Poor Man's Pudding
"You see," said poet Blandmour, enthusiastically—as some forty years ago we walked along the road in a soft, moist snowfall, toward the end of March—"you see, my friend, that the blessed almoner, Nature, is in all things beneficent; and not only so, but considerate in her charities, as any discreet4 human philanthropist might be. This snow, now, which seems so unseasonable, is in fact just what a poor husbandman needs. Rightly is this soft March snow, falling just before seed-time, rightly it is called 'Poor Man's Manure5.' Distilling6 from kind heaven upon the soil, by a gentle penetration7 it nourishes every clod, ridge8, and furrow9. To the poor farmer it is as good as the rich farmer's farmyard enrichments. And the poor man has no trouble to spread it, while the rich man has to spread his."
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"Perhaps so," said I, without equal enthusiasm, brushing some of the damp flakes11 from my chest. "It may be as you say, dear Blandmour. But tell me, how is it that the wind drives yonder drifts of 'Poor Man's Manure' off poor Coulter's two-acre patch here, and piles it up yonder on rich Squire12 Teamster's twenty-acre field?"
"Ah! to be sure—yes—well; Coulter's field, I suppose is sufficiently13 moist without further moistenings. Enough is as good as a feast, you know."
"Yes," replied I, "of this sort of damp fare," shaking another shower of the damp flakes from my person. "But tell me, this warm spring snow may answer very well, as you say; but how is it with the cold snows of the long, long winters here?"
"Why, do you not remember the words of the Psalmist?—'The Lord giveth snow like wool'; meaning not only that snow is white as wool, but warm, too, as wool. For the only reason, as I take it, that wool is comfortable, is because air is entangled14, and therefore warmed among its fibres. Just so, then, take the temperature of a December field when covered[273] with this snow-fleece, and you will no doubt find it several degrees above that of the air. So, you see, the winter's snow itself is beneficent; under the pretense15 of frost—a sort of gruff philanthropist—actually warming the earth, which afterward16 is to be fertilizingly moistened by these gentle flakes of March."
"I like to hear you talk, dear Blandmour; and, guided by your benevolent18 heart, can only wish to poor Coulter plenty of this 'Poor Man's Manure.'"
"But that is not all," said Blandmour, eagerly. "Did you never hear of the 'Poor Man's Eye-water'?"
"Never."
"Take this soft March snow, melt it, and bottle it. It keeps pure as alcohol. The very best thing in the world for weak eyes. I have a whole demijohn of it myself. But the poorest man, afflicted19 in his eyes, can freely help himself to this same all-bountiful remedy. Now, what a kind provision is that!"
"Then 'Poor Man's Manure' is 'Poor Man's Eye-water' too?"
"Exactly. And what could be more economically[274] contrived20? One thing answering two ends—ends so very distinct."
"Very distinct, indeed."
"Ah! that is your way. Making sport of earnest. But never mind. We have been talking of snow; but common rain-water—such as falls all the year round—is still more kindly21. Not to speak of its known fertilizing17 quality as to fields, consider it in one of its minor22 lights. Pray, did you ever hear of a 'Poor Man's Egg'?"
"Never. What is that, now?"
"Why, in making some culinary preparations of meal and flour, where eggs are recommended in the receipt-book, a substitute for the eggs may be had in a cup of cold rain-water, which acts as leaven23. And so a cup of cold rain-water thus used is called by housewives a 'Poor Man's Egg.' And many rich men's housekeepers24 sometimes use it."
"But only when they are out of hen's eggs, I presume, dear Blandmour. But your talk is—I sincerely say it—most agreeable to me. Talk on."
"Then there's 'Poor Man's Plaster' for wounds and other bodily harms; an alleviative[275] and curative, compounded of simple, natural things; and so, being very cheap, is accessible to the poorest sufferers. Rich men often use 'Poor Man's Plaster'."
"Doubtless, they first consult the physician; but that may be an unnecessary precaution."
"Well, then, did you ever eat of a 'Poor Man's Pudding'?"
"I never so much as heard of it before."
"Indeed! Well, now you shall eat of one; and you shall eat it, too, as made, unprompted, by a poor man's wife, and you shall eat it at a poor man's table, and in a poor man's house. Come now, and if after this eating, you do not say that a 'Poor Man's Pudding' is as relishable27 as a rich man's, I will give up the point altogether; which briefly28 is: that, through kind Nature, the poor, out of their very poverty, extract comfort."
Not to narrate29 any more of our conversations upon this subject (for we had several—I being at that time the guest of Blandmour in the country, for the benefit of my health),[276] suffice it that acting30 upon Blandmour's hint, I introduced myself into Coulter's house on a wet Monday noon (for the snow had thawed), under the innocent pretense of craving32 a pedestrian's rest and refreshment33 for an hour or two.
I was greeted, not without much embarrassment—owing, I suppose to my dress—but still with unaffected and honest kindness. Dame34 Coulter was just leaving the wash-tub to get ready her one o'clock meal against her good man's return from a deep wood about a mile distant among the hills, where he was chopping by day's work—seventy-five cents per day and found himself. The washing being done outside the main building, under an infirm-looking old shed, the dame stood upon a half-rotten soaked board to protect her feet, as well as might be, from the penetrating35 damp of the bare ground; hence she looked pale and chill. But her paleness had still another and more secret cause—the paleness of a mother to be. A quiet, fathomless36 heart-trouble, too, couched beneath the mild, resigned blue of her soft and wife-like eye. But she smiled upon me, as apologizing for the unavoidable disorder37 of a Monday and a washing-day, and, conducting me into the[277] kitchen, set me down in the best seat it had—an old-fashioned chair of an enfeebled constitution.
I thanked her; and sat rubbing my hands before the ineffectual low fire, and—unobservantly as I could—glancing now and then about the room, while the good woman, throwing on more sticks said she was sorry the room was no warmer. Something more she said, too—not repiningly, however—of the fuel, as old and damp; picked-up sticks in Squire Teamster's forest, where her husband was chopping the sappy logs of the living tree for the Squire's fires. It needed not her remark, whatever it was, to convince me of the inferior quality of the sticks; some being quite mossy and toadstooled with long lying bedded among the accumulated dead leaves of many autumns. They made a sad hissing38, and vain spluttering enough.
"You must rest yourself here till dinner-time, at least," said the dame; "what I have you are heartily39 welcome to."
I thanked her again, and begged her not to heed40 my presence in the least, but go on with her usual affairs.
[278]
I was struck by the aspect of the room. The house was old, and constitutionally damp. The window-sills had beads41 of exuded42 dampness upon them. The shriveled sashes shook in their frames, and the green panes43 of glass were clouded with the long thaw31. On some little errand the dame passed into an adjoining chamber44, leaving the door partly open. The floor of that room was carpetless, as the kitchen's was. Nothing but bare necessaries were about me; and those not of the best sort. Not a print on the wall but an old volume of Doddridge lay on the smoked chimney-shelf.
"You must have walked a long way, sir; you sigh so with weariness."
"No, I am not nigh so weary as yourself, I dare say."
"Oh, but I am accustomed to that; you are not, I should think," and her soft, sad blue eye ran over my dress. "But I must sweep these shavings away; husband made him a new ax-helve this morning before sunrise, and I have been so busy washing, that I have had no time to clear up. But now they are just the thing I want for the fire. They'd be much better though, were they not so green."
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Now if Blandmour were here, thought I to myself, he would call those green shavings "Poor Man's Matches," or "Poor Man's Tinder," or some pleasant name of that sort.
"I do not know," said the good woman, turning round to me again—as she stirred among her pots on the smoky fire—"I do not know how you will like our pudding. It is only rice, milk, and salt boiled together."
"Ah, what they call 'Poor Man's Pudding,' I suppose you mean?"
A quick flush, half resentful, passed over her face.
"We do not call it so, sir," she said, and was silent.
Upbraiding45 myself for my inadvertence, I could not but again think to myself what Blandmour would have said, had he heard those words and seen that flush.
At last a slow, heavy footfall was heard; then a scraping at the door, and another voice said, "Come, wife; come, come—I must be back again in a jif—if you say I must take all my meals at home, you must be speedy; because the Squire—Good-day, sir," he exclaimed, now first catching46 sight of me as he[280] entered the room. He turned toward his wife, inquiringly, and stood stock-still, while the moisture oozed47 from his patched boots to the floor.
"This gentleman stops here awhile to rest and refresh: he will take dinner with us, too. All will be ready now in a trice: so sit down on the bench, husband, and be patient, I pray. You see, sir," she continued, turning to me, "William there wants, of mornings, to carry a cold meal into the woods with him, to save the long one-o'clock walk across the fields to and fro. But I won't let him. A warm dinner is more than pay for the long walk."
"I don't know about that," said William, shaking his head. "I have often debated in my mind whether it really paid. There's not much odds48, either way, between a wet walk after hard work, and a wet dinner before it. But I like to oblige a good wife like Martha. And you know, sir, that women will have their whimseys."
"I wish they all had as kind whimseys as your wife has," said I.
"Well, I've heard that some women ain't all[281] maple-sugar; but, content with dear Martha, I don't know much about others."
"Now, husband, if you ain't too tired, just lend a hand to draw the table out."
"No," said William, rising.
"Sit still," said his wife to me.
The table set, in due time we all found ourselves with plates before us.
"You see what we have," said Coulter—"salt pork, rye-bread, and pudding. Let me help you. I got this pork of the Squire; some of his last year's pork, which he let me have on account. It isn't quite as sweet as this year's would be; but I find it hearty51 enough to work on, and that's all I eat for. Only let the rheumatiz and other sicknesses keep clear of me, and I ask no flavors or favors from any. But you don't eat of the pork!"
"I see," said the wife, gently and gravely, "that the gentleman knows the difference between this year's and last year's pork. But perhaps he will like the pudding."
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I summoned up all my self-control, and smilingly assented52 to the proposition of the pudding, without by my looks casting any reflections upon the pork. But, to tell the truth, it was quite impossible for me (not being ravenous53, but only a little hungry at that time) to eat of the latter. It had a yellowish crust all round it, and was rather rankish, I thought, to the taste. I observed, too, that the dame did not eat of it, though she suffered some to be put on her plate, and pretended to be busy with it when Coulter looked that way. But she ate of the rye-bread, and so did I.
"Now, then, for the pudding," said Coulter. "Quick, wife; the Squire sits in his sitting-room54 window, looking far out across the fields. His time-piece is true."
"He don't play the spy on you, does he?" said I.
"Oh, no!—I don't say that. He's a good enough man. He gives me work. But he's particular. Wife, help the gentleman. You see, sir, if I lose the Squire's work, what will become of—" and, with a look for which I honored humanity, with sly significance, he glanced toward his wife; then, a little changing his[283] voice, instantly continued—"that fine horse I am going to buy?"
"I guess," said the dame, with a strange, subdued55 sort of inefficient56 pleasantry—"I guess that fine horse you sometimes so merrily dream of will long stay in the Squire's stall. But sometimes his man gives me a Sunday ride."
"A Sunday ride!" said I.
"You see," resumed Coulter, "wife loves to go to church; but the nighest is four miles off, over yon snowy hills. So she can't walk it; and I can't carry her in my arms, though I have carried her up-stairs before now. But, as she says, the Squire's man sometimes gives her a lift on the road; and for this cause it is that I speak of a horse I am going to have one of these fine sunny days. And already, before having it, I have christened it 'Martha.' But what am I about? Come, come, wife! The pudding! Help the gentleman, do! The Squire! the Squire!—think of the Squire! and help round the pudding. There, one—two—three mouthfuls must do me. Good-by, wife. Good-by, sir, I'm off."
And, snatching his soaked hat, the noble[284] Poor Man hurriedly went out into the soak and the mire57.
I suppose now, thinks I to myself, that Blandmour would poetically58 say, He goes to take a Poor Man's saunter.
"You have a fine husband," said I to the woman, as we were now left together.
"William loves me this day as on the wedding-day, sir. Some hasty words, but never a harsh one. I wish I were better and stronger for his sake. And, oh! sir, both for his sake and mine" (and the soft, blue, beautiful eyes turned into two well-springs), "how I wish little William and Martha lived—it is so lonely-like now. William named after him, and Martha for me."
When a companion's heart of itself overflows59, the best one can do is to do nothing. I sat looking down on my as yet untasted pudding.
"You should have seen little William, sir. Such a bright, manly60 boy, only six years old—cold, cold now!"
"And little Martha—Oh! sir, she was the[285] beauty! Bitter, bitter! but needs must be borne!"
The mouthful of pudding now touched my palate, and touched it with a mouldy, briny62 taste. The rice, I knew, was of that damaged sort sold cheap; and the salt from the last year's pork barrel.
"Ah, sir, if those little ones yet to enter the world were the same little ones which so sadly have left it; returning friends, not strangers, strangers, always strangers! Yet does a mother soon learn to love them; for certain, sir, they come from where the others have gone. Don't you believe that, sir? Yes, I know all good people must. But, still, still—and I fear it is wicked, and very black-hearted, too—still, strive how I may to cheer me with thinking of little William and Martha in heaven, and with reading Dr. Doddridge there—still, still does dark grief leak in, just like the rain through our roof. I am left so lonesome now; day after day, all the day long, dear William is gone; and all the damp day long grief drizzles63 and drizzles down on my soul. But I pray to God to forgive me for this; and for the rest, manage it as well as I may."
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Bitter and mouldy is the "Poor Man's Pudding," groaned64 I to myself, half choked with but one little mouthful of it, which would hardly go down.
I could stay no longer to hear of sorrows for which the sincerest sympathies could give no adequate relief; of a fond persuasion65, to which there could be furnished no further proof than already was had—a persuasion, too, of that sort which much speaking is sure more or less to mar3; of causeless self-upbraidings, which no expostulations could have dispelled66, I offered no pay for hospitalities gratuitous67 and honorable as those of a prince. I knew that such offerings would have been more than declined; charity resented.
The native American poor never lose their delicacy68 or pride; hence, though unreduced to the physical degradation69 of the European pauper70, they yet suffer more in mind than the poor of any other people in the world. Those peculiar71 social sensibilities nourished by our peculiar political principles, while they enhance the true dignity of a prosperous American, do but minister to the added wretchedness of the unfortunate; first, by prohibiting their acceptance[287] of what little random72 relief charity may offer; and, second, by furnishing them with the keenest appreciation73 of the smarting distinction between their ideal of universal equality and their grindstone experience of the practical misery74 and infamy75 of poverty—a misery and infamy which is, ever has been, and ever will be, precisely76 the same in India, England, and America.
Under pretense that my journey called me forthwith, I bade the dame good-by; shook her cold hand; looked my last into her blue, resigned eye, and went out into the wet. But cheerless as it was, and damp, damp, damp—the heavy atmosphere charged with all sorts of incipiencies—I yet became conscious by the suddenness of the contrast, that the house air I had quitted was laden77 down with that peculiar deleterious quality, the height of which—insufferable to some visitants—will be found in a poorhouse ward2.
This ill-ventilation in winter of the rooms of the poor—a thing, too, so stubbornly persisted in—is usually charged upon them as their disgraceful neglect of the most simple means to health. But the instinct of the poor is wiser[288] than we think. The air which ventilates, likewise cools. And to any shiverer, ill-ventilated warmth is better than well-ventilated cold. Of all the preposterous78 assumptions of humanity over humanity, nothing exceeds most of the criticisms made on the habits of the poor by the well-housed, well-warmed, and well-fed.
"Blandmour," said I that evening, as after tea I sat on his comfortable sofa, before a blazing fire, with one of his two ruddy little children on my knee, "you are not what may rightly be called a rich man; you have a fair competence79; no more. Is it not so? Well then, I do not include you, when I say, that if ever a rich man speaks prosperously to me of a Poor Man, I shall set it down as—I won't mention the word."
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PICTURE SECOND
In the year 1814, during the summer following my first taste of the "Poor Man's Pudding," a sea-voyage was recommended to me by my physician. The Battle of Waterloo having closed the long drama of Napoleon's wars, many strangers were visiting Europe. I arrived in London at the time the victorious81 princes were there assembled enjoying the Arabian Nights' hospitalities of a grateful and gorgeous aristocracy, and the courtliest of gentlemen and kings—George the Prince Regent.
I had declined all letters but one to my banker. I wandered about for the best reception an adventurous82 traveler can have—the reception I mean, which unsolicited chance and accident throw in his venturous way.
But I omit all else to recount one hour's hap10 under the lead of a very friendly man, whose acquaintance I made in the open street of Cheapside. He wore a uniform, and was some sort of a civic83 subordinate; I forget exactly[290] what. He was off duty that day. His discourse84 was chiefly of the noble charities of London. He took me to two or three, and made admiring mention of many more.
"But," said he, as we turned into Cheapside again, "if you are at all curious about such things, let me take you—if it be not too late—to one of the most interesting of all—our Lord Mayor's Charities, sir; nay, the charities not only of a Lord Mayor, but, I may truly say, in this one instance, of emperors, regents, and kings. You remember the event of yesterday?"
"That sad fire on the river-side, you mean, unhousing so many of the poor?"
"No. The grand Guildhall Banquet to the princes. Who can forget it? Sir, the dinner was served on nothing but solid silver and gold plate, worth at the least ￡200,000—that is, 1,000,000 of your dollars; while the mere85 expenditure86 of meats, wines, attendance and upholstery, etc., can not be footed under ￡25,000—120,000 dollars of your hard cash."
"But, surely, my friend, you do not call that charity—feeding kings at that rate?"
"No. The feast came first—yesterday; and the charity after—to-day. How else would[291] you have it, where princes are concerned? But I think we shall be quite in time—come; here we are at King Street, and down there is Guildhall. Will you go?"
"Gladly, my good friend. Take me where you will. I come but to roam and see."
Avoiding the main entrance of the hall, which was barred, he took me through some private way, and we found ourselves in a rear blind-walled place in the open air. I looked round amazed. The spot was grimy as a backyard in the Five Points. It was packed with a mass of lean, famished88, ferocious89 creatures, struggling and fighting for some mysterious precedency, and all holding soiled blue tickets in their hands.
"There is no other way," said my guide; "we can only get in with the crowd. Will you try it? I hope you have not on your drawing-room suit? What do you say? It will be well worth your sight. So noble a charity does not often offer. The one following the annual banquet of Lord Mayor's day—fine a charity as that certainly is—is not to be mentioned with what will be seen to-day. Is it, ay?"
As he spoke90, a basement door in the distance[292] was thrown open, and the squalid mass made a rush for the dark vault91 beyond.
I nodded to my guide, and sideways we joined in with the rest. Ere long we found our retreat cut off by the yelping92 crowd behind, and I could not but congratulate myself on having a civic, as well as civil guide; one, too, whose uniform made evident his authority.
It was just the same as if I were pressed by a mob of cannibals on some pagan beach. The beings round me roared with famine. For in this mighty93 London misery but maddens. In the country it softens94. As I gazed on the meagre, murderous pack, I thought of the blue eye of the gentle wife of poor Coulter. Some sort of curved, glittering steel thing (not a sword; I know not what it was), before worn in his belt, was now flourished overhead by my guide, menacing the creatures to forbear offering the stranger violence.
As we drove, slow and wedge-like, into the gloomy vault, the howls of the mass reverberated95. I seemed seething96 in the Pit with the Lost. On and on, through the dark and damp, and then up a stone stairway to a wide portal; when, diffusing97, the pestiferous mob poured in[293] bright day between painted walls and beneath a painted dome98. I thought of the anarchic sack of Versailles.
A few moments more and I stood bewildered among the beggars in the famous Guildhall.
Where I stood—where the thronged99 rabble100 stood, less than twelve hours before sat His Imperial Majesty101, Alexander of Russia; His Royal Majesty, Frederick William, King of Prussia; His Royal Highness, George, Prince Regent of England; His world-renowned Grace, the Duke of Wellington; with a mob of magnificoes, made up of conquering field marshals, earls, counts, and innumerable other nobles of mark.
The walls swept to and fro, like the foliage102 of a forest with blazonings of conquerors103' flags. Naught104 outside the hall was visible. No windows were within four-and-twenty feet of the floor. Cut off from all other sights, I was hemmed105 in by one splendid spectacle—splendid, I mean, everywhere, but as the eye fell toward the floor. That was foul106 as a hovel's—as a kennel's; the naked boards being strewed107 with the smaller and more wasteful108 fragments of the feast, while the two long parallel[294] lines, up and down the hall, of now unrobed, shabby, dirty pine-tables were piled with less trampled109 wrecks111. The dyed banners were in keeping with the last night's kings: the floor suited the beggars of to-day. The banners looked upon the floor as from his balcony Dives upon Lazarus. A line of liveried men kept back with their staves the impatient jam of the mob, who, otherwise, might have instantaneously converted the Charity into a Pillage112. Another body of gowned and gilded113 officials distributed the broken meats—the cold victuals114 and crumbs of kings. One after another the beggars held up their dirty blue tickets, and were served with the plundered115 wreck110 of a pheasant, or the rim87 of a pasty—like the detached crown of an old hat—the solids and meats stolen out.
"What a noble charity," whispered my guide. "See that pasty now, snatched by that pale girl; I dare say the Emperor of Russia ate of that last night."
"Very probably," murmured I; "it looks as though some omnivorous116 emperor or other had had a finger in that pie."
"And see yon pheasant too—there—that[295] one—the boy in the torn shirt has it now—look! The Prince Regent might have dined off that."
The two breasts were gouged117 ruthlessly out, exposing the bare bones, embellished118 with the untouched pinions119 and legs.
"Yes, who knows!" said my guide, "his Royal Highness the Prince Regent might have eaten of that identical pheasant."
"I don't doubt it," murmured I, "he is said to be uncommonly120 fond of the breast. But where is Napoleon's head in a charger? I should fancy that ought to have been the principal dish."
"You are merry. Sir, even Cossacks are charitable here in Guildhall. Look! the famous Platoff, the Hetman himself—(he was here last night with the rest)—no doubt he thrust a lance into yon pork-pie there. Look! the old shirtless man has it now. How he licks his chops over it, little thinking of or thanking the good, kind Cossack that left it him! Ah! another—a stouter121 has grabbed it. It falls; bless my soul!—the dish is quite empty—only a bit of the hacked123 crust."
"The Cossacks, my friend, are said to be immoderately fond of fat," observed I. "The[296] Hetman was hardly so charitable as you thought."
"A noble charity, upon the whole, for all that. See, even Gog and Magog yonder, at the other end of the hall fairly laugh out their delight at the scene."
"But don't you think, though," hinted I, "that the sculptor124, whoever he was, carved the laugh too much into a grin—a sort of sardonical grin?"
"Well, that's as you take it, sir. But see—now I'd wager125 a guinea the Lord Mayor's lady dipped her golden spoon into yonder golden-hued jelly. See, the jelly-eyed old body has slipped it, in one broad gulp126, down his throat."
"Peace to that jelly!" breathed I.
"What a generous, noble, magnanimous charity this is! unheard of in any country but England, which feeds her very beggars with golden-hued jellies."
"But not three times every day, my friend. And do you really think that jellies are the best sort of relief you can furnish to beggars? Would not plain beef and bread, with something to do, and be paid for, be better?"
"But plain beef and bread were not eaten[297] here. Emperors, and prince-regents, and kings, and field marshals don't often dine on plain beef and bread. So the leavings are according. Tell me, can you expect that the crumbs of kings can be like the crumbs of squirrels?"
"You! I mean you! stand aside, or else be served and away! Here, take this pasty, and be thankful that you taste of the same dish with her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire. Graceless ragamuffin, do you hear?"
"Surely he does not mean me," said I to my guide; "he has not confounded me with the rest."
"One is known by the company he keeps," smiled my guide. "See! not only stands your hat awry128 and bunged on your head, but your coat is fouled129 and torn. Nay," he cried to the red-gown, "this is an unfortunate friend: a simple spectator, I assure you."
"Ah! is that you, old lad?" responded the red-gown, in familiar recognition of my guide—a personal friend as it seemed; "well, convey your friend out forthwith. Mind the grand[298] crash; it will soon be coming; hark! now! away with him!"
Too late. The last dish had been seized. The yet unglutted mob raised a fierce yell, which wafted130 the banners like a strong gust131, and filled the air with a reek132 as from sewers133. They surged against the tables, broke through all barriers, and billowed over the hall—their bare tossed arms like the dashed ribs134 of a wreck. It seemed to me as if a sudden impotent fury of fell envy possessed135 them. That one half-hour's peep at the mere remnants of the glories of the Banquets of Kings; the unsatisfying mouthfuls of disemboweled pasties, plundered pheasants, and half-sucked jellies, served to remind them of the intrinsic contempt of the alms. In this sudden mood, or whatever mysterious thing it was that now seized them, these Lazaruses seemed ready to spew up in repentant136 scorn the contumelious crumbs of Dives.
"This way, this way! stick like a bee to my back," intensely whispered my guide. "My friend there has answered my beck, and thrown open yon private door for us two. Wedge—wedge in—quick, there goes your[299] bunged hat—never stop for your coat-tail—hit that man—strike him down! hold! jam! now! wrench137 along for your life! ha! here we breathe freely; thank God! You faint. Ho!"
"Never mind. This fresh air revives me."
"And now conduct me, my good friend, by some front passage into Cheapside, forthwith. I must home."
"Yes, I suppose so," said I, ruefully eyeing my tatters, and then glancing in envy at the close-buttoned coat and flat cap of my guide, which defied all tumblings and tearings.
"There, now, sir," said the honest fellow, as he put me into the hack, and tucked in me and my rags, "when you get back to your own country, you can say you have witnessed the greatest of all England's noble charities. Of course, you will make reasonable allowances for the unavoidable jam. Good-by. Mind, Jehu"—addressing the driver on the box—"this is a gentleman you carry. He is just from the Guildhall Charity, which accounts for his[300] appearance. Go on now. London Tavern139, Fleet Street, remember, is the place."
"Now, Heaven in its kind mercy save me from the noble charities of London," sighed I, as that night I lay bruised140 and battered141 on my bed; "and Heaven save me equally from the 'Poor Man's Pudding' and the 'Rich Man's Crumbs.'"
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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5
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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6
distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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7
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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8
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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9
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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10
hap
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| n.运气；v.偶然发生 | |
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11
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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12
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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13
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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14
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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16
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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17
fertilizing
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| v.施肥( fertilize的现在分词 ) | |
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18
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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19
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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20
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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21
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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22
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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23
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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24
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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25
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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26
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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27
relishable
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| 可实现的，可实行的，可了解的 | |
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28
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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29
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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30
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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31
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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32
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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33
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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34
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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35
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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36
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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37
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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38
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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39
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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40
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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41
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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42
exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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43
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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44
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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45
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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46
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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47
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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48
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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49
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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50
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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51
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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52
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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54
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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55
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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56
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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57
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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58
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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59
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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60
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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61
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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62
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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63
drizzles
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| 蒙蒙细雨，毛毛雨( drizzle的名词复数 ) | |
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64
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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65
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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66
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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68
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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69
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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70
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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71
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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72
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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73
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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74
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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75
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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76
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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77
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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78
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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79
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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80
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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81
victorious
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|
| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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82
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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83
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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84
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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85
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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86
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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87
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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88
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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89
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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90
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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91
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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92
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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93
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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94
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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95
reverberated
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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96
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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97
diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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98
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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99
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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101
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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102
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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103
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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104
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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105
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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106
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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107
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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108
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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109
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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110
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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111
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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112
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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113
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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114
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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115
plundered
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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117
gouged
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| v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 )；乱要价；（在…中）抠出…；挖出… | |
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118
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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119
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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121
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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122
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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123
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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124
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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125
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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126
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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128
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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129
fouled
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| v.使污秽( foul的过去式和过去分词 )；弄脏；击球出界；（通常用废物）弄脏 | |
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130
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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132
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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133
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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134
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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135
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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136
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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137
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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138
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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140
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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141
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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