever heat and crystal pureness from horizon to horizon, the mists had still been there, and we knew that this paradise was haunted by killing84 damps and foul85 malaria86. The fences along the line bore but two descriptions of advertisement; one to recommend tobaccos, and the other to vaunt remedies against the ague. At the point of day, and while we were all in the grasp of that first chill, a native of the state, who had got in at some way station, pronounced it, with a doctoral air, “a fever and ague morning.”
The Dutch widow was a person of some character. She had conceived at first sight a great aversion for the present writer, which she was at no pains to conceal87. But being a woman of a practical spirit, she made no difficulty about accepting my attentions, and encouraged me to buy her children fruits and candies, to carry all her parcels, and even to sleep upon the floor that she might profit by my empty seat. Nay88, she was such a rattle89 by nature, and, so powerfully moved to autobiographical talk, that she was forced, for want of a better, to take me into confidence and tell me the story of her life. I heard about her late husband, who seemed to have made his chief impression by taking her out pleasuring on Sundays. I could tell you her prospects90, her hopes, the amount of her fortune, the cost of her housekeeping by the week, and a variety of particular matters that are not usually disclosed except to friends. At one station, she shook up her children to look at a man on the platform and say if he were not like Mr. Z.; while to me she explained how she had been keeping company with this Mr. Z., how far matters had proceeded, and how it was because of his desistance that she was now travelling to the West. Then, when I was thus put in possession of the facts, she asked my judgment91 on that type of manly92 beauty. I admired it to her heart’s content. She was not, I think, remarkably93 veracious94 in talk, but broidered as fancy prompted, and built castles in the air out of her past; yet she had that sort of candour, to keep me, in spite of all these confidences, steadily aware of her aversion. Her parting words were ingeniously honest. “I am sure,” said she, “we all ought to be very much obliged to you.” I cannot pretend that she put me at my ease; but I had a certain respect for such a genuine dislike. A poor nature would have slipped, in the course of these familiarities, into a sort of worthless toleration for me.
We reached Chicago in the evening. I was turned out of the cars, bundled into an omnibus, and driven off through the streets to the station of a different railroad. Chicago seemed a great and gloomy city. I remember having subscribed95, let us say sixpence, towards its restoration at the period of the fire; and now when I beheld street after street of ponderous96 houses and crowds of comfortable burghers, I thought it would be a graceful act for the corporation to refund97 that sixpence, or, at the least, to entertain me to a cheerful dinner. But there was no word of restitution98. I was that city’s benefactor99, yet I was received in a third-class waiting-room, and the best dinner I could get was a dish of ham and eggs at my own expense.
I can safely say, I have never been so dog-tired as that night in Chicago. When it was time to start, I descended100 the platform like a man in a dream. It was a long train, lighted from end to end; and car after car, as I came up with it, was not only filled but overflowing101. My valise, my knapsack, my rug, with those six ponderous tomes of Bancroft, weighed me double; I was hot, feverish102, painfully athirst; and there was a great darkness over me, an internal darkness, not to be dispelled103 by gas. When at last I found an empty bench, I sank into it like a bundle of rags, the world seemed to swim away into the distance, and my consciousness dwindled104 within me to a mere53 pin’s head, like a taper105 on a foggy night.
When I came a little more to myself, I found that there had sat down beside me a very cheerful, rosy106 little German gentleman, somewhat gone in drink, who was talking away to me, nineteen to the dozen, as they say. I did my best to keep up the conversation; for it seemed to me dimly as if something depended upon that. I heard him relate, among many other things, that there were pickpockets107 on the train, who had already robbed a man of forty dollars and a return ticket; but though I caught the words, I do not think I properly understood the sense until next morning; and I believe I replied at the time that I was very glad to hear it. What else he talked about I have no guess; I remember a gabbling sound of words, his profuse108 gesticulation, and his smile, which was highly explanatory: but no more. And I suppose I must have shown my confusion very plainly; for, first, I saw him knit his brows at me like one who has conceived a doubt; next, he tried me in German, supposing perhaps that I was unfamiliar109 with the English tongue; and finally, in despair, he rose and left me. I felt chagrined110; but my fatigue111 was too crushing for delay, and, stretching myself as far as that was possible upon the bench, I was received at once into a dreamless stupor.
The little German gentleman was only going a little way into the suburbs after a diner fin50, and was bent112 on entertainment while the journey lasted. Having failed with me, he pitched next upon another emigrant, who had come through from Canada, and was not one jot113 less weary than myself. Nay, even in a natural state, as I found next morning when we scraped acquaintance, he was a heavy, uncommunicative man. After trying him on different topics, it appears that the little German gentleman flounced into a temper, swore an oath or two, and departed from that car in quest of livelier society. Poor little gentleman! I suppose he thought an emigrant should be a rollicking, free-hearted blade, with a flask114 of foreign brandy and a long, comical story to beguile115 the moments of digestion116.
Thursday.—I suppose there must be a cycle in the fatigue of travelling, for when I awoke next morning, I was entirely117 renewed in spirits and ate a hearty118 breakfast of porridge, with sweet milk, and coffee and hot cakes, at Burlington upon the Mississippi. Another long day’s ride followed, with but one feature worthy120 of remark. At a place called Creston, a drunken man got in. He was aggressively friendly, but, according to English notions, not at all unpresentable upon a train. For one stage he eluded121 the notice of the officials; but just as we were beginning to move out of the next station, Cromwell by name, by came the conductor. There was a word or two of talk; and then the official had the man by the shoulders, twitched122 him from his seat, marched him through the car, and sent him flying on to the track. It was done in three motions, as exact as a piece of drill. The train was still moving slowly, although beginning to mend her pace, and the drunkard got his feet without a fall. He carried a red bundle, though not so red as his cheeks; and he shook this menacingly in the air with one hand, while the other stole behind him to the region of the kidneys. It was the first indication that I had come among revolvers, and I observed it with some emotion. The conductor stood on the steps with one hand on his hip3, looking back at him; and perhaps this attitude imposed upon the creature, for he turned without further ado, and went off staggering along the track towards Cromwell followed by a peal123 of laughter from the cars. They were speaking English all about me, but I knew I was in a foreign land.
Twenty minutes before nine that night, we were deposited at the Pacific Transfer Station near Council Bluffs124, on the eastern bank of the Missouri river. Here we were to stay the night at a kind of caravanserai, set apart for emigrants. But I gave way to a thirst for luxury, separated myself from my companions, and marched with my effects into the union Pacific Hotel. A white clerk and a coloured gentleman whom, in my plain European way, I should call the boots, were installed behind a counter like bank tellers125. They took my name, assigned me a number, and proceeded to deal with my packages. And here came the tug126 of war. I wished to give up my packages into safe keeping; but I did not wish to go to bed. And this, it appeared, was impossible in an American hotel.
It was, of course, some inane127 misunderstanding, and sprang from my unfamiliarity128 with the language. For although two nations use the same words and read the same books, intercourse129 is not conducted by the dictionary. The business of life is not carried on by words, but in set phrases, each with a special and almost a slang signification. Some international obscurity prevailed between me and the coloured gentleman at Council Bluffs; so that what I was asking, which seemed very natural to me, appeared to him a monstrous130 exigency131. He refused, and that with the plainness of the West. This American manner of conducting matters of business is, at first, highly unpalatable to the European. When we approach a man in the way of his calling, and for those services by which he earns his bread, we consider him for the time being our hired servant. But in the American opinion, two gentlemen meet and have a friendly talk with a view to exchanging favours if they shall agree to please. I know not which is the more convenient, nor even which is the more truly courteous132. The English stiffness unfortunately tends to be continued after the particular transaction is at an end, and thus favours class separations. But on the other hand, these equalitarian plainnesses leave an open field for the insolence133 of Jack-in-office.
I was nettled134 by the coloured gentleman’s refusal, and unbuttoned my wrath135 under the similitude of ironical136 submission137. I knew nothing, I said, of the ways of American hotels; but I had no desire to give trouble. If there was nothing for it but to get to bed immediately, let him say the word, and though it was not my habit, I should cheerfully obey.
He burst into a shout of laughter. “Ah!” said he, “you do not know about America. They are fine people in America. Oh! you will like them very well. But you mustn’t get mad. I know what you want. You come along with me.”
And issuing from behind the counter, and taking me by the arm like an old acquaintance, he led me to the bar of the hotel.
“There,” said he, pushing me from him by the shoulder, “go and have a drink!”
The Emigrant Train
All this while I had been travelling by mixed trains, where I might meet with Dutch widows and little German gentry139 fresh from table. I had been but a latent emigrant; now I was to be branded once more, and put apart with my fellows. It was about two in the afternoon of Friday that I found myself in front of the Emigrant House, with more than a hundred others, to be sorted and boxed for the journey. A white-haired official, with a stick under one arm, and a list in the other hand, stood apart in front of us, and called name after name in the tone of a command. At each name you would see a family gather up its brats140 and bundles and run for the hindmost of the three cars that stood awaiting us, and I soon concluded that this was to be set apart for the women and children. The second or central car, it turned out, was devoted141 to men travelling alone, and the third to the Chinese. The official was easily moved to anger at the least delay; but the emigrants were both quick at answering their names, and speedy in getting themselves and their effects on board.
The families once housed, we men carried the second car without ceremony by simultaneous assault. I suppose the reader has some notion of an American railroad-car, that long, narrow wooden box, like a flat-roofed Noah’s ark, with a stove and a convenience, one at either end, a passage down the middle, and transverse benches upon either hand. Those destined142 for emigrants on the union Pacific are only remarkable143 for their extreme plainness, nothing but wood entering in any part into their constitution, and for the usual inefficacy of the lamps, which often went out and shed but a dying glimmer144 even while they burned. The benches are too short for anything but a young child. Where there is scarce elbow-room for two to sit, there will not be space enough for one to lie. Hence the company, or rather, as it appears from certain bills about the Transfer Station, the company’s servants, have conceived a plan for the better accommodation of travellers. They prevail on every two to chum together. To each of the chums they sell a board and three square cushions stuffed with straw, and covered with thin cotton. The benches can be made to face each other in pairs, for the backs are reversible. On the approach of night the boards are laid from bench to bench, making a couch wide enough for two, and long enough for a man of the middle height; and the chums lie down side by side upon the cushions with the head to the conductor’s van and the feet to the engine. When the train is full, of course this plan is impossible, for there must not be more than one to every bench, neither can it be carried out unless the chums agree. It was to bring about this last condition that our white-haired official now bestirred himself. He made a most active master of ceremonies, introducing likely couples, and even guaranteeing the amiability145 and honesty of each. The greater the number of happy couples the better for his pocket, for it was he who sold the raw material of the beds. His price for one board and three straw cushions began with two dollars and a half; but before the train left, and, I am sorry to say, long after I had purchased mine, it had fallen to one dollar and a half.
The match-maker had a difficulty with me; perhaps, like some ladies, I showed myself too eager for union at any price; but certainly the first who was picked out to be my bedfellow, declined the honour without thanks. He was an old, heavy, slow-spoken man, I think from Yankeeland, looked me all over with great timidity, and then began to excuse himself in broken phrases. He didn’t know the young man, he said. The young man might be very honest, but how was he to know that? There was another young man whom he had met already in the train; he guessed he was honest, and would prefer to chum with him upon the whole. All this without any sort of excuse, as though I had been inanimate or absent. I began to tremble lest every one should refuse my company, and I be left rejected. But the next in turn was a tall, strapping146, long-limbed, small-headed, curly-haired Pennsylvania Dutchman, with a soldierly smartness in his manner. To be exact, he had acquired it in the navy. But that was all one; he had at least been trained to desperate resolves, so he accepted the match, and the white-haired swindler pronounced the connubial147 benediction148, and pocketed his fees.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in making up the train. I am afraid to say how many baggage-waggons followed the engine, certainly a score; then came the Chinese, then we, then the families, and the rear was brought up by the conductor in what, if I have it rightly, is called his caboose. The class to which I belonged was of course far the largest, and we ran over, so to speak, to both sides; so that there were some Caucasians among the Chinamen, and some bachelors among the families. But our own car was pure from admixture, save for one little boy of eight or nine who had the whooping-cough. At last, about six, the long train crawled out of the Transfer Station and across the wide Missouri river to Omaha, westward151 bound.
It was a troubled uncomfortable evening in the cars. There was thunder in the air, which helped to keep us restless. A man played many airs upon the cornet, and none of them were much attended to, until he came to “Home, sweet home.” It was truly strange to note how the talk ceased at that, and the faces began to lengthen152. I have no idea whether musically this air is to be considered good or bad; but it belongs to that class of art which may be best described as a brutal153 assault upon the feelings. Pathos154 must be relieved by dignity of treatment. If you wallow naked in the pathetic, like the author of “Home, sweet home,” you make your hearers weep in an unmanly fashion; and even while yet they are moved, they despise themselves and hate the occasion of their weakness. It did not come to tears that night, for the experiment was interrupted. An elderly, hard-looking man, with a goatee beard and about as much appearance of sentiment an you would expect from a retired155 slaver, turned with a start and bade the performer stop that “damned thing.” “I’ve heard about enough of that,” he added; “give us something about the good country we’re going to.” A murmur156 of adhesion ran round the car; the performer took the instrument from his lips, laughed and nodded, and then struck into a dancing measure; and, like a new Timotheus, stilled immediately the emotion he had raised.
The day faded; the lamps were lit; a party of wild young men, who got off next evening at North Platte, stood together on the stern platform, singing “The Sweet By-and-bye” with very tuneful voices; the chums began to put up their beds; and it seemed as if the business of the day were at an end. But it was not so; for, the train stopping at some station, the cars were instantly thronged157 with the natives, wives and fathers, young men and maidens158, some of them in little more than nightgear, some with stable lanterns, and all offering beds for sale. Their charge began with twenty-five cents a cushion, but fell, before the train went on again, to fifteen, with the bed-board gratis159, or less than one-fifth of what I had paid for mine at the Transfer. This is my contribution to the economy of future emigrants.
A great personage on an American train is the newsboy. He sells books (such books!), papers, fruit, lollipops160, and cigars; and on emigrant journeys, soap, towels, tin washing dishes, tin coffee pitchers161, coffee, tea, sugar, and tinned eatables, mostly hash or beans and bacon. Early next morning the newsboy went around the cars, and chumming on a more extended principle became the order of the hour. It requires but a copartnery of two to manage beds; but washing and eating can be carried on most economically by a syndicate of three. I myself entered a little after sunrise into articles of agreement, and became one of the firm of Pennsylvania, Shakespeare, and Dubuque. Shakespeare was my own nickname on the cars; Pennsylvania that of my bedfellow; and Dubuque, the name of a place in the State of Iowa, that of an amiable162 young fellow going west to cure an asthma163, and retarding164 his recovery by incessantly166 chewing or smoking, and sometimes chewing and smoking together. I have never seen tobacco so sillily abused. Shakespeare bought a tin washing-dish, Dubuque a towel, and Pennsylvania a brick of soap. The partners used these instruments, one after another, according to the order of their first awaking; and when the firm had finished there was no want of borrowers. Each filled the tin dish at the water filter opposite the stove, and retired with the whole stock in trade to the platform of the car. There he knelt down, supporting himself by a shoulder against the woodwork or one elbow crooked167 about the railing, and made a shift to wash his face and neck and hands; a cold, an insufficient168, and, if the train is moving rapidly, a somewhat dangerous toilet.
On a similar division of expense, the firm of Pennsylvania, Shakespeare, and Dubuque supplied themselves with coffee, sugar, and necessary vessels170; and their operations are a type of what went on through all the cars. Before the sun was up the stove would be brightly burning; at the first station the natives would come on board with milk and eggs and coffee cakes; and soon from end to end the car would be filled with little parties breakfasting upon the bed-boards. It was the pleasantest hour of the day.
There were meals to be had, however, by the wayside: a breakfast in the morning, a dinner somewhere between eleven and two, and supper from five to eight or nine at night. We had rarely less than twenty minutes for each; and if we had not spent many another twenty minutes waiting for some express upon a side track among miles of desert, we might have taken an hour to each repast and arrived at San Francisco up to time. For haste is not the foible of an emigrant train. It gets through on sufferance, running the gauntlet among its more considerable brethren; should there be a block, it is unhesitatingly sacrificed; and they cannot, in consequence, predict the length of the passage within a day or so. Civility is the main comfort that you miss. Equality, though conceived very largely in America, does not extend so low down as to an emigrant. Thus in all other trains, a warning cry of “All aboard!” recalls the passengers to take their seats; but as soon as I was alone with emigrants, and from the Transfer all the way to San Francisco, I found this ceremony was pretermitted; the train stole from the station without note of warning, and you had to keep an eye upon it even while you ate. The annoyance171 is considerable, and the disrespect both wanton and petty.
Many conductors, again, will hold no communication with an emigrant. I asked a conductor one day at what time the train would stop for dinner; as he made no answer I repeated the question, with a like result; a third time I returned to the charge, and then Jack-in-office looked me coolly in the face for several seconds and turned ostentatiously away. I believe he was half ashamed of his brutality172; for when another person made the same inquiry173, although he still refused the information, he condescended174 to answer, and even to justify175 his reticence176 in a voice loud enough for me to hear. It was, he said, his principle not to tell people where they were to dine; for one answer led to many other questions, as what o’clock it was? or, how soon should we be there? and he could not afford to be eternally worried.
As you are thus cut off from the superior authorities, a great deal of your comfort depends on the character of the newsboy. He has it in his power indefinitely to better and brighten the emigrant’s lot. The newsboy with whom we started from the Transfer was a dark, bullying177, contemptuous, insolent179 scoundrel, who treated us like dogs. Indeed, in his case, matters came nearly to a fight. It happened thus: he was going his rounds through the cars with some commodities for sale, and coming to a party who were at Seven-up or Cascino (our two games), upon a bed-board, slung180 down a cigar-box in the middle of the cards, knocking one man’s hand to the floor. It was the last straw. In a moment the whole party were upon their feet, the cigars were upset, and he was ordered to “get out of that directly, or he would get more than he reckoned for.” The fellow grumbled181 and muttered, but ended by making off, and was less openly insulting in the future. On the other hand, the lad who rode with us in this capacity from Ogden to Sacramento made himself the friend of all, and helped us with information, attention, assistance, and a kind countenance182. He told us where and when we should have our meals, and how long the train would stop; kept seats at table for those who were delayed, and watched that we should neither be left behind nor yet unnecessarily hurried. You, who live at home at ease, can hardly realise the greatness of this service, even had it stood alone. When I think of that lad coming and going, train after train, with his bright face and civil words, I see how easily a good man may become the benefactor of his kind. Perhaps he is discontented with himself, perhaps troubled with ambitions; why, if he but knew it, he is a hero of the old Greek stamp; and while he thinks he is only earning a profit of a few cents, and that perhaps exorbitant183, he is doing a man’s work, and bettering the world.
I must tell here an experience of mine with another newsboy. I tell it because it gives so good an example of that uncivil kindness of the American, which is perhaps their most bewildering character to one newly landed. It was immediately after I had left the emigrant train; and I am told I looked like a man at death’s door, so much had this long journey shaken me. I sat at the end of a car, and the catch being broken, and myself feverish and sick, I had to hold the door open with my foot for the sake of air. In this attitude my leg debarred the newsboy from his box of merchandise. I made haste to let him pass when I observed that he was coming; but I was busy with a book, and so once or twice he came upon me unawares. On these occasions he most rudely struck my foot aside; and though I myself apologised, as if to show him the way, he answered me never a word. I chafed184 furiously, and I fear the next time it would have come to words. But suddenly I felt a touch upon my shoulder, and a large juicy pear was put into my hand. It was the newsboy, who had observed that I was looking ill, and so made me this present out of a tender heart. For the rest of the journey I was petted like a sick child; he lent me newspapers, thus depriving himself of his legitimate185 profit on their sale, and came repeatedly to sit by me and cheer me up.
The Plains of Nebraska
It had thundered on the Friday night, but the sun rose on Saturday without a cloud. We were at sea—there is no other adequate expression—on the plains of Nebraska. I made my observatory186 on the top of a fruit-waggon149, and sat by the hour upon that perch187 to spy about me, and to spy in vain for something new. It was a world almost without a feature; an empty sky, an empty earth; front and back, the line of railway stretched from horizon to horizon, like a cue across a billiard-board; on either hand, the green plain ran till it touched the skirts of heaven. Along the track innumerable wild sunflowers, no bigger than a crown-piece, bloomed in a continuous flower-bed; grazing beasts were seen upon the prairie at all degrees of distance and diminution188; and now and again we might perceive a few dots beside the railroad which grew more and more distinct as we drew nearer till they turned into wooden cabins, and then dwindled and dwindled in our wake until they melted into their surroundings, and we were once more alone upon the billiard-board. The train toiled189 over this infinity190 like a snail191; and being the one thing moving, it was wonderful what huge proportions it began to assume in our regard. It seemed miles in length, and either end of it within but a step of the horizon. Even my own body or my own head seemed a great thing in that emptiness. I note the feeling the more readily as it is the contrary of what I have read of in the experience of others. Day and night, above the roar of the train, our ears were kept busy with the incessant165 chirp192 of grasshoppers—a noise like the winding193 up of countless194 clocks and watches, which began after a while to seem proper to that land.
To one hurrying through by steam there was a certain exhilaration in this spacious195 vacancy196, this greatness of the air, this discovery of the whole arch of heaven, this straight, unbroken, prison-line of the horizon. Yet one could not but reflect upon the weariness of those who passed by there in old days, at the foot’s pace of oxen, painfully urging their teams, and with no landmark197 but that unattainable evening sun for which they steered198, and which daily fled them by an equal stride. They had nothing, it would seem, to overtake; nothing by which to reckon their advance; no sight for repose199 or for encouragement; but stage after stage, only the dead green waste under foot, and the mocking, fugitive200 horizon. But the eye, as I have been told, found differences even here; and at the worst the emigrant came, by perseverance201, to the end of his toil169. It is the settlers, after all, at whom we have a right to marvel202. Our consciousness, by which we live, is itself but the creature of variety. Upon what food does it subsist203 in such a land? What livelihood204 can repay a human creature for a life spent in this huge sameness? He is cut off from books, from news, from company, from all that can relieve existence but the prosecution205 of his affairs. A sky full of stars is the most varied206 spectacle that he can hope. He may walk five miles and see nothing; ten, and it is as though he had not moved; twenty, and still he is in the midst of the same great level, and has approached no nearer to the one object within view, the flat horizon which keeps pace with his advance. We are full at home of the question of agreeable wall-papers, and wise people are of opinion that the temper may be quieted by sedative207 surroundings. But what is to be said of the Nebraskan settler? His is a wall-paper with a vengeance—one quarter of the universe laid bare in all its gauntness.
His eye must embrace at every glance the whole seeming concave of the visible world; it quails208 before so vast an outlook, it is tortured by distance; yet there is no rest or shelter till the man runs into his cabin, and can repose his sight upon things near at hand. Hence, I am told, a sickness of the vision peculiar to these empty plains.
Yet perhaps with sunflowers and cicadæ, summer and winter, cattle, wife and family, the settler may create a full and various existence. One person at least I saw upon the plains who seemed in every way superior to her lot. This was a woman who boarded us at a way station, selling milk. She was largely formed; her features were more than comely209; she had that great rarity—a fine complexion210 which became her; and her eyes were kind, dark, and steady. She sold milk with patriarchal grace. There was not a line in her countenance, not a note in her soft and sleepy voice, but spoke of an entire contentment with her life. It would have been fatuous211 arrogance212 to pity such a woman. Yet the place where she lived was to me almost ghastly. Less than a dozen wooden houses, all of a shape and all nearly of a size, stood planted along the railway lines. Each stood apart in its own lot. Each opened direct off the billiard-board, as if it were a billiard-board indeed, and these only models that had been set down upon it ready made. Her own, into which I looked, was clean but very empty, and showed nothing homelike but the burning fire. This extreme newness, above all in so naked and flat a country, gives a strong impression of artificiality. With none of the litter and discoloration of human life; with the paths unworn, and the houses still sweating from the axe213, such a settlement as this seems purely214 scenic215. The mind is loth to accept it for a piece of reality; and it seems incredible that life can go on with so few properties, or the great child, man, find entertainment in so bare a playroom.
And truly it is as yet an incomplete society in some points; or at least it contained, as I passed through, one person incompletely civilised. At North Platte, where we supped that evening, one man asked another to pass the milk-jug. This other was well-dressed and of what we should call a respectable appearance; a darkish man, high spoken, eating as though he had some usage of society; but he turned upon the first speaker with extraordinary vehemence217 of tone—
“There’s a waiter here!” he cried.
“I only asked you to pass the milk,” explained the first.
Here is the retort verbatim—
“Pass! Hell! I’m not paid for that business; the waiter’s paid for it. You should use civility at table, and, by God, I’ll show you how!”
The other man very wisely made no answer, and the bully178 went on with his supper as though nothing had occurred. It pleases me to think that some day soon he will meet with one of his own kidney; and that perhaps both may fall.
The Desert of Wyoming
To cross such a plain is to grow homesick for the mountains. I longed for the Black Hills of Wyoming, which I knew we were soon to enter, like an ice-bound whaler for the spring. Alas218! and it was a worse country than the other. All Sunday and Monday we travelled through these sad mountains, or over the main ridge119 of the Rockies, which is a fair match to them for misery of aspect. Hour after hour it was the same unhomely and unkindly world about our onward219 path; tumbled boulders220, cliffs that drearily221 imitate the shape of monuments and fortifications—how drearily, how tamely, none can tell who has not seen them; not a tree, not a patch of sward, not one shapely or commanding mountain form; sage-brush, eternal sage-brush; over all, the same weariful and gloomy colouring, grays warming into brown, grays darkening towards black; and for sole sign of life, here and there a few fleeing antelopes222; here and there, but at incredible intervals223, a creek224 running in a cañon. The plains have a grandeur225 of their own; but here there is nothing but a contorted smallness. Except for the air, which was light and stimulating226, there was not one good circumstance in that God-forsaken land.
I had been suffering in my health a good deal all the way; and at last, whether I was exhausted by my complaint or poisoned in some wayside eating-house, the evening we left Laramie, I fell sick outright227. That was a night which I shall not readily forget. The lamps did not go out; each made a faint shining in its own neighbourhood, and the shadows were confounded together in the long, hollow box of the car. The sleepers228 lay in uneasy attitudes; here two chums alongside, flat upon their backs like dead folk; there a man sprawling229 on the floor, with his face upon his arm; there another half seated with his head and shoulders on the bench. The most passive were continually and roughly shaken by the movement of the train; others stirred, turned, or stretched out their arms like children; it was surprising how many groaned230 and murmured in their sleep; and as I passed to and fro, stepping across the prostrate231, and caught now a snore, now a gasp232, now a half-formed word, it gave me a measure of the worthlessness of rest in that unresting vehicle. Although it was chill, I was obliged to open my window, for the degradation233 of the air soon became intolerable to one who was awake and using the full supply of life. Outside, in a glimmering234 night, I saw the black, amorphous235 hills shoot by unweariedly into our wake. They that long for morning have never longed for it more earnestly than I.
And yet when day came, it was to shine upon the same broken and unsightly quarter of the world. Mile upon mile, and not a tree, a bird, or a river. Only down the long, sterile236 cañons, the train shot hooting237 and awoke the resting echo. That train was the one piece of life in all the deadly land; it was the one actor, the one spectacle fit to be observed in this paralysis238 of man and nature. And when I think how the railroad has been pushed through this unwatered wilderness239 and haunt of savage240 tribes, and now will bear an emigrant for some £12 from the Atlantic to the Golden Gates; how at each stage of the construction, roaring, impromptu241 cities, full of gold and lust7 and death, sprang up and then died away again, and are now but wayside stations in the desert; how in these uncouth242 places pig-tailed Chinese pirates worked side by side with border ruffians and broken men from Europe, talking together in a mixed dialect, mostly oaths, gambling243, drinking, quarrelling and murdering like wolves; how the plumed244 hereditary245 lord of all America heard, in this last fastness, the scream of the “bad medicine waggon” charioting his foes246; and then when I go on to remember that all this epical247 turmoil was conducted by gentlemen in frock coats, and with a view to nothing more extraordinary than a fortune and a subsequent visit to Paris, it seems to me, I own, as if this railway were the one typical achievement of the age in which we live, as if it brought together into one plot all the ends of the world and all the degrees of social rank, and offered to some great writer the busiest, the most extended, and the most varied subject for an enduring literary work. If it be romance, if it be contrast, if it be heroism248 that we require, what was Troy town to this? But, alas! it is not these things that are necessary—it is only Homer.
Here also we are grateful to the train, as to some god who conducts us swiftly through these shades and by so many hidden perils249. Thirst, hunger, the sleight250 and ferocity of Indians are all no more feared, so lightly do we skim these horrible lands; as the gull251, who wings safely through the hurricane and past the shark. Yet we should not be forgetful of these hardships of the past; and to keep the balance true, since I have complained of the trifling252 discomforts253 of my journey, perhaps more than was enough, let me add an original document. It was not written by Homer, but by a boy of eleven, long since dead, and is dated only twenty years ago. I shall punctuate254, to make things clearer, but not change the spelling.
“My dear Sister Mary,—I am afraid you will go nearly crazy when you read my letter. If Jerry” (the writer’s eldest255 brother) “has not written to you before now, you will be surprised to heare that we are in California, and that poor Thomas” (another brother, of fifteen) “is dead. We started from — in July, with plenly of provisions and too yoke256 oxen. We went along very well till we got within six or seven hundred miles of California, when the Indians attacked us. We found places where they had killed the emigrants. We had one passenger with us, too guns, and one revolver; so we ran all the lead We had into bullets (and) hung the guns up in the wagon257 so that we could get at them in a minit. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon; droave the cattel a little way; when a prairie chicken alited a little way from the wagon.
“Jerry took out one of the guns to shoot it, and told Tom drive the oxen. Tom and I drove the oxen, and Jerry and the passenger went on. Then, after a little, I left Tom and caught up with Jerry and the other man. Jerry stopped Tom to come up; me and the man went on and sit down by a little stream. In a few minutes, we heard some noise; then three shots (they all struck poor Tom, I suppose); then they gave the war hoop150, and as many as twenty of the redskins came down upon us. The three that shot Tom was hid by the side of the road in the bushes.
“I thought the Tom and Jerry were shot; so I told the other man that Tom and Jerry were dead, and that we had better try to escape, if possible. I had no shoes on; having a sore foot, I thought I would not put them on. The man and me run down the road, but We was soon stopped by an Indian on a pony258. We then turend the other way, and run up the side of the Mountain, and hid behind some cedar259 trees, and stayed there till dark. The Indians hunted all over after us, and verry close to us, so close that we could here there tomyhawks Jingle260. At dark the man and me started on, I stubing my toes against sticks and stones. We traveld on all night; and next morning, just as it was getting gray, we saw something in the shape of a man. It layed Down in the grass. We went up to it, and it was Jerry. He thought we ware68 Indians. You can imagine how glad he was to see me. He thought we was all dead but him, and we thought him and Tom was dead. He had the gun that he took out of the wagon to shoot the prairie Chicken; all he had was the load that was in it.
“We traveld on till about eight o’clock, We caught up with one wagon with too men with it. We had traveld with them before one day; we stopt and they Drove on; we knew that they was ahead of us, unless they had been killed to. My feet was so sore when we caught up with them that I had to ride; I could not step. We traveld on for too days, when the men that owned the cattle said they would (could) not drive them another inch. We unyoked the oxen; we had about seventy pounds of flour; we took it out and divided it into four packs. Each of the men took about 18 pounds apiece and a blanket. I carried a little bacon, dried meat, and little quilt; I had in all about twelve pounds. We had one pint261 of flour a day for our alloyance. Sometimes we made soup of it; sometimes we (made) pancakes; and sometimes mixed it up with cold water and eat it that way. We traveld twelve or fourteen days. The time came at last when we should have to reach some place or starve. We saw fresh horse and cattle tracks. The morning come, we scraped all the flour out of the sack, mixed it up, and baked it into bread, and made some soup, and eat everything we had. We traveld on all day without anything to eat, and that evening we Caught up with a sheep train of eight wagons262. We traveld with them till we arrived at the settlements; and know I am safe in California, and got to good home, and going to school.
“Jerry is working in —. It is a good country. You can get from 50 to 60 and 75 Dollars for cooking. Tell me all about the affairs in the States, and how all the folks get along.”
And so ends this artless narrative263. The little man was at school again, God bless him, while his brother lay scalped upon the deserts.
Fellow-Passengers
At Ogden we changed cars from the union Pacific to the Central Pacific line of railroad. The change was doubly welcome; for, first, we had better cars on the new line; and, second, those in which we had been cooped for more than ninety hours had begun to stink264 abominably265. Several yards away, as we returned, let us say from dinner, our nostrils266 were assailed267 by rancid air. I have stood on a platform while the whole train was shunting; and as the dwelling-cars drew near, there would come a whiff of pure menagerie, only a little sourer, as from men instead of monkeys. I think we are human only in virtue268 of open windows. Without fresh air, you only require a bad heart, and a remarkable command of the Queen’s English, to become such another as Dean Swift; a kind of leering, human goat, leaping and wagging your scut on mountains of offence. I do my best to keep my head the other way, and look for the human rather than the bestial269 in this Yahoo-like business of the emigrant train. But one thing I must say, the car of the Chinese was notably270 the least offensive.
The cars on the Central Pacific were nearly twice as high, and so proportionally airier; they were freshly varnished271, which gave us all a sense of cleanliness an though we had bathed; the seats drew out and joined in the centre, so that there was no more need for bed boards; and there was an upper tier of berths272 which could be closed by day and opened at night.
I had by this time some opportunity of seeing the people whom I was among. They were in rather marked contrast to the emigrants I had met on board ship while crossing the Atlantic. They were mostly lumpish fellows, silent and noisy, a common combination; somewhat sad, I should say, with an extraordinary poor taste in humour, and little interest in their fellow-creatures beyond that of a cheap and merely external curiosity. If they heard a man’s name and business, they seemed to think they had the heart of that mystery; but they were as eager to know that much as they were indifferent to the rest. Some of them were on nettles273 till they learned your name was Dickson and you a journeyman baker274; but beyond that, whether you were Catholic or Mormon, dull or clever, fierce or friendly, was all one to them. Others who were not so stupid, gossiped a little, and, I am bound to say, unkindly. A favourite witticism275 was for some lout276 to raise the alarm of “All aboard!” while the rest of us were dining, thus contributing his mite277 to the general discomfort. Such a one was always much applauded for his high spirits. When I was ill coming through Wyoming, I was astonished—fresh from the eager humanity on board ship—to meet with little but laughter. One of the young men even amused himself by incommoding me, as was then very easy; and that not from ill-nature, but mere clodlike incapacity to think, for he expected me to join the laugh. I did so, but it was phantom278 merriment. Later on, a man from Kansas had three violent epileptic fits, and though, of course, there were not wanting some to help him, it was rather superstitious279 terror than sympathy that his case evoked280 among his fellow-passengers. “Oh, I hope he’s not going to die!” cried a woman; “it would be terrible to have a dead body!” And there was a very general movement to leave the man behind at the next station. This, by good fortune, the conductor negatived.
There was a good deal of story-telling in some quarters; in others, little but silence. In this society, more than any other that ever I was in, it was the narrator alone who seemed to enjoy the narrative. It was rarely that any one listened for the listening. If he lent an ear to another man’s story, it was because he was in immediate138 want of a hearer for one of his own. Food and the progress of the train were the subjects most generally treated; many joined to discuss these who otherwise would hold their tongues. One small knot had no better occupation than to worm out of me my name; and the more they tried, the more obstinately281 fixed I grew to baffle them. They assailed me with artful questions and insidious282 offers of correspondence in the future; but I was perpetually on my guard, and parried their assaults with inward laughter. I am sure Dubuque would have given me ten dollars for the secret. He owed me far more, had he understood life, for thus preserving him a lively interest throughout the journey. I met one of my fellow-passengers months after, driving a street tramway car in San Francisco; and, as the joke was now out of season, told him my name without subterfuge283. You never saw a man more chapfallen. But had my name been Demogorgon, after so prolonged a mystery he had still been disappointed.
There were no emigrants direct from Europe—save one German family and a knot of Cornish miners who kept grimly by themselves, one reading the New Testament284 all day long through steel spectacles, the rest discussing privately285 the secrets of their old-world, mysterious race. Lady Hester Stanhope believed she could make something great of the Cornish; for my part, I can make nothing of them at all. A division of races, older and more original than that of Babel, keeps this close, esoteric family apart from neighbouring Englishmen. Not even a Red Indian seems more foreign in my eyes. This is one of the lessons of travel—that some of the strangest races dwell next door to you at home.
The rest were all American born, but they came from almost every quarter of that Continent. All the States of the North had sent out a fugitive to cross the plains with me. From Virginia, from Pennsylvania, from New York, from far western Iowa and Kansas, from Maine that borders on the Canadas, and from the Canadas themselves—some one or two were fleeing in quest of a better land and better wages. The talk in the train, like the talk I heard on the steamer, ran upon hard times, short commons, and hope that moves ever westward. I thought of my shipful from Great Britain with a feeling of despair. They had come 3000 miles, and yet not far enough. Hard times bowed them out of the Clyde, and stood to welcome them at Sandy Hook. Where were they to go? Pennsylvania, Maine, Iowa, Kansas? These were not places for immigration, but for emigration, it appeared; not one of them, but I knew a man who had lifted up his heel and left it for an ungrateful country. And it was still westward that they ran. Hunger, you would have thought, came out of the east like the sun, and the evening was made of edible216 gold. And, meantime, in the car in front of me, were there not half a hundred emigrants from the opposite quarter? Hungry Europe and hungry China, each pouring from their gates in search of provender286, had here come face to face. The two waves had met; east and west had alike failed; the whole round world had been prospected287 and condemned288; there was no El Dorado anywhere; and till one could emigrate to the moon, it seemed as well to stay patiently at home. Nor was there wanting another sign, at once more picturesque and more disheartening; for, as we continued to steam westward toward the land of gold, we were continually passing other emigrant trains upon the journey east; and these were as crowded as our own. Had all these return voyagers made a fortune in the mines? Were they all bound for Paris, and to be in Rome by Easter? It would seem not, for, whenever we met them, the passengers ran on the platform and cried to us through the windows, in a kind of wailing289 chorus, to “come back.” On the plains of Nebraska, in the mountains of Wyoming, it was still the same cry, and dismal290 to my heart, “Come back!” That was what we heard by the way “about the good country we were going to.” And at that very hour the Sand-lot of San Francisco was crowded with the unemployed291, and the echo from the other side of Market Street was repeating the rant2 of demagogues.
If, in truth, it were only for the sake of wages that men emigrate, how many thousands would regret the bargain! But wages, indeed, are only one consideration out of many; for we are a race of gipsies, and love change and travel for themselves.
Despised Races
Of all stupid ill-feelings, the sentiment of my fellow Caucasians towards our companions in the Chinese car was the most stupid and the worst. They seemed never to have looked at them, listened to them, or thought of them, but hated them a priori. The Mongols were their enemies in that cruel and treacherous292 battle-field of money. They could work better and cheaper in half a hundred industries, and hence there was no calumny293 too idle for the Caucasians to repeat, and even to believe. They declared them hideous294 vermin, and affected295 a kind of choking in the throat when they beheld them. Now, as a matter of fact, the young Chinese man is so like a large class of European women, that on raising my head and suddenly catching296 sight of one at a considerable distance, I have for an instant been deceived by the resemblance. I do not say it is the most attractive class of our women, but for all that many a man’s wife is less pleasantly favoured. Again, my emigrants declared that the Chinese were dirty. I cannot say they were clean, for that was impossible upon the journey; but in their efforts after cleanliness they put the rest of us to shame. We all pigged and stewed297 in one infamy298, wet our hands and faces for half a minute daily on the platform, and were unashamed. But the Chinese never lost an opportunity, and you would see them washing their feet—an act not dreamed of among ourselves—and going as far as decency299 permitted to wash their whole bodies. I may remark by the way that the dirtier people are in their persons the more delicate is their sense of modesty300. A clean man strips in a crowded boathouse; but he who is unwashed slinks in and out of bed without uncovering an inch of skin. Lastly, these very foul and malodorous Caucasians entertained the surprising illusion that it was the Chinese waggon, and that alone, which stank301. I have said already that it was the exceptions and notably the freshest of the three.
These judgments302 are typical of the feeling in all Western America. The Chinese are considered stupid, because they are imperfectly acquainted with English. They are held to be base, because their dexterity303 and frugality304 enable them to underbid the lazy, luxurious305 Caucasian. They are said to be thieves; I am sure they have no monopoly of that. They are called cruel; the Anglo-Saxon and the cheerful Irishman may each reflect before he bears the accusation306. I am told, again, that they are of the race of river pirates, and belong to the most despised and dangerous class in the Celestial307 Empire. But if this be so, what remarkable pirates have we here! and what must be the virtues308, the industry, the education, and the intelligence of their superiors at home!
Awhile ago it was the Irish, now it is the Chinese that must go. Such is the cry. It seems, after all, that no country is bound to submit to immigration any more than to invasion; each is war to the knife, and resistance to either but legitimate defence. Yet we may regret the free tradition of the republic, which loved to depict309 herself with open arms, welcoming all unfortunates. And certainly, as a man who believes that he loves freedom, I may be excused some bitterness when I find her sacred name misused310 in the contention311. It was but the other day that I heard a vulgar fellow in the Sand-lot, the popular tribune of San Francisco, roaring for arms and butchery. “At the call of Abraham Lincoln,” said the orator312, “ye rose in the name of freedom to set free the negroes; can ye not rise and liberate313 yourselves from a few dirty Mongolians?”
For my own part, I could not look but with wonder and respect on the Chinese. Their forefathers314 watched the stars before mine had begun to keep pigs. Gun-powder and printing, which the other day we imitated, and a school of manners which we never had the delicacy315 so much as to desire to imitate, were theirs in a long-past antiquity316. They walk the earth with us, but it seems they must be of different clay. They hear the clock strike the same hour, yet surely of a different epoch. They travel by steam conveyance317, yet with such a baggage of old Asiatic thoughts and superstitions318 as might check the locomotive in its course. Whatever is thought within the circuit of the Great Wall; what the wry-eyed, spectacled schoolmaster teaches in the hamlets round Pekin; religions so old that our language looks a halfing boy alongside; philosophy so wise that our best philosophers find things therein to wonder at; all this travelled alongside of me for thousands of miles over plain and mountain. Heaven knows if we had one common thought or fancy all that way, or whether our eyes, which yet were formed upon the same design, beheld the same world out of the railway windows. And when either of us turned his thoughts to home and childhood, what a strange dissimilarity must there not have been in these pictures of the mind—when I beheld that old, gray, castled city, high throned above the firth, with the flag of Britain flying, and the red-coat sentry319 pacing over all; and the man in the next car to me would conjure320 up some junks and a pagoda321 and a fort of porcelain322, and call it, with the same affection, home.
Another race shared among my fellow-passengers in the disfavour of the Chinese; and that, it is hardly necessary to say, was the noble red man of old story—over whose own hereditary continent we had been steaming all these days. I saw no wild or independent Indian; indeed, I hear that such avoid the neighbourhood of the train; but now and again at way stations, a husband and wife and a few children, disgracefully dressed out with the sweepings323 of civilisation324, came forth and stared upon the emigrants. The silent stoicism of their conduct, and the pathetic degradation of their appearance, would have touched any thinking creature, but my fellow-passengers danced and jested round them with a truly Cockney baseness. I was ashamed for the thing we call civilisation. We should carry upon our consciences so much, at least, of our forefathers’ misconduct as we continue to profit by ourselves.
If oppression drives a wise man mad, what should be raging in the hearts of these poor tribes, who have been driven back and back, step after step, their promised reservations torn from them one after another as the States extended westward, until at length they are shut up into these hideous mountain deserts of the centre—and even there find themselves invaded, insulted, and hunted out by ruffianly diggers? The eviction325 of the Cherokees (to name but an instance), the extortion of Indian agents, the outrages326 of the wicked, the ill-faith of all, nay, down to the ridicule327 of such poor beings as were here with me upon the train, make up a chapter of injustice328 and indignity329 such as a man must be in some ways base if his heart will suffer him to pardon or forget. These old, well-founded, historical hatreds330 have a savour of nobility for the independent. That the Jew should not love the Christian331, nor the Irishman love the English, nor the Indian brave tolerate the thought of the American, is not disgraceful to the nature of man; rather, indeed, honourable332, since it depends on wrongs ancient like the race, and not personal to him who cherishes the indignation.
To the Golden Gates
A little corner of Utah is soon traversed, and leaves no particular impressions on the mind. By an early hour on Wednesday morning we stopped to breakfast at Toano, a little station on a bleak333, high-lying plateau in Nevada. The man who kept the station eating-house was a Scot, and learning that I was the same, he grew very friendly, and gave me some advice on the country I was now entering. “You see,” said he, “I tell you this, because I come from your country.” Hail, brither Scots!
His most important hint was on the moneys of this part of the world. There is something in the simplicity334 of a decimal coinage which is revolting to the human mind; thus the French, in small affairs, reckon strictly335 by halfpence; and you have to solve, by a spasm336 of mental arithmetic, such posers as thirty-two, forty-five, or even a hundred halfpence. In the Pacific States they have made a bolder push for complexity337, and settle their affairs by a coin that no longer that no longer exists—the bit, or old Mexican real. The supposed value of the bit is twelve and a half cents, eight to the dollar. When it comes to two bits, the quarter-dollar stands for the required amount. But how about an odd bit? The nearest coin to it is a dime338, which is, short by a fifth. That, then, is called a short bit. If you have one, you lay it triumphantly339 down, and save two and a half cents. But if you have not, and lay down a quarter, the bar-keeper or shopman calmly tenders you a dime by way of change; and thus you have paid what is called a long bit, and lost two and a half cents, or even, by comparison with a short bit, five cents. In country places all over the Pacific coast, nothing lower than a bit is ever asked or taken, which vastly increases the cost of life; as even for a glass of beer you must pay fivepence or sevenpence-halfpenny, as the case may be. You would say that this system of mutual340 robbery was as broad as it was long; but I have discovered a plan to make it broader, with which I here endow the public. It is brief and simple—radiantly simple. There is one place where five cents are recognised, and that is the post-office. A quarter is only worth two bits, a short and a long. Whenever you have a quarter, go to the post-office and buy five cents worth of postage-stamps; you will receive in change two dimes341, that is, two short bits. The purchasing power of your money is undiminished. You can go and have your two glasses of beer all the same; and you have made yourself a present of five cents worth of postage-stamps into the bargain. Benjamin Franklin would have patted me on the head for this discovery.
From Toano we travelled all day through deserts of alkali and sand, horrible to man, and bare sage-brush country that seemed little kindlier, and came by supper-time to Elko. As we were standing, after our manner, outside the station, I saw two men whip suddenly from underneath342 the cars, and take to their heels across country. They were tramps, it appeared, who had been riding on the beams since eleven of the night before; and several of my fellow-passengers had already seen and conversed343 with them while we broke our fast at Toano. These land stowaways344 play a great part over here in America, and I should have liked dearly to become acquainted with them.
At Elko an odd circumstance befell me. I was coming out from supper, when I was stopped by a small, stout345, ruddy man, followed by two others taller and ruddier than himself.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but do you happen to be going on?”
I said I was, whereupon he said he hoped to persuade me to desist from that intention. He had a situation to offer me, and if we could come to terms, why, good and well. “You see,” he continued, “I’m running a theatre here, and we’re a little short in the orchestra. You’re a musician, I guess?”
I assured him that, beyond a rudimentary acquaintance with “Auld Lang Syne” and “The Wearing of the Green,” I had no pretension346 whatever to that style. He seemed much put out of countenance; and one of his taller companions asked him, on the nail, for five dollars.
“You see, sir,” added the latter to me, “he bet you were a musician; I bet you weren’t. No offence, I hope?”
“None whatever,” I said, and the two withdrew to the bar, where I presume the debt was liquidated347.
This little adventure woke bright hopes in my fellow-travellers, who thought they had now come to a country where situations went a-begging. But I am not so sure that the offer was in good faith. Indeed, I am more than half persuaded it was but a feeler to decide the bet.
Of all the next day I will tell you nothing, for the best of all reasons, that I remember no more than that we continued through desolate348 and desert scenes, fiery349 hot and deadly weary. But some time after I had fallen asleep that night, I was awakened351 by one of my companions. It was in vain that I resisted. A fire of enthusiasm and whisky burned in his eyes; and he declared we were in a new country, and I must come forth upon the platform and see with my own eyes. The train was then, in its patient way, standing halted in a by-track. It was a clear, moonlit night; but the valley was too narrow to admit the moonshine direct, and only a diffused352 glimmer whitened the tall rocks and relieved the blackness of the pines. A hoarse353 clamour filled the air; it was the continuous plunge354 of a cascade355 somewhere near at hand among the mountains. The air struck chill, but tasted good and vigorous in the nostrils—a fine, dry, old mountain atmosphere. I was dead sleepy, but I returned to roost with a grateful mountain feeling at my heart.
When I awoke next morning, I was puzzled for a while to know if it were day or night, for the illumination was unusual. I sat up at last, and found we were grading slowly downward through a long snowshed; and suddenly we shot into an open; and before we were swallowed into the next length of wooden tunnel, I had one glimpse of a huge pine-forested ravine upon my left, a foaming356 river, and a sky already coloured with the fires of dawn. I am usually very calm over the displays of nature; but you will scarce believe how my heart leaped at this. It was like meeting one’s wife. I had come home again—home from unsightly deserts to the green and habitable corners of the earth. Every spire357 of pine along the hill-top, every trouty pool along that mountain river, was more dear to me than a blood relation. Few people have praised God more happily than I did. And thenceforward, down by Blue Cañon, Alta, Dutch Flat, and all the old mining camps, through a sea of mountain forests, dropping thousands of feet toward the far sea-level as we went, not I only, but all the passengers on board, threw off their sense of dirt and heat and weariness, and bawled358 like schoolboys, and thronged with shining eyes upon the platform and became new creatures within and without. The sun no longer oppressed us with heat, it only shone laughingly along the mountain-side, until we were fain to laugh ourselves for glee. At every turn we could see farther into the land and our own happy futures359. At every town the cocks were tossing their clear notes into the golden air, and crowing for the new day and the new country. For this was indeed our destination; this was “the good country” we had been going to so long.
By afternoon we were at Sacramento, the city of gardens in a plain of corn; and the next day before the dawn we were lying to upon the Oakland side of San Francisco Bay. The day was breaking as we crossed the ferry; the fog was rising over the citied hills of San Francisco; the bay was perfect—not a ripple360, scarce a stain, upon its blue expanse; everything was waiting, breathless, for the sun. A spot of cloudy gold lit first upon the head of Tamalpais, and then widened downward on its shapely shoulder; the air seemed to awaken350, and began to sparkle; and suddenly
“The tall hills Titan discovered,”
and the city of San Francisco, and the bay of gold and corn, were lit from end to end with summer daylight.
点击收听单词发音
1 emigrant | |
adj.移居的,移民的;n.移居外国的人,移民 | |
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2 rant | |
v.咆哮;怒吼;n.大话;粗野的话 | |
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3 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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4 emigrants | |
n.(从本国移往他国的)移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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5 mildewed | |
adj.发了霉的,陈腐的,长了霉花的v.(使)发霉,(使)长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6 blustering | |
adj.狂风大作的,狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 );咆哮;(风)呼啸;狂吹 | |
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7 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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8 interfering | |
adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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9 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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10 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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11 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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12 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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13 mingled | |
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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14 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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15 obstruction | |
n.阻塞,堵塞;障碍物 | |
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16 clove | |
n.丁香味 | |
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17 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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18 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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19 daunted | |
使(某人)气馁,威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20 purgatory | |
n.炼狱;苦难;adj.净化的,清洗的 | |
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21 tributary | |
n.支流;纳贡国;adj.附庸的;辅助的;支流的 | |
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22 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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23 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
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24 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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25 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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26 awning | |
n.遮阳篷;雨篷 | |
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27 seamen | |
n.海员 | |
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28 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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29 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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30 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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31 heralding | |
v.预示( herald的现在分词 );宣布(好或重要) | |
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32 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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33 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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34 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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35 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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36 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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37 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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38 shrillness | |
尖锐刺耳 | |
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39 verging | |
接近,逼近(verge的现在分词形式) | |
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40 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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41 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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42 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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43 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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44 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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45 countermanded | |
v.取消(命令),撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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46 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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47 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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48 caravan | |
n.大蓬车;活动房屋 | |
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49 locust | |
n.蝗虫;洋槐,刺槐 | |
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50 fin | |
n.鳍;(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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51 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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52 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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53 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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54 aurora | |
n.极光 | |
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55 accomplice | |
n.从犯,帮凶,同谋 | |
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56 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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57 arrear | |
n.欠款 | |
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58 ravenous | |
adj.极饿的,贪婪的 | |
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59 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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60 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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62 delved | |
v.深入探究,钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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64 exult | |
v.狂喜,欢腾;欢欣鼓舞 | |
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65 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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66 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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67 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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68 ware | |
n.(常用复数)商品,货物 | |
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69 sprightly | |
adj.愉快的,活泼的 | |
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70 hue | |
n.色度;色调;样子 | |
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71 wink | |
n.眨眼,使眼色,瞬间;v.眨眼,使眼色,闪烁 | |
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72 patronage | |
n.赞助,支援,援助;光顾,捧场 | |
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73 etiquette | |
n.礼仪,礼节;规矩 | |
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74 deftly | |
adv.灵巧地,熟练地,敏捷地 | |
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75 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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76 dummy | |
n.假的东西;(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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77 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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79 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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80 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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81 vistas | |
长条形景色( vista的名词复数 ); 回顾; 展望; (未来可能发生的)一系列情景 | |
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82 spoke | |
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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83 shudder | |
v.战粟,震动,剧烈地摇晃;n.战粟,抖动 | |
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84 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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85 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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86 malaria | |
n.疟疾 | |
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87 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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88 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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89 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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90 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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91 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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92 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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93 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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94 veracious | |
adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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95 subscribed | |
v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 );签署,题词;订阅;同意 | |
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96 ponderous | |
adj.沉重的,笨重的,(文章)冗长的 | |
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97 refund | |
v.退还,偿还;n.归还,偿还额,退款 | |
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98 restitution | |
n.赔偿;恢复原状 | |
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99 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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100 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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101 overflowing | |
n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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102 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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103 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104 dwindled | |
v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105 taper | |
n.小蜡烛,尖细,渐弱;adj.尖细的;v.逐渐变小 | |
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106 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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107 pickpockets | |
n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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108 profuse | |
adj.很多的,大量的,极其丰富的 | |
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109 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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110 chagrined | |
adj.懊恼的,苦恼的v.使懊恼,使懊丧,使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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112 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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113 jot | |
n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
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114 flask | |
n.瓶,火药筒,砂箱 | |
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115 beguile | |
vt.欺骗,消遣 | |
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116 digestion | |
n.消化,吸收 | |
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117 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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118 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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119 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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120 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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121 eluded | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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122 twitched | |
vt.& vi.(使)抽动,(使)颤动(twitch的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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123 peal | |
n.钟声;v.鸣响 | |
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124 bluffs | |
恐吓( bluff的名词复数 ); 悬崖; 峭壁 | |
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125 tellers | |
n.(银行)出纳员( teller的名词复数 );(投票时的)计票员;讲故事等的人;讲述者 | |
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126 tug | |
v.用力拖(或拉);苦干;n.拖;苦干;拖船 | |
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127 inane | |
adj.空虚的,愚蠢的,空洞的 | |
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128 unfamiliarity | |
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129 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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130 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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131 exigency | |
n.紧急;迫切需要 | |
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132 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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133 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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134 nettled | |
v.拿荨麻打,拿荨麻刺(nettle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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135 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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136 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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137 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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138 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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139 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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140 brats | |
n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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141 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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142 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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143 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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144 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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145 amiability | |
n.和蔼可亲的,亲切的,友善的 | |
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146 strapping | |
adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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147 connubial | |
adj.婚姻的,夫妇的 | |
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148 benediction | |
n.祝福;恩赐 | |
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149 waggon | |
n.运货马车,运货车;敞篷车箱 | |
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150 hoop | |
n.(篮球)篮圈,篮 | |
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151 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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152 lengthen | |
vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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153 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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154 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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155 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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156 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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157 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158 maidens | |
处女( maiden的名词复数 ); 少女; 未婚女子; (板球运动)未得分的一轮投球 | |
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159 gratis | |
adj.免费的 | |
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160 lollipops | |
n.棒糖,棒棒糖( lollipop的名词复数 );(用交通指挥牌让车辆暂停以便儿童安全通过马路的)交通纠察 | |
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161 pitchers | |
大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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162 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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163 asthma | |
n.气喘病,哮喘病 | |
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164 retarding | |
使减速( retard的现在分词 ); 妨碍; 阻止; 推迟 | |
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165 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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166 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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167 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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168 insufficient | |
adj.(for,of)不足的,不够的 | |
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169 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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170 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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171 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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172 brutality | |
n.野蛮的行为,残忍,野蛮 | |
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173 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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174 condescended | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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175 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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176 reticence | |
n.沉默,含蓄 | |
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177 bullying | |
v.恐吓,威逼( bully的现在分词 );豪;跋扈 | |
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178 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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179 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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180 slung | |
抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 ); 吊挂; 遣送; 押往 | |
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181 grumbled | |
抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 发牢骚; 咕哝; 发哼声 | |
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182 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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183 exorbitant | |
adj.过分的;过度的 | |
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184 chafed | |
v.擦热(尤指皮肤)( chafe的过去式 );擦痛;发怒;惹怒 | |
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185 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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186 observatory | |
n.天文台,气象台,瞭望台,观测台 | |
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187 perch | |
n.栖木,高位,杆;v.栖息,就位,位于 | |
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188 diminution | |
n.减少;变小 | |
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189 toiled | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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190 infinity | |
n.无限,无穷,大量 | |
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191 snail | |
n.蜗牛 | |
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192 chirp | |
v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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193 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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194 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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195 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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196 vacancy | |
n.(旅馆的)空位,空房,(职务的)空缺 | |
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197 landmark | |
n.陆标,划时代的事,地界标 | |
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198 steered | |
v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 );操纵;控制;引导 | |
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199 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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200 fugitive | |
adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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201 perseverance | |
n.坚持不懈,不屈不挠 | |
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202 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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203 subsist | |
vi.生存,存在,供养 | |
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204 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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205 prosecution | |
n.起诉,告发,检举,执行,经营 | |
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206 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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207 sedative | |
adj.使安静的,使镇静的;n. 镇静剂,能使安静的东西 | |
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208 quails | |
鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 ); 鹌鹑肉 | |
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209 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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210 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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211 fatuous | |
adj.愚昧的;昏庸的 | |
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212 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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213 axe | |
n.斧子;v.用斧头砍,削减 | |
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214 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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215 scenic | |
adj.自然景色的,景色优美的 | |
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216 edible | |
n.食品,食物;adj.可食用的 | |
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217 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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218 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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219 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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220 boulders | |
n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 );巨砾;(受水或天气侵蚀而成的)巨石;漂砾 | |
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221 drearily | |
沉寂地,厌倦地,可怕地 | |
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222 antelopes | |
羚羊( antelope的名词复数 ); 羚羊皮革 | |
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223 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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224 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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225 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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226 stimulating | |
adj.有启发性的,能激发人思考的 | |
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227 outright | |
adv.坦率地;彻底地;立即;adj.无疑的;彻底的 | |
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228 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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229 sprawling | |
adj.蔓生的,不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 );蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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230 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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231 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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232 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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233 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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234 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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235 amorphous | |
adj.无定形的 | |
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236 sterile | |
adj.不毛的,不孕的,无菌的,枯燥的,贫瘠的 | |
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237 hooting | |
(使)作汽笛声响,作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 ); 倒好儿; 倒彩 | |
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238 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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239 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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240 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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241 impromptu | |
adj.即席的,即兴的;adv.即兴的(地),无准备的(地) | |
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242 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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243 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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244 plumed | |
饰有羽毛的 | |
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245 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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246 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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247 epical | |
adj.叙事诗的,英勇的 | |
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248 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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249 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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250 sleight | |
n.技巧,花招 | |
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251 gull | |
n.鸥;受骗的人;v.欺诈 | |
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252 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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253 discomforts | |
n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 );不愉快,苦恼 | |
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254 punctuate | |
vt.加标点于;不时打断 | |
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255 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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256 yoke | |
n.轭;支配;v.给...上轭,连接,使成配偶 | |
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257 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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258 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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259 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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260 jingle | |
n.叮当声,韵律简单的诗句;v.使叮当作响,叮当响,押韵 | |
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261 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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262 wagons | |
n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 );铁路货车;小手推车 | |
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263 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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264 stink | |
vi.发出恶臭;糟透,招人厌恶;n.恶臭 | |
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265 abominably | |
adv. 可恶地,可恨地,恶劣地 | |
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266 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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267 assailed | |
v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 );困扰;质问;毅然应对 | |
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268 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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269 bestial | |
adj.残忍的;野蛮的 | |
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270 notably | |
adv.值得注意地,显著地,尤其地,特别地 | |
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271 varnished | |
浸渍过的,涂漆的 | |
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272 berths | |
n.(船、列车等的)卧铺( berth的名词复数 );(船舶的)停泊位或锚位;差事;船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 );占铺位 | |
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273 nettles | |
n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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274 baker | |
n.面包师 | |
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275 witticism | |
n.谐语,妙语 | |
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276 lout | |
n.粗鄙的人;举止粗鲁的人 | |
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277 mite | |
n.极小的东西;小铜币 | |
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278 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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279 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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280 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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281 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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282 insidious | |
adj.阴险的,隐匿的,暗中为害的,(疾病)不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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283 subterfuge | |
n.诡计;藉口 | |
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284 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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285 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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286 provender | |
n.刍草;秣料 | |
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287 prospected | |
vi.勘探(prospect的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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288 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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289 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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290 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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291 unemployed | |
adj.失业的,没有工作的;未动用的,闲置的 | |
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292 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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293 calumny | |
n.诽谤,污蔑,中伤 | |
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294 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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295 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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296 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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297 stewed | |
adj.焦虑不安的,烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 );煨;思考;担忧 | |
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298 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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299 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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300 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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301 stank | |
n. (英)坝,堰,池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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302 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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303 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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304 frugality | |
n.节约,节俭 | |
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305 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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306 accusation | |
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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307 celestial | |
adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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308 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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309 depict | |
vt.描画,描绘;描写,描述 | |
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310 misused | |
v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 );把…派作不正当的用途;虐待;滥用 | |
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311 contention | |
n.争论,争辩,论战;论点,主张 | |
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312 orator | |
n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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313 liberate | |
v.解放,使获得自由,释出,放出;vt.解放,使获自由 | |
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314 forefathers | |
n.祖先,先人;祖先,祖宗( forefather的名词复数 );列祖列宗;前人 | |
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315 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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316 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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317 conveyance | |
n.(不动产等的)转让,让与;转让证书;传送;运送;表达;(正)运输工具 | |
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318 superstitions | |
迷信,迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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319 sentry | |
n.哨兵,警卫 | |
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320 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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321 pagoda | |
n.宝塔(尤指印度和远东的多层宝塔),(印度教或佛教的)塔式庙宇 | |
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322 porcelain | |
n.瓷;adj.瓷的,瓷制的 | |
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323 sweepings | |
n.笼统的( sweeping的名词复数 );(在投票等中的)大胜;影响广泛的;包罗万象的 | |
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324 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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325 eviction | |
n.租地等的收回 | |
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326 outrages | |
引起…的义愤,激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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327 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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328 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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329 indignity | |
n.侮辱,伤害尊严,轻蔑 | |
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330 hatreds | |
n.仇恨,憎恶( hatred的名词复数 );厌恶的事 | |
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331 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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332 honourable | |
adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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333 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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334 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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335 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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336 spasm | |
n.痉挛,抽搐;一阵发作 | |
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337 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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338 dime | |
n.(指美国、加拿大的钱币)一角 | |
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339 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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340 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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341 dimes | |
n.(美国、加拿大的)10分铸币( dime的名词复数 ) | |
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342 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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343 conversed | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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344 stowaways | |
n.偷乘船[飞机]者( stowaway的名词复数 ) | |
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346 pretension | |
n.要求;自命,自称;自负 | |
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347 liquidated | |
v.清算( liquidate的过去式和过去分词 );清除(某人);清偿;变卖 | |
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348 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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349 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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350 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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351 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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352 diffused | |
散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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353 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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354 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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355 cascade | |
n.小瀑布,喷流;层叠;vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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356 foaming | |
adj.布满泡沫的;发泡 | |
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357 spire | |
n.(教堂)尖顶,尖塔,高点 | |
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358 bawled | |
v.大叫,大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 );放声大哭;大声叫出;叫卖(货物) | |
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359 futures | |
n.期货,期货交易 | |
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360 ripple | |
n.涟波,涟漪,波纹,粗钢梳;vt.使...起涟漪,使起波纹; vi.呈波浪状,起伏前进 | |
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