About twelve o’clock, just as the bell of the packet is tolling1 a farewell to London Bridge, and warning off the blackguard-boys with the newspapers, who have been shoving Times, Herald3, Penny Paul-Pry, Penny Satirist4, Flare-up, and other abominations, into your face — just as the bell has tolled5, and the Jews, strangers, people-taking-leave-of-their-families, and blackguard-boys aforesaid, are making a rush for the narrow plank6 which conducts from the paddle-box of the “Emerald” steamboat unto the quay7 — you perceive, staggering down Thames Street, those two hackney-coaches, for the arrival of which you have been praying, trembling, hoping, despairing, swearing — sw — I beg your pardon, I believe the word is not used in polite company — and transpiring8, for the last half-hour. Yes, at last, the two coaches draw near, and from thence an awful number of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery-maids, hat-boxes, band-boxes, bonnet9-boxes, desks, cloaks, and an affectionate wife, are discharged on the quay.
“Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane,” screams that worthy10 woman, who has been for a fortnight employed in getting this tremendous body of troops and baggage into marching order. “Hicks! Hicks! for heaven’s sake mind the babies!”—“George — Edward, sir, if you go near that porter with the trunk, he will tumble down and kill you, you naughty boy! — My love, DO take the cloaks and umbrellas, and give a hand to Fanny and Lucy; and I wish you would speak to the hackney-coachmen, dear, they want fifteen shillings, and count the packages, love — twenty-seven packages — and bring little Flo; where’s little Flo? — Flo! Flo!”—(Flo comes sneaking11 in; she has been speaking a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, that sneaks12 off similarly, landward.)
As when the hawk13 menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes suddenly endowed with a ferocious15 presence of mind, and bristling16 up and screaming in the front of her brood, and in the face of circumstances, succeeds, by her courage, in putting her enemy to flight; in like manner you will always, I think, find your wife (if that lady be good for twopence) shrill17, eager, and ill-humored, before, and during a great family move of this nature. Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are paid, the mother leading on her regiment18 of little ones, and supported by her auxiliary19 nurse-maids, are safe in the cabin; — you have counted twenty-six of the twenty-seven parcels, and have them on board, and that horrid20 man on the paddle-box, who, for twenty minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW, SIR! — says, NOW, SIR, no more.
I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being always too busy among the trunks and children, for the first half-hour, to mark any of the movements of the vessel21. When these private arrangements are made, you find yourself opposite Greenwich (farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait!), and quiet begins to enter your soul. Your wife smiles for the first time these ten days; you pass by plantations22 of ship-masts, and forests of steam-chimneys; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the bargees salute23 you with oaths, grins, and phrases facetious24 and familiar; the man on the paddle-box roars, “Ease her, stop her!” which mysterious words a shrill voice from below repeats, and pipes out, “Ease her, stop her!” in echo; the deck is crowded with groups of figures, and the sun shines over all.
The sun shines over all, and the steward25 comes up to say, “Lunch, ladies and gentlemen! Will any lady or gentleman please to take anythink?” About a dozen do: boiled beef and pickles26, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt27 the epicure28: little dumpy bottles of stout29 are produced, and fizz and bang about with a spirit one would never have looked for in individuals of their size and stature30.
The decks have a strange, look; the people on them, that is. Wives, elderly stout husbands, nurse-maids, and children predominate, of course, in English steamboats. Such may be considered as the distinctive31 marks of the English gentleman at three or four and forty: two or three of such groups have pitched their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of young men, of whom three or four have allowed their moustaches to BEGIN to grow since last Friday; for they are going “on the Continent,” and they look, therefore, as if their upper lips were smeared32 with snuff.
A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. Followed by her bonne and her little dog, she paces the deck, stepping out, in the real dancer fashion, and ogling33 all around. How happy the two young Englishmen are, who can speak French, and make up to her: and how all criticise34 her points and paces! Yonder is a group of young ladies, who are going to Paris to learn how to be governesses: those two splendidly dressed ladies are milliners from the Rue35 Richelieu, who have just brought over, and disposed of, their cargo36 of Summer fashions. Here sits the Rev37. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is conducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addition to a classical and mathematical education (washing included), the young gentlemen have the benefit of learning French among THE FRENCH THEMSELVES. Accordingly, the young gentlemen are locked up in a great rickety house, two miles from Boulogne and never see a soul, except the French usher38 and the cook.
Some few French people are there already, preparing to be ill —(I never shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the little dark, dirty, six-foot cabin of a Dover steamer. Four gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons, in the costume of Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing themselves with some charm against sea-sickness!)— a few Frenchmen are there, but these, for the most part, and with a proper philosophy, go to the fore-cabin of the ship, and you see them on the fore-deck (is that the name for that part of the vessel which is in the region of the bowsprit?) lowering in huge cloaks and caps; snuffy, wretched, pale, and wet; and not jabbering40 now, as their wont41 is on shore. I never could fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea.
There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever travelled by steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, mule-back, or sledge42, without meeting some of the wandering race?
By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on the deck again, and dinner is ready: and about two hours after dinner comes tea; and then there is brandy-and-water, which he eagerly presses as a preventive against what may happen; and about this time you pass the Foreland, the wind blowing pretty fresh; and the groups on deck disappear, and your wife, giving you an alarmed look, descends44, with her little ones, to the ladies’ cabin, and you see the steward and his boys issuing from their den14 under the paddle-box, with each a heap of round tin vases, like those which are called, I believe, in America, expectoratoons, only these are larger.
. . . . . .
The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful than ever — ridge2 by ridge of long white rock passes away. “That’s Ramsgit,” says the man at the helm; and, presently, “That there’s Deal — it’s dreadful fallen off since the war;” and “That’s Dover, round that there pint45, only you can’t see it.” And, in the meantime, the sun has plumped his hot face into the water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as ever his back is turned, and Mrs. — (the wife in general,) has brought up her children and self from the horrid cabin, in which she says it is impossible to breathe; and the poor little wretches46 are, by the officious stewardess47 and smart steward (expectoratoonifer), accommodated with a heap of blankets, pillows, and mattresses48, in the midst of which they crawl, as best they may, and from the heaving heap of which are, during the rest of the voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and sounds of puking woe49!
Dear, dear Maria! Is this the woman who, anon, braved the jeers50 and brutal51 wrath52 of swindling hackney-coachmen; who repelled53 the insolence54 of haggling55 porters, with a scorn that brought down their demands at least eighteenpence? Is this the woman at whose voice servants tremble; at the sound of whose steps the nursery, ay, and mayhap the parlor56, is in order? Look at her now, prostrate57, prostrate — no strength has she to speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one — her suffering, struggling Rosa — to push to her the — the instrumentoon!
In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the passengers, who have their own woes58 (you yourself — for how can you help THEM? — you are on your back on a bench, and if you move all is up with you,) are looking on indifferent — one man there is who has been watching you with the utmost care, and bestowing59 on your helpless family the tenderness that a father denies them. He is a foreigner, and you have been conversing60 with him, in the course of the morning, in French — which, he says, you speak remarkably61 well, like a native in fact, and then in English (which, after all, you find is more convenient). What can express your gratitude62 to this gentleman for all his goodness towards your family and yourself — you talk to him, he has served under the Emperor, and is, for all that, sensible, modest, and well-informed. He speaks, indeed, of his countrymen almost with contempt, and readily admits the superiority of a Briton, on the seas and elsewhere. One loves to meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects the man who can sacrifice vanity to truth. This distinguished63 foreigner has travelled much; he asks whither you are going? — where you stop? if you have a great quantity of luggage on board? — and laughs when he hears of the twenty-seven packages, and hopes you have some friend at the custom-house, who can spare you the monstrous64 trouble of unpacking65 that which has taken you weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven, the distinguished foreigner is ever at your side; you find him now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude,) something of a bore, but, at least, he has been most tender to the children and their mamma. At last a Boulogne light comes in sight, (you see it over the bows of the vessel, when, having bobbed violently upwards66, it sinks swiftly down,) Boulogne harbor is in sight, and the foreigner says —
The distinguished foreigner says, says he —“Sare, eef you af no ‘otel, I sall recommend you, milor, to ze ‘Otel Betfort, in ze Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom-ha-oose. Good bets and fine garten, sare; table-d’h?te, sare, à cinq heures; breakfast, sare, in French or English style; — I am the commissionaire, sare, and vill see to your loggish.”
. . . Curse the fellow, for an impudent67, swindling, sneaking French humbug68! — Your tone instantly changes, and you tell him to go about his business: but at twelve o’clock at night, when the voyage is over, and the custom-house business done, knowing not whither to go, with a wife and fourteen exhausted69 children, scarce able to stand, and longing70 for bed, you find yourself, somehow, in the H?tel Bedford (and you can’t be better), and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to snug71 beds; while smart waiters produce for your honor — a cold fowl72, say, and a salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux and Seltzer-water.
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The morning comes — I don’t know a pleasanter feeling than that of waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although you have made the voyage a dozen times,) quite strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy a very light bed, which has a tall canopy73 of red “percale;” the windows are smartly draped with cheap gaudy74 calicoes and muslins; there are little mean strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and yet all seems as gay and as comfortable as may be — the sun shines brighter than you have seen it for a year, the sky is a thousand times bluer, and what a cheery clatter75 of shrill quick French voices comes up from the court-yard under the windows! Bells are jangling; a family, mayhap, is going to Paris, en poste, and wondrous76 is the jabber39 of the courier, the postilion, the inn-waiters, and the lookers-on. The landlord calls out for “Quatre biftecks aux pommes pour le trente-trois,”—(O my countrymen, I love your tastes and your ways!)— the chambermaid is laughing and says, “Finissez donc, Monsieur Pierre!” (what can they be about?)— a fat Englishman has opened his window violently, and says, “Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me donny lo sho, ou vooly voo pah?” He has been ringing for half an hour — the last energetic appeal succeeds, and shortly he is enabled to descend43 to the coffee-room, where, with three hot rolls, grilled77 ham, cold fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes what he calls his first FRENCH breakfast.
It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Boulogne; the little French fishermen’s children are beautiful, and the little French soldiers, four feet high, red-breeched, with huge pompons on their caps, and brown faces, and clear sharp eyes, look, for all their littleness, far more military and more intelligent than the heavy louts one has seen swaggering about the garrison79 towns in England. Yonder go a crowd of bare-legged fishermen; there is the town idiot, mocking a woman who is screaming “Fleuve du Tage,” at an inn-window, to a harp78, and there are the little gamins mocking HIM. Lo! these seven young ladies, with red hair and green veils, they are from neighboring Albion, and going to bathe. Here comes three Englishmen, habitués evidently of the place — dandy specimens80 of our countrymen: one wears a marine81 dress, another has a shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of guiltless spurs — all have as much hair on the face as nature or art can supply, and all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me, there is on the face of this world no scamp like an English one, no blackguard like one of these half-gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar — so ludicrously ignorant and conceited82, so desperately83 heartless and depraved.
But why, my dear sir, get into a passion? — Take things coolly. As the poet has observed, “Those only is gentlemen who behave as sich;” with such, then, consort84, be they cobblers or dukes. Don’t give us, cries the patriotic85 reader, any abuse of our fellow-countrymen (anybody else can do that), but rather continue in that good-humored, facetious, descriptive style with which your letter has commenced. — Your remark, sir, is perfectly86 just, and does honor to your head and excellent heart.
There is little need to give a description of the good town of Boulogne, which, haute and basse, with the new light-house and the new harbor, and the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and the convents, and the number of English and French residents, and the pillar erected87 in honor of the grand Armée d’Angleterre, so called because it DIDN’T go to England, have all been excellently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. Millingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine thing it is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon’s time argue how that audacious Corsican WOULD have marched to London, after swallowing Nelson and all his gun-boats, but for cette malheureuse guerre d’Espagne and cette glorieuse campagne d’Autriche, which the gold of Pitt caused to be raised at the Emperor’s tail, in order to call him off from the helpless country in his front. Some Frenchmen go farther still, and vow88 that in Spain they were never beaten at all; indeed, if you read in the Biographie des Hommes du Jour, article “Soult,” you will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of triumphs. Only, by looking at a map, it is observable that Vimeiro is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where, at the end of certain years of victories, we somehow find the honest Marshal. And what then? — he went to Toulouse for the purpose of beating the English there, to be sure; — a known fact, on which comment would be superfluous89. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate; let us break off further palaver90, and away at once . . . .
(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly91 requested to pay his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence of Laffitte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twenty-five hours, amidst much jingling92 of harness-bells and screaming of postilions.)
. . . . . .
The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to remove the greasy93 pieces of paper which have enveloped94 her locks during the journey. She withdraws the “Madras” of dubious95 hue96 which has bound her head for the last five-and-twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet97 bonnet, which, bobbing against your nose, has hung from the Diligence roof since your departure from Boulogne. The old lady in the opposite corner, who has been sucking bonbons98, and smells dreadfully of anisette, arranges her little parcels in that immense basket of abominations which all old women carry in their laps. She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cambric handkerchief, she ties up her nightcap into a little bundle, and replaces it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with withered99 artificial flowers, and crumpled100 tags of ribbon; she looks wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places her handkerchief before her mouth:— her eyes roll strangely about for an instant, and you hear a faint clattering101 noise: the old lady has been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket among the bonbons, pins, oranges, pomatum, bits of cake, lozenges, prayer-books, peppermint-water, copper102 money, and false hair — stowed away there during the voyage. The Jewish gentleman, who has been so attentive103 to the milliner during the journey, and is a traveller and bagman by profession, gathers together his various goods. The sallow-faced English lad, who has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne yesterday, and is coming to Paris to pursue the study of medicine, swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed Diligence, is sick of the infernal journey, and d — d glad that the d — d voyage is so nearly over. “Enfin!” says your neighbor, yawning, and inserting an elbow into the mouth of his right and left hand companion, “nous voilà.”
NOUS VOILà! — We are at Paris! This must account for the removal of the milliner’s curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady’s teeth. — Since the last relais, the Diligence has been travelling with extraordinary speed. The postilion cracks his terrible whip, and screams shrilly104. The conductor blows incessantly105 on his horn, the bells of the harness, the bumping and ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the great hoofs106 of the heavy snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously107 increased within this, the last ten minutes; and the Diligence, which has been proceeding108 hitherto at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes gallantly109 forward, as if it would traverse at least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it is, when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen’s — he useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He gallopeth at the commencement; in the middle he lingers; at the close, again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep; he cracketh the whip of his satire110; he shouts the shout of his patriotism111; and, urging his eloquence112 to its roughest canter, awakens113 the sleepers114, and inspires the weary, until men say, What a wondrous orator115! What a capital coach! We will ride henceforth in it, and in no other!
But, behold116 us at Paris! The Diligence has reached a rude-looking gate, or grille, flanked by two lodges117; the French Kings of old made their entry by this gate; some of the hottest battles of the late revolution were fought before it. At present, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, in green, examining the packages before they enter, probing the straw with long needles. It is the Barrier of St. Denis, and the green men are the customs’-men of the city of Paris. If you are a countryman, who would introduce a cow into the metropolis118, the city demands twenty-four francs for such a privilege: if you have a hundredweight of tallow-candles, you must, previously119, disburse120 three francs: if a drove of hogs121, nine francs per whole hog122: but upon these subjects Mr. Bulwer, Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have already enlightened the public. In the present instance, after a momentary123 pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, and the ponderous124 vehicle pursues its journey.
The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London street, where everything, in the dingy125 and smoky atmosphere, looks as though it were painted in India-ink — black houses, black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life and color. Before you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening126 line of GUTTER127 — not a very pleasing object in a city, but in a picture invaluable128. On each side are houses of all dimensions and hues129; some but of one story; some as high as the tower of Babel. From these the haberdashers (and this is their favorite street) flaunt130 long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gayety to the street. Milk-women, with a little crowd of gossips round each, are, at this early hour of morning, selling the chief material of the Parisian café-au-lait. Gay wine-shops, painted red, and smartly decorated with vines and gilded131 railings, are filled with workmen taking their morning’s draught132. That gloomy-looking prison on your right is a prison for women; once it was a convent for Lazarists: a thousand unfortunate individuals of the softer sex now occupy that mansion133: they bake, as we find in the guide-books, the bread of all the other prisons; they mend and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners; they make hooks-and-eyes and phosphorus-boxes, and they attend chapel134 every Sunday:— if occupation can help them, sure they have enough of it. Was it not a great stroke of the legislature to superintend the morals and linen135 at once, and thus keep these poor creatures continually mending? — But we have passed the prison long ago, and are at the Porte St. Denis itself.
There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass: it commemorates136 some of the wonderful feats137 of arms of Ludovicus Magnus, and abounds138 in ponderous allegories — nymphs, and river-gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis; Louis passing over the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up the ghost, in the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame the man some years afterwards; but of this fact, singularly enough, the inscriptions139 make no mention. Passing, then, round the gate, and not under it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and gleaming white buildings; then, dashing down the Rue de Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable, and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his horn, and the great vehicle clatters140 into the court — yard, where the journey is destined141 to conclude.
If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and cracked horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us now. We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the father of Diligences. Half a dozen other coaches arrive at the same minute — no light affairs, like your English vehicles, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers inside, more in the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof: others are loading: the yard is filled with passengers coming or departing; — bustling142 porters and screaming commissionaires. These latter seize you as you descend from your place — twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek143 into your ear, “Dis way, sare; are you for ze’ ‘Otel of Rhin?’ ‘H?tel de l’Amirauté!’—‘Hotel Bristol,’ sare! — Monsieur, ‘l’H?tel de Lille?’ Sacr-rrré ‘nom de Dieu, laissez passer ce petit, monsieur! Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare?”
And now, if you are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words of Titmarsh. — If you cannot speak a syllable144 of French, and love English comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and waiters; if you would have plentiful145 dinners, and are not particular (as how should you be?) concerning wine; if, in this foreign country, you WILL have your English companions, your porter, your friend, and your brandy-and-water — do not listen to any of these commissioner146 fellows, but with your best English accent, shout out boldly, “MEURICE!” and straightway a man will step forward to conduct you to the Rue de Rivoli.
Here you will find apartments at any price: a very neat room, for instance, for three francs daily; an English breakfast of eternal boiled eggs, or grilled ham; a nondescript dinner, profuse147 but cold; and a society which will rejoice your heart. Here are young gentlemen from the universities; young merchants on a lark148; large families of nine daughters, with fat father and mother; officers of dragoons, and lawyers’ clerks. The last time we dined at “Meurice’s” we hobbed and nobbed with no less a person than Mr. Moses, the celebrated149 bailiff of Chancery Lane; Lord Brougham was on his right, and a clergyman’s lady, with a train of white-haired girls, sat on his left, wonderfully taken with the diamond rings of the fascinating stranger!
It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see Paris, especially if you spend your days reading the English papers at Galignani’s, as many of our foreign tourists do.
But all this is promiscuous150, and not to the purpose. If — to continue on the subject of hotel choosing — if you love quiet, heavy bills, and the best table-d’h?te in the city, go, O stranger! to the “H?tel des Princes;” it is close to the Boulevard, and convenient for Frascati’s. The “H?tel Mirabeau” possesses scarcely less attraction; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bulwer’s “Autobiography of Pelham,” a faithful and complete account. “Lawson’s Hotel” has likewise its merits, as also the “H?tel de Lille,” which may be described as a “second chop” Meurice.
If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the pleasant art of amputation151, cross the water forthwith, and proceed to the “H?tel Corneille,” near the Odéon, or others of its species; there are many where you can live royally (until you economize152 by going into lodgings) on four francs a day; and where, if by any strange chance you are desirous for a while to get rid of your countrymen, you will find that they scarcely ever penetrate153.
But above all, O my countrymen! shun154 boarding-houses, especially if you have ladies in your train; or ponder well, and examine the characters of the keepers thereof, before you lead your innocent daughters, and their mamma, into places so dangerous. In the first place, you have bad dinners; and, secondly155, bad company. If you play cards, you are very likely playing with a swindler; if you dance, you dance with a —— person with whom you had better have nothing to do.
Note (which ladies are requested not to read). — In one of these establishments, daily advertised as most eligible156 for English, a friend of the writer lived. A lady, who had passed for some time as the wife of one of the inmates157, suddenly changed her husband and name, her original husband remaining in the house, and saluting158 her by her new title.
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1
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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transpiring
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的现在分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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19
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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20
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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21
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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22
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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23
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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24
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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25
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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26
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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27
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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28
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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30
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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31
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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32
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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33
ogling
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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34
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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35
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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36
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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37
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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38
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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39
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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40
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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41
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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42
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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43
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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44
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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45
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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46
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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47
stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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48
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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49
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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50
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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52
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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53
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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54
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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55
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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56
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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57
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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58
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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59
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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60
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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61
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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62
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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63
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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64
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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65
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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66
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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67
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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68
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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69
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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70
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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71
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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72
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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73
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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74
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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75
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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76
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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77
grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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78
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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79
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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80
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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81
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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82
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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83
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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84
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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85
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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86
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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87
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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88
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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89
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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90
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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91
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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92
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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93
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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94
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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96
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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97
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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98
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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99
withered
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|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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100
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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101
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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102
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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103
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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104
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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105
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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106
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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107
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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108
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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109
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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110
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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111
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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112
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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113
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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114
sleepers
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| 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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115
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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116
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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117
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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118
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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119
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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120
disburse
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| v.支出，拨款 | |
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121
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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122
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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123
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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124
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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125
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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126
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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127
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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128
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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129
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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130
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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131
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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132
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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133
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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134
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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135
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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136
commemorates
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| n.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的名词复数 )v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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138
abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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140
clatters
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| 盘碟刀叉等相撞击时的声音( clatter的名词复数 ) | |
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141
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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142
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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143
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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144
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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145
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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146
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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147
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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148
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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149
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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150
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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151
amputation
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| n.截肢 | |
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152
economize
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| v.节约，节省 | |
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153
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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154
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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155
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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156
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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157
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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158
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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