“Dear Sir,
“I write to you for literary employment, and I implore1 you to provide me with it if it be within your power to do so. My capacity for such work is not small, and my acquirements are considerable. My need is very great, and my views in regard to remuneration are modest. I was educated at ——, and was afterwards a scholar of —— College, Cambridge. I left the university without a degree, in consequence of a quarrel with the college tutor. I was rusticated2, and not allowed to return. After that I became for awhile a student for the{230} Chancery Bar. I then lived for some years in Paris, and I understand and speak French as though it were my own language. For all purposes of literature I am equally conversant3 with German. I read Italian. I am, of course, familiar with Latin. In regard to Greek I will only say that I am less ignorant of it than nineteen-twentieths of our national scholars. I am well read in modern and ancient history. I have especially studied political economy. I have not neglected other matters necessary to the education of an enlightened man,—unless it be natural philosophy. I can write English, and can write it with rapidity. I am a poet;—at least, I so esteem5 myself. I am not a believer. My character will not bear investigation6;—in saying which, I mean you to understand, not that I steal or cheat, but that I live in a dirty lodging7, spend many of my hours in a public-house, and cannot pay tradesmen’s bills where tradesmen have been found to trust me. I have a wife and four children,—which burden forbids me to free myself from all care by a bare bodkin. I am just past forty, and since I quarrelled with my family because I could not understand The Trinity, I have never been the owner of a ten-pound note. My wife was not a lady. I married her because I was determined8 to take refuge{231} from the conventional thraldom9 of so-called ‘gentlemen’ amidst the liberty of the lower orders. My life, of course, has been a mistake. Indeed, to live at all,—is it not a folly10?
“I am at present employed on the staff of two or three of the ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ Your august highness in literature has perhaps never heard of a ‘Penny Dreadful.’ I write for them matter, which we among ourselves call ‘blood and nastiness,’—and which is copied from one to another. For this I am paid forty-five shillings a week. For thirty shillings a week I will do any work that you may impose upon me for the term of six months. I write this letter as a last effort to rescue myself from the filth11 of my present position, but I entertain no hope of any success. If you ask it I will come and see you; but do not send for me unless you mean to employ me, as I am ashamed of myself. I live at No. 3, Cucumber Court, Gray’s Inn Lane;—but if you write, address to the care of Mr. Grimes, the Spotted12 Dog, Liquorpond Street. Now I have told you my whole life, and you may help me if you will. I do not expect an answer.
“Yours truly,
“Julius Mackenzie.”
{232}
Indeed he had told us his whole life, and what a picture of a life he had drawn13! There was something in the letter which compelled attention. It was impossible to throw it, half read, into the waste-paper basket, and to think of it not at all. We did read it, probably twice, and then put ourselves to work to consider how much of it might be true and how much false. Had the man been a boy at ——, and then a scholar of his college? We concluded that, so far, the narrative14 was true. Had he abandoned his dependence15 on wealthy friends from conscientious16 scruples17, as he pretended; or had other and less creditable reasons caused the severance18? On that point we did not quite believe him. And then, as to those assertions made by himself in regard to his own capabilities,—how far did they gain credence20 with us? We think that we believed them all, making some small discount,—with the exception of that one in which he proclaimed himself to be a poet. A man may know whether he understands French, and be quite ignorant whether the rhymed lines which he produces are or are not poetry. When he told us that he was an infidel, and that his character would not bear investigation, we went with him altogether. His allusion21 to suicide we regarded as a foolish boast. We{233} gave him credit for the four children, but were not certain about the wife. We quite believed the general assertion of his impecuniosity22. That stuff about “conventional thraldom” we hope we took at its worth. When he told us that his life had been a mistake he spoke23 to us Gospel truth.
Of the “Penny Dreadfuls,” and of “blood and nastiness,” so called, we had never before heard, but we did not think it remarkable24 that a man so gifted as our correspondent should earn forty-five shillings a week by writing for the cheaper periodicals. It did not, however, appear to us probable that any one so remunerated would be willing to leave that engagement for another which should give him only thirty shillings. When he spoke of the “filth of his present position,” our heart began to bleed for him. We know what it is so well, and can fathom25 so accurately26 the degradation27 of the educated man who, having been ambitious in the career of literature, falls into that slough28 of despond by which the profession of literature is almost surrounded. There we were with him, as brothers together. When we came to Mr. Grimes and the Spotted Dog, in Liquorpond Street, we thought that we had better refrain from answering the letter,—by which decision on our part he would not,{234} according to his own statement, be much disappointed. Mr. Julius Mackenzie! Perhaps at this very time rich uncles and aunts were buttoning up their pockets against the sinner because of his devotion to the Spotted Dog. There are well-to-do people among the Mackenzies. It might be the case that that heterodox want of comprehension in regard to The Trinity was the cause of it: but we have observed that in most families, grievous as are doubts upon such sacred subjects, they are not held to be cause of hostility30 so invincible31 as is a thorough-going devotion to a Spotted Dog. If the Spotted Dog had brought about these troubles, any interposition from ourselves would be useless.
For twenty-four hours we had given up all idea of answering the letter; but it then occurred to us that men who have become disreputable as drunkards do not put forth32 their own abominations when making appeals for aid. If this man were really given to drink he would hardly have told us of his association with the public-house. Probably he was much at the Spotted Dog, and hated himself for being there. The more we thought of it the more we fancied that the gist33 of his letter might be true. It seemed that the man had desired to tell the truth as he himself believed it.{235}
It so happened that at that time we had been asked to provide an index to a certain learned manuscript in three volumes. The intended publisher of the work had already procured34 an index from a professional compiler of such matters; but the thing had been so badly done that it could not be used. Some knowledge of the classics was required, though it was not much more than a familiarity with the names of Latin and Greek authors, to which perhaps should be added some acquaintance, with the names also, of the better-known editors and commentators36. The gentleman who had had the task in hand had failed conspicuously37, and I had been told by my enterprising friend Mr. X——, the publisher, that ￡25 would be freely paid on the proper accomplishment38 of the undertaking39. The work, apparently40 so trifling41 in its nature, demanded a scholar’s acquirements, and could hardly be completed in less than two months. We had snubbed the offer, saying that we should be ashamed to ask an educated man to give his time and labour for so small a remuneration;—but to Mr. Julius Mackenzie ￡25 for two months’ work would manifestly be a godsend. If Mr. Julius Mackenzie did in truth possess the knowledge for which he gave himself credit; if he was, as he said, “familiar with Latin,” and was “less ignorant{236} of Greek than nineteen-twentieths of our national scholars,” he might perhaps be able to earn this ￡25. We certainly knew no one else who could and who would do the work properly for that money. We therefore wrote to Mr. Julius Mackenzie, and requested his presence. Our note was short, cautious, and also courteous42. We regretted that a man so gifted should be driven by stress of circumstances to such need. We could undertake nothing, but if it would not put him to too much trouble to call upon us, we might perhaps be able to suggest something to him. Precisely43 at the hour named Mr. Julius Mackenzie came to us.
We well remember his appearance, which was one unutterably painful to behold44. He was a tall man, very thin,—thin we might say as a whipping-post, were it not that one’s idea of a whipping-post conveys erectness45 and rigidity46, whereas this man, as he stood before us, was full of bends, and curves, and crookedness47. His big head seemed to lean forward over his miserably49 narrow chest. His back was bowed, and his legs were crooked48 and tottering50. He had told us that he was over forty, but we doubted, and doubt now, whether he had not added something to his years, in order partially51 to excuse the wan29, worn weariness of his countenance52. He carried an{237} infinity53 of thick, ragged54, wild, dirty hair, dark in colour, though not black, which age had not yet begun to grizzle. He wore a miserable55 attempt at a beard, stubbly, uneven56, and half shorn,—as though it had been cut down within an inch of his chin with blunt scissors. He had two ugly projecting teeth, and his cheeks were hollow. His eyes were deep-set, but very bright, illuminating57 his whole face; so that it was impossible to look at him and to think him to be one wholly insignificant58. His eyebrows59 were large and shaggy, but well formed, not meeting across the brow, with single, stiffly-projecting hairs,—a pair of eyebrows which added much strength to his countenance. His nose was long and well shaped,—but red as a huge carbuncle. The moment we saw him we connected that nose with the Spotted Dog. It was not a blotched nose, not a nose covered with many carbuncles, but a brightly red, smooth, well-formed nose, one glowing carbuncle in itself. He was dressed in a long brown great-coat, which was buttoned up round his throat, and which came nearly to his feet. The binding60 of the coat was frayed61, the buttons were half uncovered, the button-holes were tattered62, the velvet63 collar had become party-coloured with dirt and usage. It was in the month of December, and a great-coat was needed; but this great-coat looked{238} as though it were worn because other garments were not at his command. Not an inch of linen64 or even of flannel65 shirt was visible. Below his coat we could only see his broken boots and the soiled legs of his trousers, which had reached that age which in trousers defies description. When we looked at him we could not but ask ourselves whether this man had been born a gentleman and was still a scholar. And yet there was that in his face which prompted us to believe the account he had given of himself. As we looked at him we felt sure that he possessed66 keen intellect, and that he was too much of a man to boast of acquirements which he did not believe himself to possess. We shook hands with him, asked him to sit down, and murmured something of our sorrow that he should be in distress67.
“I am pretty well used to it,” said he. There was nothing mean in his voice;—there was indeed a touch of humour in it, and in his manner there was nothing of the abjectness68 of supplication69. We had his letter in our hands, and we read a portion of it again as he sat opposite to us. We then remarked that we did not understand how he, having a wife and family dependent on him, could offer to give up a third of his income with the mere70 object of changing the nature of his work. “You{239} don’t know what it is,” said he, “to write for the ‘Penny Dreadfuls.’ I’m at it seven hours a day, and hate the very words that I write. I cursed myself afterwards for sending that letter. I know that to hope is to be an ass19. But I did send it, and here I am.”
We looked at his nose and felt that we must be careful before we suggested to our learned friend Dr. —— to put his manuscript into the hands of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. If it had been a printed book the attempt might have been made without much hazard, but our friend’s work, which was elaborate, and very learned, had not yet reached the honours of the printing-house. We had had our own doubts whether it might ever assume the form of a real book; but our friend, who was a wealthy as well as a learned man, was, as yet, very determined. He desired, at any rate, that the thing should be perfected, and his publisher had therefore come to us offering ￡25 for the codification71 and index. Were anything other than good to befall his manuscript, his lamentations would be loud, not on his own score,—but on behalf of learning in general. It behoved us therefore to be cautious. We pretended to read the letter again, in order that we might gain time for a{240} decision, for we were greatly frightened by that gleaming nose.
Let the reader understand that the nose was by no means Bardolphian. If we have read Shakespeare aright Bardolph’s nose was a thing of terror from its size as well as its hue72. It was a mighty73 vat74, into which had ascended75 all the divinest particles distilled76 from the cellars of the hostelrie in Eastcheap. Such at least is the idea which stage representations have left upon all our minds. But the nose now before us was a well-formed nose, would have been a commanding nose,—for the power of command shows itself much in the nasal organ,—had it not been for its colour. While we were thinking of this, and doubting much as to our friend’s manuscript, Mr. Mackenzie interrupted us. “You think I am a drunkard,” said he. The man’s mother-wit had enabled him to read our inmost thoughts.
As we looked up the man had risen from his chair, and was standing77 over us. He loomed78 upon us very tall, although his legs were crooked, and his back bent79. Those piercing eyes, and that nose which almost assumed an air of authority as he carried it, were a great way above us. There seemed to be an infinity of that old brown great-coat. He had divined our thoughts, and we{241} did not dare to contradict him. We felt that a weak, vapid80, unmanly smile was creeping over our face. We were smiling as a man smiles who intends to imply some contemptuous assent81 with the self-depreciating comment of his companion. Such a mode of expression is in our estimation most cowardly, and most odious82. We had not intended it, but we knew that the smile had pervaded83 us. “Of course you do,” said he. “I was a drunkard, but I am not one now. It doesn’t matter;—only I wish you hadn’t sent for me. I’ll go away at once.”
So saying, he was about to depart, but we stopped him. We assured him with much energy that we did not mean to offend him. He protested that there was no offence. He was too well used to that kind of thing to be made “more than wretched by it.” Such was his heart-breaking phrase. “As for anger, I’ve lost all that long ago. Of course you take me for a drunkard, and I should still be a drunkard, only——”
“Only what?” I asked.
“It don’t matter,” said he. “I need not trouble you more than I have said already. You haven’t got anything for me to do, I suppose?” Then I explained to him that I had something he might do, if I could{242} venture to entrust85 him with the work. With some trouble I got him to sit down again, and to listen while I explained to him the circumstances. I had been grievously afflicted86 when he alluded87 to his former habit of drinking,—a former habit as he himself now stated,—but I entertained no hesitation88 in raising questions as to his erudition. I felt almost assured that his answers would be satisfactory, and that no discomfiture89 would arise from such questioning. We were quickly able to perceive that we at any rate could not examine him in classical literature. As soon as we mentioned the name and nature of the work he went off at score, and satisfied us amply that he was familiar at least with the title-pages of editions. We began, indeed, to fear whether he might not be too caustic90 a critic on our own friend’s performance. “Dr. —— is only an amateur himself,” said we, deprecating in advance any such exercise of the red-nosed man’s too severe erudition. “We never get much beyond dilettanteism here,” said he, “as far as Greek and Latin are concerned.” What a terrible man he would have been could he have got upon the staff of th e Saturday Review, instead of going to the Spotted Dog!
We endeavoured to bring the interview to an end by{243} telling him that we would consult the learned doctor from whom the manuscript had emanated91; and we hinted that a reference would be of course acceptable. His impudence,—or perhaps we should rather call it his straightforward92 sincere audacity,—was unbounded. “Mr. Grimes of the Spotted Dog knows me better than any one else,” said he. We blew the breath out of our mouth with astonishment93. “I’m not asking you to go to him to find out whether I know Latin and Greek,” said Mr. Mackenzie. “You must find that out for yourself.” We assured him that we thought we had found that out. “But he can tell you that I won’t pawn94 your manuscript.” The man was so grim and brave that he almost frightened us. We hinted, however, that literary reference should be given. The gentleman who paid him forty-five shillings a week,—the manager, in short, of the “Penny Dreadful,”—might tell us something of him. Then he wrote for us a name on a scrap95 of paper, and added to it an address in the close vicinity of Fleet Street, at which we remembered to have seen the title of a periodical which we now knew to be a “Penny Dreadful.”
Before he took his leave he made us a speech, again standing up over us, though we also were on our legs. It was that bend in his neck, combined with his natural{244} height, which gave him such an air of superiority in conversation. He seemed to overshadow us, and to have his own way with us, because he was enabled to look down upon us. There was a footstool on our hearth-rug, and we remember to have attempted to stand upon that, in order that we might escape this supervision96; but we stumbled and had to kick it from us, and something was added to our sense of inferiority by this little failure. “I don’t expect much from this,” he said. “I never do expect much. And I have misfortunes independent of my poverty which make it impossible that I should be other than a miserable wretch84.”
“Bad health?” we asked.
“No;—nothing absolutely personal;—but never mind. I must not trouble you with more of my history. But if you can do this thing for me, it may be the means of redeeming97 me from utter degradation.” We then assured him that we would do our best, and he left us with a promise that he would call again on that day week.
The first step which we took on his behalf was one the very idea of which had at first almost moved us to ridicule98. We made enquiry respecting Mr. Julius Mackenzie, of Mr. Grimes, the landlord of the Spotted Dog. Though Mr. Grimes did keep the Spotted Dog, he might be a man{245} of sense and, possibly, of conscience. At any rate he would tell us something, or confirm our doubts by refusing to tell us anything. We found Mr. Grimes seated in a very neat little back parlour, and were peculiarly taken by the appearance of a lady in a little cap and black silk gown, whom we soon found to be Mrs. Grimes. Had we ventured to employ our intellect in personifying for ourselves an imaginary Mrs. Grimes as the landlady99 of a Spotted Dog public-house in Liquorpond Street, the figure we should have built up for ourselves would have been the very opposite of that which this lady presented to us. She was slim, and young, and pretty, and had pleasant little tricks of words, in spite of occasional slips in her grammar, which made us almost think that it might be our duty to come very often to the Spotted Dog to enquire100 about Mr. Julius Mackenzie. Mr. Grimes was a man about forty,—fully ten years the senior of his wife,—with a clear gray eye, and a mouth and chin from which we surmised101 that he would be competent to clear the Spotted Dog of unruly visitors after twelve o’clock, whenever it might be his wish to do so. We soon made known our request. Mr. Mackenzie had come to us for literary employment. Could they tell us anything about Mr. Mackenzie?{246}
“He’s as clever an author, in the way of writing and that kind of thing, as there is in all London,” said Mrs. Grimes with energy. Perhaps her opinion ought not to have been taken for much, but it had its weight. We explained, however, that at the present moment we were specially4 anxious to know something of the gentleman’s character and mode of life. Mr. Grimes, whose manner to us was quite courteous, sat silent, thinking how to answer us. His more impulsive102 and friendly wife was again ready with her assurance. “There aint an honester gentleman breathing;—and I say he is a gentleman, though he’s that poor he hasn’t sometimes a shirt to his back.”
“I don’t think he’s ever very well off for shirts,” said Mr. Grimes.
“I wouldn’t be slow to give him one of yours, John, only I know he wouldn’t take it,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Well now, look here, Sir;—we’ve that feeling for him that our young woman there would draw anything for him he’d ask—money or no money. She’d never venture to name money to him if he wanted a glass of anything,—hot or cold, beer or spirits. Isn’t that so, John?”
“She’s fool enough for anything as far as I know,” said Mr. Grimes.{247}
“She aint no fool at all; and I’d do the same if I was there, and so’d you, John. There is nothing Mackenzie’d ask as he wouldn’t give him,” said Mrs. Grimes, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder to her husband, who was standing on the hearth-rug;—“that is, in the way of drawing liquor, and refreshments103, and such like. But he never raised a glass to his lips in this house as he didn’t pay for, nor yet took a biscuit out of that basket. He’s a gentleman all over, is Mackenzie.”
It was strong testimony104; but still we had not quite got at the bottom of the matter. “Doesn’t he raise a great many glasses to his lips?” we asked.
“No he don’t,” said Mrs. Grimes,—“only in reason.”
“He’s had misfortunes,” said Mr. Grimes.
“Indeed he has,” said the lady,—“what I call the very troublesomest of troubles. If you was troubled like him, John, where’d you be?”
“I know where you’d be,” said John.
“He’s got a bad wife, Sir; the worst as ever was,” continued Mrs. Grimes. “Talk of drink;—there is nothing that woman wouldn’t do for it. She’d pawn the very clothes off her children’s back in mid-winter to get it. She’d rob the food out of her husband’s mouth for a drop of gin. As for herself,—she aint no woman’s{248} notions left of keeping herself any way. She’d as soon be picked out of the gutter105 as not;—and as for words out of her mouth or clothes on her back, she hasn’t got, Sir, not an item of a female’s feelings left about her.”
Mrs. Grimes had been very eloquent106, and had painted the “troublesomest of all troubles” with glowing words. This was what the wretched man had come to by marrying a woman who was not a lady in order that he might escape the “conventional thraldom” of gentility! But still the drunken wife was not all. There was the evidence of his own nose against himself, and the additional fact that he had acknowledged himself to have been formerly107 a drunkard. “I suppose he has drunk, himself?” we said.
“He has drunk, in course,” said Mrs. Grimes.
“The world has been pretty rough with him, Sir,” said Mr. Grimes.
“But he don’t drink now,” continued the lady. “At least if he do, we don’t see it. As for her, she wouldn’t show herself inside our door.”
“It aint often that man and wife draws their milk from the same cow,” said Mr. Grimes.
“But Mackenzie is here every day of his life,” said Mrs. Grimes. “When he’s got a sixpence to pay for it,{249} he’ll come in here and have a glass of beer and a bit of something to eat. We does make him a little extra welcome, and that’s the truth of it. We knows what he is, and we knows what he was. As for book learning, Sir;—it don’t matter what language it is, it’s all as one to him. He knows ’em all round just as I know my catechism.”
“Can’t you say fairer than that for him, Polly?” asked Mr. Grimes.
“Don’t you talk of catechisms, John, nor yet of nothing else as a man ought to set his mind to;—unless it is keeping the Spotted Dog. But as for Mackenzie;—he knows off by heart whole books full of learning. There was some furreners here as come from,—I don’t know where it was they come from, only it wasn’t France, nor yet Germany, and he talked to them just as though he hadn’t been born in England at all. I don’t think there ever was such a man for knowing things. He’ll go on with poetry out of his own head till you think it comes from him like web from a spider.” We could not help thinking of the wonderful companionship which there must have been in that parlour while the reduced man was spinning his web and Mrs. Grimes, with her needlework lying idle in her lap, was sitting by, listening with rapt admiration108. In passing by the Spotted Dog one{250} would not imagine such a scene to have its existence within. But then so many things do have existence of which we imagine nothing!
Mr. Grimes ended the interview. “The fact is, Sir, if you can give him employment better than what he has now, you’ll be helping109 a man who has seen better days, and who only wants help to see ’em again. He’s got it all there,” and Mr. Grimes put his finger up to his head.
“He’s got it all here too,” said Mrs. Grimes, laying her hand upon her heart. Hereupon we took our leave, suggesting to these excellent friends that if it should come to pass that we had further dealings with Mr. Mackenzie we might perhaps trouble them again. They assured us that we should always be welcome, and Mr. Grimes himself saw us to the door, having made profuse110 offers of such good cheer as the house afforded. We were upon the whole much taken with the Spotted Dog.
From thence we went to the office of the “Penny Dreadful,” in the vicinity of Fleet Street. As we walked thither111 we could not but think of Mrs. Grimes’s words. The troublesomest of troubles! We acknowledged to ourselves that they were true words. Can there be any trouble more troublesome than that of suffering from the shame inflicted112 by a degraded wife? We had just parted{251} from Mr. Grimes,—not, indeed, having seen very much of him in the course of our interview;—but little as we had seen, we were sure that he was assisted in his position by a buoyant pride in that he called himself the master, and owner, and husband of Mrs. Grimes. In the very step with which he passed in and out of his own door you could see that there was nothing that he was ashamed of about his household. When abroad he could talk of his “missus” with a conviction that the picture which the word would convey to all who heard him would redound113 to his honour. But what must have been the reflections of Julius Mackenzie when his mind dwelt upon his wife? We remembered the words of his letter. “I have a wife and four children, which burden forbids me to free myself from all care with a bare bodkin.” As we thought of them, and of the story which had been told to us at the Spotted Dog, they lost that tone of rhodomontade with which they had invested themselves when we first read them. A wife who is indifferent to being picked out of the gutter, and who will pawn her children’s clothes for gin, must be a trouble than which none can be more troublesome.
We did not find that we ingratiated ourselves with the people at the office of the periodical for which Mr.{252} Mackenzie worked; and yet we endeavoured to do so, assuming in our manner and tone something of the familiarity of a common pursuit. After much delay we came upon a gentleman sitting in a dark cupboard, who twisted round his stool to face us while he spoke to us. We believe that he was the editor of more than one “Penny Dreadful,” and that as many as a dozen serial114 novels were being issued to the world at the same time under his supervision. “Oh!” said he, “so you’re at that game, are you?” We assured him that we were at no game at all, but were simply influenced by a desire to assist a distressed115 scholar. “That be blowed,” said our brother. “Mackenzie’s doing as well here as he’ll do anywhere. He’s a drunken blackguard, when all’s said and done. So you’re going to buy him up, are you? You won’t keep him long,—and then he’ll have to starve.” We assured the gentleman that we had no desire to buy up Mr. Mackenzie; we explained our ideas as to the freedom of the literary profession, in accordance with which Mr. Mackenzie could not be wrong in applying to us for work; and we especially deprecated any severity on our brother’s part towards the man, more especially begging that nothing might be decided116, as we were far from thinking it certain that we could provide{253} Mr. Mackenzie with any literary employment. “That’s all right,” said our brother, twisting back his stool. “He can’t work for both of us;—that’s all. He has his bread here regular, week after week; and I don’t suppose you’ll do as much as that for him.” Then we went away, shaking the dust off our feet, and wondering much at the great development of literature which latter years have produced. We had not even known of the existence of these papers;—and yet there they were, going forth into the hands of hundreds of thousands of readers, all of whom were being, more or less, instructed in their modes of life and manner of thinking by the stories which were thus brought before them.
But there might be truth in what our brother had said to us. Should Mr. Mackenzie abandon his present engagement for the sake of the job which we proposed to put in his hands, might he not thereby117 injure rather than improve his prospects118? We were acquainted with only one learned doctor desirous of having his manuscripts codified119 and indexed at his own expense. As for writing for the periodical with which we were connected, we knew enough of the business to be aware that Mr. Mackenzie’s gifts of erudition would very probably not so much assist him in attempting such work as would his{254} late training act against him. A man might be able to read and even talk a dozen languages,—“just as though he hadn’t been born in England at all,”—and yet not write the language with which we dealt after the fashion which suited our readers. It might be that he would fly much above our heads, and do work infinitely120 too big for us. We did not regard our own heads as being very high. But, for such altitude as they held, a certain class of writing was adapted. The gentleman whom we had just left would require, no doubt, altogether another style. It was probable that Mr. Mackenzie had already fitted himself to his present audience. And, even were it not so, we could not promise him forty-five shillings a week, or even that thirty shillings for which he asked. There is nothing more dangerous than the attempt to befriend a man in middle life by transplanting him from one soil to another.
When Mr. Mackenzie came to us again we endeavoured to explain all this to him. We had in the meantime seen our friend the Doctor, whose beneficence of spirit in regard to the unfortunate man of letters was extreme. He was charmed with our account of the man, and saw with his mind’s eye the work, for the performance of which he was pining, perfected in a manner that would{255} be a blessing121 to the scholars of all future ages. He was at first anxious to ask Julius Mackenzie down to his rectory, and, even after we had explained to him that this would not at present be expedient122, was full of a dream of future friendship with a man who would be able to discuss the digamma with him, who would have studied Greek metres, and have an opinion of his own as to Porson’s canon. We were in possession of the manuscript, and had our friend’s authority for handing it over to Mr. Mackenzie.
He came to us according to appointment, and his nose seemed to be redder than ever. We thought that we discovered a discouraging flavour of spirits in his breath. Mrs. Grimes had declared that he drank,—only in reason; but the ideas of the wife of a publican,—even though that wife were Mrs. Grimes,—might be very different from our own as to what was reasonable in that matter. And as we looked at him he seemed to be more rough, more ragged, almost more wretched than before. It might be that, in taking his part with my brother of the “Penny Dreadful,” with the Doctor, and even with myself in thinking over his claims, I had endowed him with higher qualities than I had been justified123 in giving to him. As I considered him and his appearance I{256} certainly could not assure myself that he looked like a man worthy124 to be trusted. A policeman, seeing him at a street corner, would have had an eye upon him in a moment. He rubbed himself together within his old coat, as men do when they come out of gin-shops. His eye was as bright as before, but we thought that his mouth was meaner, and his nose redder. We were almost disenchanted with him. We said nothing to him at first about the Spotted Dog, but suggested to him our fears that if he undertook work at our hands he would lose the much more permanent employment which he got from the gentleman whom we had seen in the cupboard. We then explained to him that we could promise to him no continuation of employment.
The violence with which he cursed the gentleman who had sat in the cupboard appalled125 us, and had, we think, some effect in bringing back to us that feeling of respect for him which we had almost lost. It may be difficult to explain why we respected him because he cursed and swore horribly. We do not like cursing and swearing, and were any of our younger contributors to indulge themselves after that fashion in our presence we should, at the very least,—frown upon them. We did not frown upon Julius Mackenzie, but stood up, gazing into his face{257} above us, again feeling that the man was powerful. Perhaps we respected him because he was not in the least afraid of us. He went on to assert that he cared not,—not a straw, we will say,—for the gentleman in the cupboard. He knew the gentleman in the cupboard very well; and the gentleman in the cupboard knew him. As long as he took his work to the gentleman in the cupboard, the gentleman in the cupboard would be only too happy to purchase that work at the rate of sixpence for a page of manuscript containing two hundred and fifty words. That was his rate of payment for prose fiction, and at that rate he could earn forty-five shillings a week. He wasn’t afraid of the gentleman in the cupboard. He had had some words with the gentleman in the cupboard before now, and they two understood each other very well. He hinted, moreover, that there were other gentlemen in other cupboards; but with none of them could he advance beyond forty-five shillings a week. For this he had to sit, with his pen in his hand, seven hours seven days a week, and the very paper, pens, and ink came to fifteenpence out of the money. He had struck for wages once, and for a halcyon126 month or two had carried his point of sevenpence halfpenny a page; but the gentlemen in the cupboards had told him that it could not be.{258} They, too, must live. His matter was no doubt attractive; but any price above sixpence a page unfitted it for their market. All this Mr. Julius Mackenzie explained to us with much violence of expression. When I named Mrs. Grimes to him the tone of his voice was altered. “Yes,” said he, “I thought they’d say a word for me. They’re the best friends I’ve got now. I don’t know that you ought quite to believe her, for I think she’d perhaps tell a lie to do me a service.” We assured him that we did believe every word Mrs. Grimes had said to us.
After much pausing over the matter we told him that we were empowered to trust him with our friend’s work, and the manuscript was produced upon the table. If he would undertake the work and perform it, he should be paid ￡8: 6s.: 8d. for each of the three volumes as they were completed. And we undertook, moreover, on our own responsibility, to advance him money in small amounts through the hands of Mrs. Grimes, if he really settled himself to the task. At first he was in ecstasies128, and as we explained to him the way in which the index should be brought out and the codification performed, he turned over the pages rapidly, and showed us that he understood at any rate the nature of the work to be{259} done. But when we came to details he was less happy. In what workshop was this new work to be performed? There was a moment in which we almost thought of telling him to do the work in our own room; but we hesitated, luckily, remembering that his continual presence with us for two or three months would probably destroy us altogether. It appeared that his present work was done sometimes at the Spotted Dog, and sometimes at home in his lodgings129. He said not a word to us about his wife, but we could understand that there would be periods in which to work at home would be impossible to him. He did not pretend to deny that there might be danger on that score, nor did he ask permission to take the entire manuscript at once away to his abode130. We knew that if he took part he must take the whole, as the work could not be done in parts. Counter references would be needed. “My circumstances are bad;—very bad indeed,” he said. We expressed the great trouble to which we should be subjected if any evil should happen to the manuscript. “I will give it up,” he said, towering over us again, and shaking his head. “I cannot expect that I should be trusted.” But we were determined that it should not be given up. Sooner than give the matter up we would make some arrangement by{260} hiring a place in which he might work. Even though we were to pay ten shillings a week for a room for him out of the money, the bargain would be a good one for him. At last we determined that we would pay a second visit to the Spotted Dog, and consult Mrs. Grimes. We felt that we should have a pleasure in arranging together with Mrs. Grimes any scheme of benevolence131 on behalf of this unfortunate and remarkable man. So we told him that we would think over the matter, and send a letter to his address at the Spotted Dog, which he should receive on the following morning. He then gathered himself up, rubbed himself together again inside his coat, and took his departure.
As soon as he was gone we sat looking at the learned Doctor’s manuscript, and thinking of what we had done. There lay the work of years, by which our dear and venerable old friend expected that he would take rank among the great commentators of modern times. We, in truth, did not anticipate for him all the glory to which he looked forward. We feared that there might be disappointment. Hot discussion on verbal accuracies or on rules of metre are perhaps not so much in vogue132 now as they were a hundred years ago. There might be disappointment and great sorrow; but we could not with{261} equanimity133 anticipate the prevention of this sorrow by the possible loss or destruction of the manuscript which had been entrusted134 to us. The Doctor himself had seemed to anticipate no such danger. When we told him of Mackenzie’s learning and misfortunes, he was eager at once that the thing should be done, merely stipulating135 that he should have an interview with Mr. Mackenzie before he returned to his rectory.
That same day we went to the Spotted Dog, and found Mrs. Grimes alone. Mackenzie had been there immediately after leaving our room, and had told her what had taken place. She was full of the subject and anxious to give every possible assistance. She confessed at once that the papers would not be safe in the rooms inhabited by Mackenzie and his wife. “He pays five shillings a week,” she said, “for a wretched place round in Cucumber Court. They are all huddled137 together, any way; and how he manages to do a thing at all there,—in the way of author-work,—is a wonder to everybody. Sometimes he can’t, and then he’ll sit for hours together at the little table in our tap-room.” We went into the tap-room and saw the little table. It was a wonder indeed that any one should be able to compose and write tales of imagination in a place so dreary138, dark, and ill-omened. The{262} little table was hardly more than a long slab139 or plank140, perhaps eighteen inches wide. When we visited the place there were two brewers’ draymen seated there, and three draggled, wretched-looking women. The carters were eating enormous hunches141 of bread and bacon, which they cut and put into their mouths slowly, solemnly, and in silence. The three women were seated on a bench, and when I saw them had no signs of festivity before them. It must be presumed that they had paid for something, or they would hardly have been allowed to sit there. “It’s empty now,” said Mrs. Grimes, taking no immediate136 notice of the men or of the women; “but sometimes he’ll sit writing in that corner, when there’s such a jabber142 of voices as you wouldn’t hear a cannon143 go off over at Reid’s, and that thick with smoke you’d a’most cut it with a knife. Don’t he, Peter?” The man whom she addressed endeavoured to prepare himself for answer by swallowing at the moment three square inches of bread and bacon, which he had just put into his mouth. He made an awful effort, but failed; and, failing, nodded his head three times. “They all know him here, Sir,” continued Mrs. Grimes. “He’ll go on writing, writing, writing, for hours together; and nobody’ll say nothing to him. Will they, Peter?” Peter,{263} who was now half-way through the work he had laid out for himself, muttered some inarticulate grunt144 of assent.
We then went back to the snug145 little room inside the bar. It was quite clear to me that the man could not manipulate the Doctor’s manuscript, of which he would have to spread a dozen sheets before him at the same time, in the place I had just visited. Even could he have occupied the chamber146 alone, the accommodation would not have been sufficient for the purpose. It was equally clear that he could not be allowed to use Mrs. Grimes’s snuggery. “How are we to get a place for him?” said I, appealing to the lady. “He shall have a place,” she said, “I’ll go bail147; he sha’n’t lose the job for want of a workshop.” Then she sat down and began to think it over. I was just about to propose the hiring of some decent room in the neighbourhood, when she made a suggestion, which I acknowledge startled me. “I’ll have a big table put into my own bed-room,” said she, “and he shall do it there. There aint another hole or corner about the place as’d suit; and he can lay the gentleman’s papers all about on the bed, square and clean and orderly. Can’t he now? And I can see after ’em, as he don’t lose ’em. Can’t I now?”{264}
By this time there had sprung up an intimacy148 between ourselves and Mrs. Grimes which seemed to justify149 an expression of the doubt which I then threw on the propriety150 of such a disarrangement of her most private domestic affairs. “Mr. Grimes will hardly approve of that,” we said.
“Oh, John won’t mind. What’ll it matter to John as long as Mackenzie is out in time for him to go to bed? We aint early birds, morning or night,—that’s true. In our line folks can’t be early. But from ten to six there’s the room, and he shall have it. Come up and see, Sir.” So we followed Mrs. Grimes up the narrow staircase to the marital151 bower152. “It aint large, but there’ll be room for the table, and for him to sit at it;—won’t there now?”
It was a dark little room, with one small window looking out under the low roof, and facing the heavy high dead wall of the brewery153 opposite. But it was clean and sweet, and the furniture in it was all solid and good, old-fashioned, and made of mahogany. Two or three of Mrs. Grimes’s gowns were laid upon the bed, and other portions of her dress were hung on pegs154 behind the doors. The only untidy article in the room was a pair of “John’s” trousers, which he had failed to put out of{265} sight. She was not a bit abashed155, but took them up and folded them and patted them, and laid them in the capacious wardrobe. “We’ll have all these things away,” she said, “and then he can have all his papers out upon the bed just as he pleases.”
We own that there was something in the proposed arrangement which dismayed us. We also were married, and what would our wife have said had we proposed that a contributor,—even a contributor not red-nosed and seething156 with gin,—that any best-disciplined contributor should be invited to write an article within the precincts of our sanctum? We could not bring ourselves to believe that Mr. Grimes would authorise the proposition. There is something holy about the bed-room of a married couple; and there would be a special desecration157 in the continued presence of Mr. Julius Mackenzie. We thought it better that we should explain something of all this to her. “Do you know,” we said, “this seems to be hardly prudent158?”
“Why not prudent?” she asked.
“Up in your bed-room, you know! Mr. Grimes will be sure to dislike it.”
“What,—John! Not he. I know what you’re a-thinking {266}of, Mr. ——,” she said. “But we’re different in our ways than what you are. Things to us are only just what they are. We haven’t time, nor yet money, nor perhaps edication, for seemings and thinkings as you have. If you was travelling out amongst the wild Injeans, you’d ask any one to have a bit in your bed-room as soon as look at ’em, if you’d got a bit for ’em to eat. We’re travelling among wild Injeans all our lives, and a bed-room aint no more to us than any other room. Mackenzie shall come up here, and I’ll have the table fixed159 for him, just there by the window.” I hadn’t another word to say to her, and I could not keep myself from thinking for many an hour afterwards, whether it may not be a good thing for men, and for women also, to believe that they are always travelling among wild Indians.
When we went down Mr. Grimes himself was in the little parlour. He did not seem at all surprised at seeing his wife enter the room from above accompanied by a stranger. She at once began her story, and told the arrangement which she proposed,—which she did, as I observed, without any actual request for his sanction. Looking at Mr. Grimes’s face, I thought that he did not quite like it; but he accepted it, almost without a word, scratching his head and raising his eyebrows. “You{267} know, John, he could no more do it at home than he could fly,” said Mrs. Grimes.
“Who said he could do it at home?”
“And he couldn’t do it in the tap-room;—could he? If so, there aint no other place, and so that’s settled.” John Grimes again scratched his head, and the matter was settled. Before we left the house Mackenzie himself came in, and was told in our presence of the accommodation which was to be prepared for him. “It’s just like you, Mrs. Grimes,” was all he said in the way of thanks. Then Mrs. Grimes made her bargain with him somewhat sternly. He should have the room for five hours a day,—ten till three, or twelve till five; but he must settle which, and then stick to his hours. “And I won’t have nothing up there in the way of drink,” said John Grimes.
“Who’s asking to have drink there?” said Mackenzie.
“You’re not asking now, but maybe you will. I won’t have it, that’s all.”
“That shall be all right, John,” said Mrs. Grimes, nodding her head.
“Women are that soft,—in the way of judgment160,—that they’ll go and do a’most anything, good or bad, when they’ve got their feelings up.” Such was the only{268} rebuke161 which in our hearing Mr. Grimes administered to his pretty wife. Mackenzie whispered something to the publican, but Grimes only shook his head. We understood it all thoroughly162. He did not like the scheme, but he would not contradict his wife in an act of real kindness. We then made an appointment with the scholar for meeting our friend and his future patron at our rooms, and took our leave of the Spotted Dog. Before we went, however, Mrs. Grimes insisted on producing some cherry-bounce, as she called it, which, after sundry163 refusals on our part, was brought in on a small round shining tray, in a little bottle covered all over with gold sprigs, with four tiny glasses similarly ornamented164. Mrs. Grimes poured out the liquor, using a very sparing hand when she came to the glass which was intended for herself. We find it, as a rule, easier to talk with the Grimeses of the world than to eat with them or to drink with them. When the glass was handed to us we did not know whether or no we were expected to say something. We waited, however, till Mr. Grimes and Mackenzie had been provided with their glasses. “Proud to see you at the Spotted Dog, Mr. ——,” said Grimes. “That we are,” said Mrs. Grimes, smiling at us over her almost imperceptible drop of drink. Julius{269} Mackenzie just bobbed his head, and swallowed the cordial at a gulp,—as a dog does a lump of meat, leaving the impression on his friends around him that he has not got from it half the enjoyment165 which it might have given him had he been a little more patient in the process. I could not but think that had Mackenzie allowed the cherry-bounce to trickle166 a little in his palate, as I did myself, it would have gratified him more than it did in being chucked down his throat with all the impetus167 which his elbow could give to the glass. “That’s tidy tipple,” said Mr. Grimes, winking168 his eye. We acknowledged that it was tidy. “My mother made it, as used to keep the Pig and Magpie169, at Colchester,” said Mrs. Grimes. In this way we learned a good deal of Mrs. Grimes’s history. Her very earliest years had been passed among wild Indians.
Then came the interview between the Doctor and Mr. Mackenzie. We must confess that we greatly feared the impression which our younger friend might make on the elder. We had of course told the Doctor of the red nose, and he had accepted the information with a smile. But he was a man who would feel the contamination of contact with a drunkard, and who would shrink from an unpleasant association. There are vices170 of which we{270} habitually171 take altogether different views in accordance with the manner in which they are brought under our notice. This vice127 of drunkenness is often a joke in the mouths of those to whom the thing itself is a horror. Even before our boys we talk of it as being rather funny, though to see one of them funny himself would almost break our hearts. The learned commentator35 had accepted our account of the red nose as though it were simply a part of the undeserved misery172 of the wretched man; but should he find the wretched man to be actually redolent of gin his feelings might be changed. The Doctor was with us first, and the volumes of the MS. were displayed upon the table. The compiler of them, as he lifted here a page and there a page, handled them with the gentleness of a lover. They had been exquisitely173 arranged, and were very fair. The pagings, and the margins174, and the chapterings, and all the complementary paraphernalia175 of authorship, were perfect. “A lifetime, my friend; just a lifetime!” the Doctor had said to us, speaking of his own work while we were waiting for the man to whose hands was to be entrusted the result of so much labour and scholarship. We wished at that moment that we had never been called on to interfere176 in the matter.{271}
Mackenzie came, and the introduction was made. The Doctor was a gentleman of the old school, very neat in his attire,—dressed in perfect black, with kneebreeches and black gaiters, with a closely-shorn chin, and an exquisitely white cravat177. Though he was in truth simply the rector of his parish, his parish was one which entitled him to call himself a dean, and he wore a clerical rosette on his hat. He was a well-made, tall, portly gentleman, with whom to take the slightest liberty would have been impossible. His well-formed full face was singularly expressive178 of benevolence, but there was in it too an air of command which created an involuntary respect. He was a man whose means were ample, and who could afford to keep two curates, so that the appanages of a Church dignitary did in some sort belong to him. We doubt whether he really understood what work meant,—even when he spoke with so much pathos179 of the labour of his life; but he was a man not at all exacting180 in regard to the work of others, and who was anxious to make the world as smooth and rosy181 to those around him as it had been to himself. He came forward, paused a moment, and then shook hands with Mackenzie. Our work had been done, and we remained in the background during the interview. It was now for{272} the Doctor to satisfy himself with the scholarship,—and, if he chose to take cognizance of the matter, with the morals of his proposed assistant.
Mackenzie himself was more subdued182 in his manner than he had been when talking with ourselves. The Doctor made a little speech, standing at the table with one hand on one volume and the other on another. He told of all his work, with a mixture of modesty183 as to the thing done, and self-assertion as to his interest in doing it, which was charming. He acknowledged that the sum proposed for the aid which he required was inconsiderable;—but it had been fixed by the proposed publisher. Should Mr. Mackenzie find that the labour was long he would willingly increase it. Then he commenced a conversation respecting the Greek dramatists, which had none of the air or tone of an examination, but which still served the purpose of enabling Mackenzie to show his scholarship. In that respect there was no doubt that the ragged, red-nosed, disreputable man, who stood there longing184 for his job, was the greater proficient185 of the two. We never discovered that he had had access to books in later years; but his memory of the old things seemed to be perfect. When it was suggested that references would be required, it seemed that he{273} did know his way into the library of the British Museum. “When I wasn’t quite so shabby,” he said boldly, “I used to be there.” The Doctor instantly produced a ten-pound note, and insisted that it should be taken in advance. Mackenzie hesitated, and we suggested that it was premature186; but the Doctor was firm. “If an old scholar mayn’t assist one younger than himself,” he said, “I don’t know when one man may aid another. And this is no alms. It is simply a pledge for work to be done.” Mackenzie took the money, muttering something of an assurance that as far as his ability went, the work should be done well. “It should certainly,” he said, “be done diligently187.”
When money had passed, of course the thing was settled; but in truth the bank-note had been given, not from judgment in settling the matter, but from the generous impulse of the moment. There was, however, no receding188. The Doctor expressed by no hint a doubt as to the safety of his manuscript. He was by far too fine a gentleman to give the man whom he employed pain in that direction. If there were risk, he would now run the risk. And so the thing was settled.
We did not, however, give the manuscript on that occasion into Mackenzie’s hands, but took it down afterwards,{274} locked in an old despatch189 box of our own, to the Spotted Dog, and left the box with the key of it in the hands of Mrs. Grimes. Again we went up into that lady’s bed-room, and saw that the big table had been placed by the window for Mackenzie’s accommodation. It so nearly filled the room, that as we observed, John Grimes could not get round at all to his side of the bed. It was arranged that Mackenzie was to begin on the morrow.
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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rusticated
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| v.罚（大学生）暂时停学离校( rusticate的过去式和过去分词 )；在农村定居 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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impecuniosity
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| n.（经常）没有钱，身无分文，贫穷 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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accurately
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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32
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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33
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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34
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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35
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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36
commentators
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| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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37
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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38
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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39
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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40
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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42
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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43
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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44
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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45
erectness
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| n.直立 | |
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46
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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47
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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48
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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49
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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50
tottering
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|
| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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51
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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52
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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53
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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54
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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55
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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56
uneven
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|
| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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57
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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58
insignificant
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|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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59
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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60
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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61
frayed
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|
| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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63
velvet
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|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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64
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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65
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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66
possessed
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|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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67
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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68
abjectness
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| 凄惨； 绝望； 卑鄙； 卑劣 | |
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69
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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70
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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71
codification
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| n.法典编纂，法律成文化；法规汇编 | |
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72
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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73
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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74
vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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75
ascended
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|
| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
distilled
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|
| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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77
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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78
loomed
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|
| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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79
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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80
vapid
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|
| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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81
assent
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|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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82
odious
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|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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83
pervaded
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|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
wretch
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|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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85
entrust
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|
| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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86
afflicted
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|
| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
alluded
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|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
hesitation
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|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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89
discomfiture
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|
| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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90
caustic
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|
| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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91
emanated
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|
| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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92
straightforward
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|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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93
astonishment
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|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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94
pawn
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|
| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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95
scrap
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|
| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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96
supervision
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|
| n.监督，管理 | |
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97
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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98
ridicule
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|
| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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99
landlady
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|
| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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100
enquire
|
|
| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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101
surmised
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|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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102
impulsive
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|
| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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103
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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104
testimony
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|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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105
gutter
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|
| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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106
eloquent
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|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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107
formerly
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|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
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108
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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109
helping
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|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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110
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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111
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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112
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
redound
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| v.有助于；提；报应 | |
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114
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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115
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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116
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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117
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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118
prospects
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|
| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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119
codified
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| v.把（法律）编成法典( codify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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121
blessing
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|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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122
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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123
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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124
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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125
appalled
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|
| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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126
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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127
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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128
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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129
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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130
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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131
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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132
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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133
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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134
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
stipulating
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|
| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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136
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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137
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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138
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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139
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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140
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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141
hunches
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| 预感，直觉( hunch的名词复数 ) | |
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142
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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143
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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144
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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145
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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146
chamber
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|
| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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147
bail
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|
| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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148
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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149
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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150
propriety
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|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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151
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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152
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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153
brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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154
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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155
abashed
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|
| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
seething
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|
| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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157
desecration
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|
| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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158
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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159
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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160
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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161
rebuke
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|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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162
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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163
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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164
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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166
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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167
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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168
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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169
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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170
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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171
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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172
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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173
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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174
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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175
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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176
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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177
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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178
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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179
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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180
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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181
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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182
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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183
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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184
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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185
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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186
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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187
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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188
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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189
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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