On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy’s lap. That was Jack Frost’s card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
Soapy’s mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell’s had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy’s mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city’s dependents. In Soapy’s opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman’s private affairs.
Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter’s mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing–with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter’s eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
“Where’s the man that done that?” inquired the officer excitedly.
“Don’t you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?” said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.
The policeman’s mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law’s minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
“Now, get busy and call a cop,” said Soapy. “And don’t keep a gentleman waiting.”
“No cop for youse,” said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. “Hey, Con!”
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes.
Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a “cinch.” A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.
It was Soapy’s design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated “masher.” The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary’s readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and “hems,” smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the “masher.” With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs.
Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:
“Ah there, Bedelia! Don’t you want to come and play in my yard?”
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy’s coat sleeve.
Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, “if you’ll blow me to a pail of suds. I’d have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.”
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos.
Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of “disorderly conduct.”
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.
“‘Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin’ the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We’ve instructions to lave them be.”
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the
umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
“My umbrella,” he said, sternly.
“Oh, is it?” sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. “Well, why don’t you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don’t you call a cop? There stands one on the corner.”
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.“Of course,” said the umbrella man–“that is–well, you know how these mistakes occur–I–if it’s your umbrella I hope you’ll excuse me–I picked it up this morning in a restaurant–If you recognise it as yours, why–I hope you’ll–”
“Of course it’s mine,” said Soapy, viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy’s ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves–for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would–
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.
“What are you doin’ here?” asked the officer.
“Nothin’,” said Soapy.
“Then come along,” said the policeman.
“Three months on the Island,” said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.
警察与赞美诗
索比急躁不安地躺在麦迪逊广场的长凳上，辗转反侧。每当雁群在夜空中引颈高歌，缺少海豹皮衣的女人对丈夫加倍的温存亲热，索比在街心公园的长凳上焦躁不安、翻来复去的时候，人们就明白，冬天已近在咫尺了。
一片枯叶落在索比的大腿上，那是杰克·弗洛斯特①的卡片。杰克对麦迪逊广场的常住居民非常客气，每年来临之先，总要打一声招呼。在十字街头，他把名片交给"户外大厦"的信使"北风"，好让住户们有个准备。
索比意识到，该是自己下决心的时候了，马上组织单人财务委员会，以便抵御即将临近的严寒，因此，他急躁不安地在长凳上辗转反侧。
索比越冬的抱负并不算最高，他不想在地中海巡游，也不想到南方去晒令人昏睡的太阳，更没想过到维苏威海湾漂泊。他梦寐以求的只要在岛上待三个月就足够了。整整三个月，有饭吃，有床睡，还有志趣相投的伙伴，而且不受"北风"和警察的侵扰。对索比而言，这就是日思夜想的最大愿望。
多年来，好客的布莱克韦尔岛②的监狱一直是索比冬天的寓所。正像福气比他好的纽约人每年冬天买票去棕榈滩③和里维埃拉④一样，索比也要为一年一度逃奔岛上作些必要的安排。现在又到时候了。昨天晚上，他睡在古老广场上喷水池旁的长凳上，用三张星期日的报纸分别垫在上衣里、包着脚踝、盖住大腿，也没能抵挡住严寒的袭击。因此，在他的脑袋里，岛子的影象又即时而鲜明地浮现出来。他诅咒那些以慈善名义对城镇穷苦人所设的布施。在索比眼里，法律比救济更为宽厚。他可以去的地方不少，有市政办的、救济机关办的各式各样的组织，他都可以去混吃、混住，勉强度日，但接受施舍，对索比这样一位灵魂高傲的人来讲，是一种不可忍受的折磨。从慈善机构的手里接受任何一点好处，钱固然不必付，但你必须遭受精神上的屈辱来作为回报。正如恺撒对待布鲁图一样⑤，凡事有利必有弊，要睡上慈善机构的床，先得让人押去洗个澡；要吃施舍的一片面包，得先交待清楚个人的来历和隐私。因此，倒不如当个法律的座上宾还好得多。虽然法律铁面无私、照章办事，但至少不会过分地干涉正人君子的私事。
一旦决定了去岛上，索比便立即着手将它变为现实。要兑现自己的意愿，有许多简捷的途径，其中最舒服的莫过于去某家豪华餐厅大吃一台，然后呢，承认自己身无分文，无力支付，这样便安安静静、毫不声张地被交给警察。其余的一切就该由通商量的治安推事来应付了。
索比离开长凳，踱出广场，跨过百老汇大街和第五大街的交汇处那片沥青铺就的平坦路面。他转向百老汇大街，在一家灯火辉煌的咖啡馆前停下脚步，在这里，每天晚上聚积着葡萄、蚕丝和原生质的最佳制品⑥。
索比对自己的马甲从最下一颗纽扣之上还颇有信心，他修过面，上衣也还够气派，他那整洁的黑领结是感恩节时一位教会的女士送给他的。只要他到餐桌之前不被人猜疑，成功就属于他了。他露在桌面的上半身绝不会让侍者生疑。索比想到，一只烤野鸭很对劲——再来一瓶夏布利酒⑦，然后是卡门贝干酪⑧，一小杯清咖啡和一只雪茄烟。一美元一只的雪茄就足够了。全部加起来的价钱不宜太高，以免遭到咖啡馆太过厉害的报复；然而，吃下这一餐会使他走向冬季避难所的行程中心满意足、无忧无虑了。
可是，索比的脚刚踏进门，领班侍者的眼睛便落在了他那旧裤子和破皮鞋上。强壮迅急的手掌推了他个转身，悄无声息地被押了出来，推上了人行道，拯救了那只险遭毒手的野鸭的可怜命运。
索比离开了百老汇大街。看起来，靠大吃一通走向垂涎三尺的岛上，这办法是行不通了。要进监狱，还得另打主意。
在第六大街的拐角处，灯火通明、陈设精巧的大玻璃橱窗内的商品尤其诱人注目。索比捡起一块鹅卵石，向玻璃窗砸去。人们从转弯处奔来，领头的就是一位巡警。索比一动不动地站在原地，两手插在裤袋里，对着黄铜纽扣微笑⑨。
"肇事的家伙跑哪儿去了？"警官气急败坏地问道。
"你不以为这事与我有关吗？"索比说，多少带点嘲讽语气，但很友好，如同他正交着桃花运呢。
警察根本没把索比看成作案对象。毁坏窗子的人绝对不会留在现场与法律的宠臣攀谈，早就溜之大吉啦。警察看到半条街外有个人正跑去赶一辆车，便挥舞着警棍追了上去。索比心里十分憎恶，只得拖着脚步，重新开始游荡。他再一次失算了。
对面街上，有一家不太招眼的餐厅，它可以填饱肚子，又花不了多少钱。它的碗具粗糙，空气混浊，汤菜淡如水，餐巾薄如绢。索比穿着那令人诅咒的鞋子和暴露身分的裤子跨进餐厅，上帝保佑、还没遭到白眼。他走到桌前坐下，吃了牛排，煎饼、炸面饼圈和馅饼。然后，他向侍者坦露真象：他和钱老爷从无交往。
"现在，快去叫警察，"索比说。“别让大爷久等。”
"用不着找警察，“侍者说，声音滑腻得如同奶油蛋糕，眼睛红得好似曼哈顿开胃酒中的樱桃。“喂，阿康！”
两个侍者干净利落地把他推倒在又冷又硬的人行道上，左耳着地。索比艰难地一点一点地从地上爬起来，好似木匠打开折尺一样，接着拍掉衣服上的尘土。被捕的愿望仅仅是美梦一个，那个岛子是太遥远了。相隔两个门面的药店前，站着一名警察，他笑了笑，便沿街走去。
索比走过五个街口之后，设法被捕的气又回来了。这一次出现的机会极为难得，他满以为十拿九稳哩。一位衣着简朴但讨人喜欢的年轻女人站在橱窗前，兴趣十足地瞪着陈列的修面杯和墨水瓶架入了迷。而两码之外，一位彪形大汉警察正靠在水龙头上，神情严肃。
索比的计划是装扮成一个下流、讨厌的"捣蛋鬼”。他的对象文雅娴静，又有一位忠于职守的警察近在眼前，这使他足以相信，警察的双手抓住他的手膀的滋味该是多么愉快呵，在岛上的小乐窝里度过这个冬季就有了保证。
索比扶正了教会的女士送给他的领结，拉出缩进去的衬衣袖口，把帽子往后一掀，歪得几乎要落下来，侧身向那女人挨将过去。他对她送秋波，清嗓子，哼哼哈哈，嬉皮笑脸，把小流氓所干的一切卑鄙无耻的勾当表演得维妙维肖。他斜眼望去，看见那个警察正死死盯住他。年轻女人移开了几步，又沉醉于观赏那修面杯。索比跟过去，大胆地走近她，举了举帽子，说：“啊哈，比德莉亚，你不想去我的院子里玩玩吗？”
警察仍旧死死盯住。受人轻薄的年轻女人只需将手一招，就等于已经上路去岛上的安乐窝了。在想象中，他已经感觉到警察分局的舒适和温暖了。年轻女人转身面对着他，伸出一只手，捉住了索比的上衣袖口。
"当然罗，迈克，"她兴高采烈地说，“如果你肯破费给我买一杯啤酒的话。要不是那个警察老瞅住我，早就同你搭腔了。”
年轻女人像常青藤攀附着他这棵大橡树一样。索比从警察身边走过，心中懊丧不已。看来命中注定，他该自由。
一到拐弯处，他甩掉女伴，撒腿就跑。他一口气跑到老远的一个地方。这儿，整夜都是最明亮的灯光，最轻松的心情，最轻率的誓言和最轻快的歌剧。淑女们披着皮裘，绅士们身着大衣，在这凛冽的严寒中欢天喜地地走来走去。索比突然感到一阵恐惧，也许是某种可怕的魔法制住了他，使他免除了被捕。这念头令他心惊肉跳。但是，当他看见一个警察在灯火通明的剧院门前大模大样地巡逻时，他立刻捞到了"扰乱治安"这根救命稻草。
索比在人行道上扯开那破锣似的嗓子，像醉鬼一样胡闹。
他又跳，又吼，又叫，使尽各种伎俩来搅扰这苍穹。
警察旋转着他的警棍，扭身用背对着索比，向一位市民解释说：“这是个耶鲁小子在庆祝胜利，他们同哈特福德学院赛球，请人家吃了个大鹅蛋。声音是有点儿大，但不碍事。我们上峰有指示，让他们闹去吧。”
索比怏怏不乐地停止了白费力气的闹嚷。难道就永远没有警察对他下手吗？在他的幻梦中，那岛屿似乎成了可望而不可及的阿卡狄亚⑩了。他扣好单薄的上衣，以便抵挡刺骨的寒风。
索比看到雪茄烟店里有一位衣冠楚楚的人正对着火头点烟。那人进店时，把绸伞靠在门边。索比跨进店门，拿起绸伞，漫不经心地退了出来。点烟人匆匆追了出来。
"我的伞，"他厉声道。
"呵，是吗？"索比冷笑说；在小偷摸小摸之上，再加上一条侮辱罪吧。“好哇，那你为什么不叫警察呢？没错，我拿了。你的伞！为什么不叫巡警呢？拐角那儿就站着一个哩。”
绸伞的主人放慢了脚步，索比也跟着慢了下来。他有一种预感，命运会再一次同他作对。那位警察好奇地瞧着他们俩。
"当然罗，"绸伞主人说，“那是，噢，你知道有时会出现这类误会……我……要是这伞是你的，我希望你别见怪……我是今天早上在餐厅捡的……要是你认出是你的，那么……我希望你别……”
"当然是我的，"索比恶狠狠地说。
绸伞的前主人悻悻地退了开去。那位警察慌忙不迭地跑去搀扶一个身披夜礼服斗篷、头发金黄的高个子女人穿过横街，以免两条街之外驶来的街车会碰着她。
索比往东走，穿过一条因翻修弄得高低不平的街道。他怒气冲天地把绸伞猛地掷进一个坑里。他咕咕哝哝地抱怨那些头戴钢盔、手执警棍的家伙。因为他一心只想落入法网，而他们则偏偏把他当成永不出错的国王⑾。
最后，索比来到了通往东区的一条街上，这儿的灯光暗淡，嘈杂声也若有若无。他顺着街道向麦迪逊广场走去，即使他的家仅仅是公园里的一条长凳，但回家的本能还是把他带到了那儿。
可是，在一个异常幽静的转角处，索比停住了。这儿有一座古老的教堂，样子古雅，显得零乱，是带山墙的建筑。柔和的灯光透过淡紫色的玻璃窗映射出来，毫无疑问，是风琴师在练熟星期天的赞美诗。悦耳的乐声飘进索比的耳朵，吸引了他，把他粘在了螺旋形的铁栏杆上。
月亮挂在高高的夜空，光辉、静穆；行人和车辆寥寥无几；屋檐下的燕雀在睡梦中几声啁啾——这会儿有如乡村中教堂墓地的气氛。风琴师弹奏的赞美诗拨动了伏在铁栏杆上的索比的心弦，因为当他生活中拥有母爱、玫瑰、抱负、朋友以及纯洁无邪的思想和洁白的衣领时，他是非常熟悉赞美诗的。
索比的敏感心情同老教堂的潜移默化交融在一起，使他的灵魂猛然间出现了奇妙的变化。他立刻惊恐地醒悟到自己已经坠入了深渊，堕落的岁月，可耻的欲念，悲观失望，才穷智竭，动机卑鄙——这一切构成了他的全部生活。
顷刻间，这种新的思想境界令他激动万分。一股迅急而强烈的冲动鼓舞着他去迎战坎坷的人生。他要把自己拖出泥淖，他要征服那一度驾驭自己的恶魔。时间尚不晚，他还算年轻，他要再现当年的雄心壮志，并坚定不移地去实现它。管风琴的庄重而甜美音调已经在他的内心深处引起了一场革命。明天，他要去繁华的商业区找事干。有个皮货进口商一度让他当司机，明天找到他，接下这份差事。他愿意做个煊赫一时的人物。他要……
索比感到有只手按在他的胳膊上。他霍地扭过头来，只见一位警察的宽脸盘。
"你在这儿干什么呀？"警察问道。
"没干什么，"索比说。
"那就跟我来，"警察说。
第二天早晨，警察局法庭的法官宣判道：“布莱克韦尔岛，三个月。”
①杰克·弗洛斯特（Jack Frost）：“霜冻"的拟人化称呼。
②布莱克韦尔岛（Blackwell）：在纽约东河上。岛上有监狱。
③棕榈滩（Palm Beach）：美国佛罗里达州东南部城镇，冬令游憩胜地。
④里维埃拉（The Riviera）：南欧沿地中海一段地区，在法国的东南部和意大利的西北部，是假节日憩游胜地。
⑤恺撒（Julius Caesar）：（100-44BC）罗马统帅、政治家，罗马的独裁者，被共和派贵族刺杀。布鲁图（Brutus）：（85-42BC）罗马贵族派政治家，刺杀恺撒的主谋，后逃希腊，集结
军队对抗安东尼和屋大维联军，因战败自杀。
⑥作者诙谐的说法，指美酒、华丽衣物和上流人物。
⑦夏布利酒（Chablis）：原产于法国的Ｃｈａｂｌｉｓ地方的一种无甜味的白葡萄酒。
⑧卡门贝（Carmembert）干酪（Cheese）：一种产于法国的软干酪。原为Ｆｒ．诺曼底一村庄，产此干酪而得名。
⑨指警察，因警察上衣的纽扣是黄铜制的。
⑩阿卡狄亚（Ａｒｃａｄｉａ）：原为古希腊一山区，现在伯罗奔尼撒半岛中部，以其居民过着田园牧歌式的淳朴生活而著称，现指"世外桃园”。
⑾英语谚语：国王不可能犯错误（King can do no wrong.）