One year in the last quarter of the present century John Frost, Esquire, of Arctic Hall, paid an unusually long visit to the British Islands.
John, or Jack, Frost, as he was familiarly called by those who did not fear him, was a powerful fellow; an amazingly active, vigorous, self-willed fellow, whom it was difficult to resist, and, in some circumstances, quite impossible to overcome.
Jack was a giant. Indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a “giant-killer,”—an insolent2, self-assertive, cold-hearted giant, who swaggered with equal freedom into the palaces of the rich and the cottages of the poor; but he did not by any means meet with the same reception everywhere.
In palaces and mansions4 he was usually met in the entrance hall by a sturdy footman who kicked him out and slammed the door in his face, while in cottages and lowly dwellings5 he was so feebly opposed that he gained entrance easily—for he was a bullying6 shameless fellow, who forced his way wherever he could—and was induced to quit only after much remonstrance7 and persuasion8, and even then, he usually left an unpleasant flavour of his visit behind him.
But there were some abodes9 in which our hero met with no opposition10 at all, where the inmates11 scarcely made any attempt to keep him out, but remained still and trembled, or moaned feebly, while he walked in and sat down beside them.
Jack was somewhat of a deceiver too. He had, for the most part, a bright, beaming, jovial12 outward aspect, which made the bitter coldness of his heart all the more terrible by contrast. He was most deadly in his feelings in calm weather, but there were occasions when he took pleasure in sallying forth13 accompanied by his like-minded sons, Colonel Wind and Major Snow. And it was a tremendous sight, that few people cared to see except through windows, when those three, arm-in-arm, went swaggering through the land together.
One Christmas morning, at the time we write of, Jack and his two sons went careering, in a happy-go-lucky sort of way, along the London streets towards the “west end,” blinding people’s eyes as they went, reversing umbrellas, overturning old women, causing young men to stagger, and treating hats in general as if they had been black footballs. Turning into Saint James’s Park they rushed at the royal palace, but, finding that edifice14 securely guarded from basement to roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity15, assaulted the Admiralty and the Horse-Guards—taking a shot at the clubs in passing. It need scarcely be recorded that they made no impression whatever on those centres of wealth and power.
Undismayed—for Jack and his sons knew nothing either of fear or favour—they went careering westward16 until they came to a palatial17 mansion3, at the half-open front door of which a pretty servant girl stood peeping out. It was early. Perhaps she was looking for the milkman—possibly for the policeman. With that quick perception which characterises men of war, Major Snow saw and seized his opportunity. Dashing forward he sprang into the hall. Colonel Wind, not a whit18 less prompt, burst the door wide open, and the three assailants tumbled over each other as they took possession of the outworks of the mansion.
But “Jeames” was not far distant. The screams of Mary drew him forth, he leaped into the hall, drove out the intruders, and shut the door with a crash, but with no further damage to the foe19 than the snipping20 off part of Major Snow’s tails, which Mary swept up into a dust shovel21 and deposited in the coal-hole, or some such dark region below.
Our trio possessed22 neither fear nor pride. They were also destitute23 of taste, and had no respect for persons. Treating their repulse24 as a good joke, they turned round and went hilariously25 along the Strand26, embracing every one they met, young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, with pointed27 impartiality29, until they reached the City. There we will leave them to revel30 amongst the poor, while we return to the mansion at the west end.
In two snug31 bedrooms thereof two young men lay in their comfortable beds, partially32 awake and yawning—the one flat on his back as if laid out for his last sleep; the other coiled into a bundle with the bedclothes, as if ready to be carried off to the laundry with the next washing. The rooms were connected by a door which stood open, for the occupants were twin brothers; their united ages amounting to forty years.
“Ned,” said the straight one to the bundle.
“Well, Tom,” (sleepily).
“Did you hear that noise—like a cannon-shot?”
“Ya–i–o–u yes—som’ing tumbled—door bang’d,” (snore).
“Hallo, Ned!” cried Tom, suddenly leaping out of bed and beginning to dress in haste; “why, it’s Christmas morning! I had almost forgot. A Merry Christmas to you, my boy!”
“M’rry Kissm’s, ol’ man, but don’ waken me. What’s use o’ gettin’ up?”
“The use?” echoed Tom, proceeding33 rapidly with his toilet; “why, Ned, the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his work in good time, and I’ve a deal of work to do to-day at the east-end.”
“So ’v’ I,” murmured Ned, “at th’ wes’ end.”
“Indeed. What are you going to do?”
“Sk–t.”
“Sk–t? What’s that?”
“Skate—ol’ man, let m’ ’lone,” growled34 Ned, as he uncoiled himself to some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze.
With a light laugh Tom Westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose35, and descended36 to the breakfast-room, where his sister Matilda, better known as Matty, met him with a warm reception.
Everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. The fire, of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a distinctly Christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and arm-chairs were warm and cosy37 in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was unusually warm. The tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it was 65 degrees of Fahrenheit38. Outside, the self-registering thermometer indicated 5 degrees below zero!
“Why, Matty,” exclaimed Tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument, “I have not seen it so low as that for years. It will freeze the Thames if it lasts long enough.”
Matty made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped on her brother’s arm gazing contemplatively at the driving snow.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Tom.
“About the poor,” answered Matty, as she went and seated herself at the breakfast-table. “On such a terrible morning as this I feel so inexpressibly selfish in sitting down to an overflowing39 meal in the midst of such warmth and comfort, when I know that there are hundreds and thousands of men and women and children all round us who have neither fire nor food sufficient—little clothing, and no comfort. It is dreadful,” added Matty, as an unusually fierce gust40 dashed the snow against the windows.
Tom was like-minded with his sister, but he could not suppress a smile as he looked into her pretty little anxious face.
“Yes, Matty, it is dreadful,” he replied, “and the worst of it is that we can do so little, so very little, to mend matters. Yet I don’t feel as you do about the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast in comfortable circumstances, for it is God who has given us all that we have, as well as the power to enjoy it. I grant, that if we simply enjoyed our good things, and neither thought of nor cared for the poor, we should indeed be most abominably41 selfish, but happily that is not our case this morning. Have we not risen an hour earlier than usual to go out and do what we can to mitigate42 the sorrows of the poor? Are we not about to face the bitter blast and the driving snow on this Christmas morning for that very purpose? and should we not be rendered much less capable of doing so, if we were to start off on our mission with cold bodies and half-filled—I beg pardon, pass the muffins, dear. Besides, sister mine, if you were to go out on such a morning cold and underfed, would it not be probable that I should have to go and fetch a doctor for you instead of taking you out to help me in aiding and comforting poor people?”
“That may be all very true, Tom,” returned Matty, with a dissatisfied and puzzled look, “but I cannot help feeling that I have so much, so very much, more than I need of everything, while the thousands I speak of have so little—so very little. Why could not rich people like us be content with plainer things, and use fewer things, and so have more to give to the poor?”
“You have broached43 a very wide and profound subject, Matty, and it would probably take us a week to go into it exhaustively, but a few words may suffice to show you that your remedy would not meet the case. Suppose that all the people in England were all at once smitten44 with your desire to retrench45 in order to have more to spare to the poor—and were to act upon their convictions; to determine that henceforth they would live on the plainest food, such as potatoes, mutton, and bread; what, I ask you, would become of the great army of confectioners? Would they not be thrown out of employment, and help, perhaps, to swell46 the ranks of the poor? If the rich ceased to buy pictures, what would become of painters? If they gave up books, (horrible to think of!) what would be the consequences to authors, and what the result to themselves? If carriages and horses were not kept, what would become of coachmen and grooms47 and ostlers—to say nothing of coach-makers, saddlers, harness-makers, and their innumerable dependants48? No—living plainly or simply is not what is wanted, but living reasonably—according to one’s means. Then, as to your having, as you say, much more than you need—that does not injure the poor, for nothing of it is wasted. Does not part of the surplus go to Mary and James and the other servants, and much of what they do not consume goes in charity, directly, to the poor themselves?”
“Well, but,” returned Matty, with the distressed49 and puzzled look still unabated, “though all you tell me may be quite true, it does not in the least degree alter the fact that there is something quite wrong in the condition of the poor of our great cities, which ought to be remedied.”
“Of course it does not, little woman, but it relieves my mind, and it ought to relieve yours, as to the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast.”
“But, surely,” resumed Matty, with a slightly indignant look and tone, “surely you don’t mean to tell me that there is no remedy for the miserable50 condition of the poor, and that the rich must just sigh over it, or shut their eyes to it, while they continue to revel in luxury?”
“How you fly to extremes, sister!” said Tom, with a laugh, as he neatly51 cut the top off a fourth egg. “I combat your erroneous views, and straightway you charge me, by implication, with having no views at all! A remedy there surely is, but the wisest among us are not agreed as to what it is—chiefly, I think, because the remedy is not simple but extremely complex. It cannot be stated in a few words. It consists in the wise and prompt application of multiform means—”
“Brother,” interrupted Matty with a smile, “do you think I am to be turned from my quest after this great truth by the stringing together of words without meaning—at least words vague and incomprehensible?”
“By no means, Matty. I hope that nothing will ever turn you from your quest after the best method of helping52 the poor. But my words are not meant to be vague. By multiform means I would indicate legislation in numerous channels, and social effort in all its ramifications53, besides the correction of many erroneous modes of thought—such, for instance, as the putting of the less before the greater—”
“Tom,” again interrupted Matty, “I think it is about time to go and put on my things.”
“Not so, sister dear,” said Tom impressively; “I intend that you shall hear me out. I think that you put the less before the greater when you talk of ‘giving’ to the poor instead of ‘considering’ the poor. The greater, you know, includes the less. Consideration includes judicious54 giving, and the teaching of Scripture55 is, not to give to, but to consider, the poor. Now you may be off and get ready—as quickly as you can, too, for it would never do to keep the poor waiting breakfast!”
With a light laugh and a vigorous step—the result of goodwill56 to mankind, good intentions, good feeding, and, generally, good circumstances—Matilda Westlake ran upstairs to her room at the top of the house to put on a charming little winter bonnet57, a dear little cloak lined with thick fur, and everything else to match, while Tom busied himself in meditating58 on the particular passage of God’s Word which he hoped, by the Spirit’s influence, to bring home to the hearts of some of the poor that Christmas morning.
Half an hour after these two had gone forth to do battle with John Frost and Sons, Edward Westlake sauntered into the breakfast-room, his right hand in his pocket and his left twirling the end of an exceedingly juvenile59 moustache.
Turning his back to the fire he perused60 the morning paper and enjoyed himself thoroughly61, while James re-arranged the table for another sumptuous62 meal.
Ned was by no means a bad fellow. On the contrary, his companions thought and called him a “jolly good fellow.” His father was a jolly, though a gouty old widower63. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that there was no mother in the household that Ned smoked a meerschaum in the breakfast-room while he read the paper.
“Have my skates been sharpened?” he asked, looking over the top of the paper.
James said that they had been sharpened, and were then lying ready on the hall table.
Sauntering to the window Ned looked out, and, James having retired64, he made a few remarks himself, which showed the direction of his thoughts.
“Capital! Ice will be splendid. Snow won’t matter. Lots of men to sweep it. Looks as if the wind would fall, and there’s a little bit of blue sky. Even if it doesn’t clear, the pond is well sheltered. I do like a sharp, stinging, frosty day. Makes one’s blood career so pleasantly!”
With such agreeable thoughts and a splendid appetite Ned Westlake sat down to breakfast. Thereafter he put on a thick overcoat, edged with sable65, a thick pair of boots and softly lined gloves, and went out with the skates swinging on his arm.
Jack Frost and his two sons were still holding high revelry outside. They met him with impartial28 violence, but Ned bent66 forward with a smile of good-humoured defiance67, and went on his way unchecked.
Not so a stout68 and short old female of the coster-monger class, who, after a series of wild gyrations that might have put a dancing dervish to shame, bore down on Ned after the manner of a fat teetotum, and finally launched herself into his arms.
“Hallo old girl—steady,” exclaimed Ned, holding her up with an effort. “You carry too much sail to venture abroad in such weather.”
“Which it were my only one!” gasped69 the old woman, holding out her umbrella that had been reversed and obviously shattered beyond repair. Then, looking up at Ned, “You’d better leave a-go of me, young man. What will the neighbours think of us?”
Which remark she uttered sternly—all the more that she had securely hooked herself to the railings and could afford to cast off her friend.
With a solemn assurance that he esteemed70 her, “the sweetest of the fair,” Ned went smilingly on his way, receiving in reply, “La, now, who’d ’a’ thought it!”
Having twisted this lady’s bonnet off, blown her unkempt hair straight out, and otherwise maltreated her, Colonel Wind, with his father and brother, went raging along the streets until he came to the neighbourhood of Whitechapel. The three seemed rather fond of this region, and no wonder; for, although never welcomed, they found themselves strong enough to force an entrance into many a poor home, and to remain in possession.
Swaggering, in their own noisy and violent manner, into several courts and blind alleys71, they caught up all the lighter72 articles of rubbish that lay about, hurled73 them against the frail74 and cracked windows—some of which they broke, and others of which they could not break by reason of their having been broken already. They did what was next best, however,—drove in the old hats and coats and other garments with which the square holes had been inefficiently75 stopped.
“Jolly! ain’t it?” remarked a street boy, with a ruddy face and hair blown straight on end all round, to another street boy with a cast-iron look and a red nose—both being powerfully robust76.
And then both went eagerly to take liberties with a neighbouring pump, from the spout78 of which hung an icicle like a stalactite, the droppings from which, at an earlier period, had formed a considerable stalagmite on the stones below.
It is probable that the sick old man on the poor bed in the small room close to the pump did not think the state of matters either “jolly” or “prime,” for, besides being very old, he was very weak and thin and cold and hungry; in addition to which Jack Frost had seated himself on the rickety chair beside the empty grate, and seemed bent on remaining—the colonel having previously79 blown open the door and removed a garment which had sheltered the old man’s head, thus permitting the major to sprinkle a miniature drift on his pillow.
“I hardly like to leave you, gran’father, in such blustery weather,” said a little maiden80 of about ten years of age, with filthy81 garments and a dirty face, who, if she had been washed and dressed, would have been distinctly pretty, but who, in the circumstances, was rather plain. As she spoke82 she re-adjusted the garment-screen and removed the snowdrift.
“Don’t say that, Martha,” replied the old man in a thin weak voice—it had been strong and deep and resonant83 once, but Time and Want and Disease play sad havoc84 with strong men.
“You must go, darling,” resumed the old man after a few seconds’ pause to recover breath. “You’ve no chance of a breakfast otherwise. And—perhaps—they may give you a bit to bring home for—”
Martha eagerly interrupted the hesitating voice,—and it was easily interrupted! “Yes, yes, gran’father. They’ll be sure to let me bring home some for you. I’ll be quite, quite sure to do it.”
She made the promise with great decision, as well she might, for she had made up her mind to pocket all the food that was given to her except just a small morsel85, which she would nibble86 in order to make believe that she was feeding!
“Lock the door and put the key in your pocket,” said the old man, while the child tucked in about him the thin torn counterpane which formed the only covering to his straw bed. “An’ don’t fear for me, darling. The Lord is with me. Be sure to eat as much as you can.”
Having regard to her secret intentions, Martha refrained from pledging herself, but she laughed and nodded significantly as she quitted the cold, dismal87, and shabby room.
It was little Martha’s first experience of a “free breakfast.” She had, indeed, heard of such a thing before, but had not up to that time met with anything of the kind, so she advanced to “the hall” with some timidity and much expectation.
The hall was very full, and, as poor little Martha was rather late, she could not manage to crush in much beyond the door. Besides, being small, she could see nothing. In these depressing circumstances her heart began to sink, when her attention was attracted by a slight stir outside the door. A lady and gentleman were coming in. It so happened that the lady in passing trod upon one of Martha’s cold little toes, and drew from the child a sharp cry.
“Oh, my dear, dear little girl!” cried the shocked lady, with a gush88 of self-reproach and sympathy, “I’m so sorry—so very, very sorry. It was so stupid of me! Have I hurt you much, dear little girl? Come—come with me.”
“Bring her to the stove, Matty, there’s more room there to have it looked to,” said the gentleman, in a kind voice.
Much consoled by all this, though still whimpering, little Martha suffered herself to be led to the front seats, and set on a bench just below the platform, where she began to bloom under the genial89 influence of the stove, and to wonder, with inexpressible surprise, at the mighty90 sea of upturned faces in front of her. As for the toe, it was utterly91 forgotten. The lady’s foot, you see, being almost as light as her heart, had done it no serious injury. Nevertheless, she continued for a few minutes to inspect it earnestly and inquire for it tenderly, regardless of dirt!
“You’re sure it is better, dear little child?”
“Oh yes, ma’am, thank you. I don’t feel it at all now. An’ it’s so nice to feel warm again!”
What a depth of meaning was unwittingly given to the last two words by the emphasis of the child-voice.—“Warm”—“Again!” The lady almost burst into tears as she thought of all that they implied. But her services were required at the harmonium. With a parting pat on Martha’s curly head, and a bright smile, she hurried away to ascend92 the platform.
The preliminaries of a feast at which most of the feasters are cold and hungry—some of them starving—should not be long. Full well did Tom Westlake know and appreciate this truth, and, being the donor93, originator, and prime mover in the matter, he happily had it all his own way.
In the fewest possible words, and in a good loud voice which produced sudden silence, he asked God to give His blessing94 with the food provided, and to send His Holy Spirit into the hearts of all present, so that they might be made to hunger and thirst for Jesus, the Bread and Water of Life. Then the poor people had scarcely recovered from their surprise at the brevity of the prayer, when they were again charmed to silence by the sweet strains of the harmonium. You see, they had not yet become blasé and incapable95 of enjoying anything short of an organ. Indeed, there were some among them who deliberately96 said they preferred a harmonium to an organ!
But no instrument either of ancient or modern invention could drown the clatter97 that ensued when enormous mugs of earthenware98 were distributed to the company, by more or less rich and well-off “workers”; so the clatter and the hymns100 went on together until each lung was filled with some delectable101 fluid, smoking hot, and each mouth crammed102 with excellent bread and meat. Then comparative quiet ensued, during which temporary calm Tom read a few verses of the Word of God, commenting on them briefly103 in language so forcible that it went right home to many hearts, yet so simple that even little Martha understood it.
True to her intention, little Martha, although much surprised and charmed and perplexed104 by all that was going on around her, did not forget to pocket something for gran’father. She was met, however, by an exasperating105 difficulty at the very outset. Her pocket was not large enough to contain the huge roll which, with some meat, had been put hastily into her small hand by a lady with a red rose in her bonnet. To achieve her object with the roll and meat in one hand and the mug in the other was, she found, impossible, so she set the mug on the floor between her feet and proceeded to wrestle106 with the loaf and pocket, having previously torn off a very small portion of the bread for her own use. Still the loaf was too large; so she tore off another morsel, and finally, after a severe struggle, succeeded in getting it and the bit of meat in.
“You’ll go for to kick it over, if you don’t mind,” said a small boy near her, referring to the mug.
“You mind your own business—Imperence!” replied Martha, sharply. It must be remembered that she was a child of the “slums.”
“Wot a cheeky little shrimp107 it is,” retorted the boy, with as much of a grin as a stuffed mouth would admit of.
Just then Matilda Westlake, having finished a hymn99, and being mindful of the little toe, came quietly down to where Martha was sitting.
“Why, dear child,” she said, in surprise, “have they not given you something to eat?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. But I’ve—”
She was going to say, “I’ve eaten it,” but gran’father had so earnestly impressed on her mind the sinfulness of telling lies, that she felt constrained108 to hesitate, and, with a trembling lip, finished by saying she had eaten some of it.
“And what has become of the rest, dear?”
Without noticing the remark, Matty moved so as to make herself an effectual screen between Imperence and Martha.
“Tell me, dear child,” she said, stooping low and putting a gentle hand on Martha’s shoulder, “are you not hungry?”
“Oh yes,” answered the little one quickly; “I’m so ’ungry. You can’t think ’ow ’ungry; but I promised to—to—”
At this point her lip quivered, and she began to cry quietly.
“Stay, don’t tell me anything more about it, dear, till you have breakfasted. Here, eat this before you say another word.”
She took a roll from the basket of a passing “worker” and put it in the child’s hand. Nothing loth, Martha began to eat and drink, mingling110 a warm tear or two with the hot soup, and venting111 a sob112 now and then as she proceeded.
Watching her for a few moments, Matty left her.
In passing she stopped and said to Imperence, in a whisper of terrible intensity113, “If you speak to that girl again you shall have—no more.”
No more! To be “hanged by the neck till you are dead” would not have sounded so appalling114 just at that time. So Imperence collapsed115.
It is not our purpose to go much further into the details of the feast. Suffice it to say that the poorest of the poor were there; that they were encouraged to eat as much as possible, and allowed to carry away what they could not eat, and there is reason to believe that, judging from the prominence116 of pockets, a considerable quantity found its way to hungry mouths which had been found incapable of attending the feast.
Among those who did great execution in the pocketing line was, as you may well believe, little Martha. Finding, to her ineffable117 joy, that there was no limit assigned to consumption, and that pocketing was not esteemed a sin, she proceeded, after stuffing herself, to stuff to overflowing the pocket with which she had previously wrestled118, as already described, and then attempted to fill the pocket on the other side. She did so in utter and child-like forgetfulness of the fact that she had recently lost several small articles in consequence of the condition of that pocket, and her memory was not awakened120 until, having just completed the satisfactory filling of it, she beheld121, or rather felt, the entire mass of edibles122 descending123 to the floor, proving that the pocket was indeed a very bottomless pit.
“Never mind, little one,” said Tom Westlake, coming forward at the moment, for he had just closed the meeting; “I’ll find a bag for you to put it in. I hope the toe is all right.”
“Oh yes, sir, thank you, it’s quite well,” answered Martha, blushing through the dirt on her face, as she eyed the fallen food anxiously.
“Tell me now, little one,” continued Tom, sitting down on the bench and drawing the child gently towards him, “whom are you pocketing all these good things for?—not for yourself, I’m quite sure of that.”
“Oh dear, no, sir; it’s for gran’father.”
“Indeed. Is grandfather very poor?”
“Oh yes, sir, very, very poor; an’ he’s got nobody but me to take care of him.”
“If that be so, who is taking care of him just now?” asked Matty, who had joined her brother, leaving another “worker” at the harmonium to play the people out,—a difficult thing to do, by the way, for the people seemed very unwilling124 to go.
You see, among other things, Jack Frost and Sons could gain no footing in that hall, and the people knew only too well that the firm was in great force awaiting them outside.
“Nobody’s takin’ care on ’im, ma’am,” replied Martha, somewhat shyly. “I locked ’im in, an’ he’s takin’ care of hisself.”
“Would you like to give grandfather anything in particular, little woman, if a fairy were to offer to give it you?”
“Oh, wouldn’t I just?”
“Yes? What would you ask for?”
Martha pursed her little mouth and knitted her brows in thought for a minute. Then she said slowly, “I’d ask for a mug of hot soup, an’ a blanket, an’ some coals, and—oh! I forgot, a teapot, for ours is cracked an’ won’t ’old in now.”
“Do you live far from this hall?” asked Tom.
“No, sir, quite close.”
“Come, Matty, you and I will go with this little one and see grandfather. What is your name, child?”
“Martha Burns, sir.”
“Well, Martha, give me your hand, and come along.”
They were soon in the shabby little room,—for Martha was eager to give the food to the old man. Of course Jack Frost and Sons were still in possession, but there had come another visitor during the child’s absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet.
Death sat beside the lowly bed. He had not yet laid his hand on his victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt.
“Darling, I’m glad you’ve come,” said the old man, faintly. “I’ve been longing125 so for you. Give me your hand, dear. I’m so cold—so cold.”
He shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. Poor Martha forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over gran’father—such as she had never seen before. She took his thin hand in hers, and began to weep softly.
But Matilda Westlake did not forget the food. She took up the tin can in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. Finding a pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the old man’s head gently, began to feed him like a child. Meanwhile Tom Westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. Then he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and, returning, soon kindled126 a fire in the rusty127 grate.
The old man did not seem surprised. His face wore a dazed, yet thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. All the time he kept fast hold of Martha’s hand, and smiled to her once or twice. It was evident that he relished128 the soup. Only once he broke silence to thank them and say, “Jesus sent you, I suppose?”
“Yes, Jesus sent us,” replied Matty, thoroughly meaning what she said.
At that moment Death raised his hand and laid it gently on the old man’s brow. The hoary129 head bowed to the summons, and, with a soft sigh, the glad spirit fled to that region where suffering cannot enter.
Oh, it was sad to witness the child-grief when Martha at last came to understand that gran’father was really gone. And it required no little persuasion to induce her to leave the lowly sordid130 room that she had known as “home.”
While his sister comforted the child, Tom went to the “authorities” to inform them that an old pauper131 had gone the way of all flesh.
When at last Martha permitted her new friends to remove her, she was led by Miss Westlake to the not far distant house of a lady friend, whose sympathies with the suffering, the sorrowful, and the fallen were so keen that she had given up all and gone to dwell in the midst of them, in the sanguine132 hope of rescuing some. To this lady’s care Martha was in the meantime committed, and then Tom and his sister went their way.
Their way led them to a very different scene not far from the same region.
“We’re rather late,” remarked Tom, consulting his watch as they turned into a narrow street.
“Not too late, I think,” said his sister.
“I hope not, for I should be sorry to go in upon them at dinner-time.”
They were not too late. David Butts133, whom they were about to visit, was a dock-labourer. In early youth he had been a footman, in which capacity he had made the acquaintance of the Westlakes’ nursery-maid, and, having captivated her heart, had carried her off in triumph and married her.
David had not been quite as steady as might have been desired. He had acquired, while in service, a liking134 for beer, which had degenerated135 into a decided136 craving137 for brandy, so that he naturally came down in the world, until, having lost one situation after another, he finally, with his poor wife and numerous children, was reduced to a state bordering on beggary. But God, who never forgets His fallen creatures, came to this man’s help when the tide with him was at its lowest ebb138. A humble-minded city missionary139 was sent to him. He was the means of bringing him to Jesus. The Saviour140, using one of the man’s companions as an instrument, brought him to a temperance meeting, and there an eloquent141, though uneducated, speaker flung out a rope to the struggling man in the shape of a blue ribbon. David Butts seized it, and held on for life. His wife gladly sewed a bit of it on every garment he possessed—including his night-shirt—and the result was that he got to be known at the docks as a steady, dependable man, and found pretty constant employment.
How far Matilda Westlake was instrumental in this work of rescue we need not stop to tell. It is enough to say that she had a hand in it—for her heart yearned142 towards the nurse, who had been very kind to her when she was a little child.
Jack Frost and his sons, with their usual presumption143, were in close attendance on the Westlakes when they knocked at David’s door, and when it was opened they rudely brushed past the visitors and sought to enter, but a gush of genial heat from a roaring fire effectually stopped Jack and the major on the threshold, and almost killed them. Colonel Wind, however, succeeded in bursting in, overturning a few light articles, causing the flames to sway, leap, and roar wildly, and scattering145 ashes all over the room, but his triumph was short-lived. The instant the visitors entered he was locked out, and the door shut against him with a bang.
“It do come rather awkward, sir, ’avin’ no entrance ’all,” said David, as he made the door fast. “If we even ’ad a porch it would ’elp to keep the wind and snow hout, but I ain’t complainin’, sir. I’ve on’y too good reason to be thankful.”
“Dear Miss Matilda,” said the old nurse, dusting a wooden chair with her apron146, and beaming all over with joy, “it’s good for sore eyes to see you. Don’t mind the child’n, miss, an’ do sit down near the fire. I’m sure your feet must be wet—such dreadful weather.”
“No, indeed, nurse,—thank you,” said Miss Westlake, laughing as she sat down, “my feet are not a bit wet. The frost is so hard that everything is quite dry.”
“Now it’s no use to tell me that, Miss Matty,” said Mrs Butts, with the memory of nursing days strong upon her. “You was always such a dear, thoughtless child! Don’t you remember that day when you waded147 in baby’s bath, an’ then said you wasn’t wet a bit, only a very little, an’ you rather liked it? Indeed she did: you needn’t laugh, Master Tom, I remember it as well as if it happened yesterday.”
“I don’t in the least doubt you, Mrs Butts,” said Tom, “I was only laughing at my sister’s idea of dryness. But you must not let us interrupt you in your cooking operations, else we will go away directly. Just go about it as if we were not here, for I have some business matters to talk over with your husband.”
“Go away?” echoed Mrs Butts; “you must not talk of going away till you’ve had a bite of lunch with us. It’s our dinner, you know, but lawks! what do it matter what you calls it so long as you’ve got it to eat? An’ there’s such a splendid apple dumplin’ in the pot, miss; you see, it’s Tommy’s birthday, for he was born on a Christmas Day, an’ he’s very fond of apple dumplin’, is Tommy.”
The six children, of various ages and sizes scattered148 about the small room, betrayed lively interest in this invitation—some hoping that it would be accepted; others as evidently hoping that it would be declined. As for Tommy, his fear that the dumpling would be too small for the occasion filled his heart with anxiety that showed itself strongly in his face, but he was promptly relieved by Miss Matty assuring his mother that to stay was impossible, as they had other visits to pay that day.
Thus the lady and nurse chatted of past and present days, while Tom Westlake talked “business” with the dock-labourer.
“You seem to be getting on pretty comfortably now,” remarked Tom.
“Yes, sir, thank God I am. Ever since I was enabled to cry, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner,’ things ’as gone well with me. An’ the puttin’ on o’ the blue ribbon, sir, ’as done me a power o’ good. You see, before that I was sorely tempted119 by comrades offerin’ me a glass, and by my own wish to ’ave a glass, but when I mounted the blue I was let alone, though they chaffed me now an’ then, an’ I felt it was no use thinkin’ about it, ’owever much I might wish for it. The missus, bless ’er ’art, sewed a bit o’ blue on my night-shirt in fun, but d’ee know, sir, I do believe it’s that ’as cured me o’ dreamin’ about it, as I used to do.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Butts,” said Tom, with a laugh. “Now, tell me; how long is it since you tasted strong drink?”
“Six months this very day, sir.”
“And are you satisfied that you are better without it?”
“Better without it, sir,” repeated Butts, with energy, “in course I am—better in body and better in soul, also in pocket. Of course you know, sir, we don’t carry on every day with such fires an’ dinners as we’re a-goin’ in for to-day—for Christmas on’y comes once a year, and sometimes we’ve been slack at the docks, an’ once or twice I’ve bin149 laid up, so that we’ve bin pinched a bit now an’ then, but we’ve bin able to make the two ends meet, and the older child’n is beginnin’ to turn in a penny now an’ again, so, you see, sir, though the fires ain’t always bright, an Jack Frost do manage to git in through the key ’ole rather often just now, on the whole we’re pretty comfortable.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Butts; very glad to hear it indeed,” said Tom, “because I’m anxious to help you, and I make it a point only to help those who help themselves. Six months of steadiness goes a long way to prove that your craving for drink has been cured, and that your reformation is genuine; therefore, I am able now to offer you a situation as porter in a bank, which for some time I have kept open on purpose to be ready for you. How will that suit you—eh?”
Whatever David Butts replied, or meant to reply, could only be gathered from his gratified expression, for at that moment his voice was drowned by a shriek150 of delight from the youngest children in consequence of Mrs Butts, at Matilda’s request, having removed the lid of the pot which held the dumpling, and let out a deliciously-scented cloud of steam. It was almost too much for the little ones, whose mouths watered with anticipation151, and who felt half inclined to lay violent hands on the pot and begin dinner without delay.
“Now, I know by the smell that it is quite ready, so we will say good-bye at once,” said Matilda, getting up with a smile, and drawing her warm cloak round her. “Be sure to send your eldest152 girl to me to-morrow along with your husband.”
“And come early, Butts,” said Tom Westlake, buttoning up his coat.
“You may depend on me, sir.”
“Stand by to shut the door quickly after us,” added Tom as he grasped the handle, “else the wind will get in and blow the fire about.”
The brother and sister, being young and active, were pretty smart in making their exit, and David Butts, being used to doors, was not slow to shut his own, but they could not altogether baffle the colonel, for he was waiting outside. Indeed, he had been whistling with furious insolence153 through the keyhole all the time of the visit. Sliding in edgewise, at the moment of opening, he managed to scatter144 the ashes again, and whirl about some of the light articles before he was fairly expelled.
Thereafter, along with his father and brother, he went riotously154 after Tom and Matilda Westlake, sometimes shrieking155 over their heads; now and then dashing on in front, and, whirling round in an eddy156, plunging157 straight back into their faces, but they could make nothing of it. The brother and sister merely laughed at them, and defied them to do their worst, even, in the joy of their hearts, going the length of saying to several utter but beaming strangers, that it was “splendid Christmas weather.” And so it was,—to the young and strong. Not so, alas158! to the old and feeble.
It almost seemed as if Colonel Wind and Major Snow had taken offence at this last sally, for about that time of the day they forsook159 their father and left London—probably to visit the country. At all events, the clouds cleared away, the sky became blue, and the sun shone out gloriously—though without perceptibly diminishing the frost.
After spending another hour or two in paying visits, during which they passed abruptly160, more than once from poverty-stricken scenes of moderate mirth to abodes of sickness and desolation, Tom and Matilda, by means of ’bus and cab, at last found themselves in the neighbourhood of the Serpentine161.
“What say you to a turn on the ice, Matty?”
“Charming,” cried Matty.
Society on the Serpentine, when frozen over, is not very select, but the brother and sister were not particular on that point just then. They hired skates; they skimmed about over the well-swept surface; they tripped over innumerable bits of stick or stone or orange-peel; they ran into, or were run into by, various beings whose wrong-headedness induced a preference for skating backwards162. In short, they conducted themselves as people usually do on skates, and returned home pretty well exhausted163 and blooming.
That evening, after a family dinner, at which a number of young cousins and other relatives were present, Tom and his sister left the festive164 circle round the fire, and retired to a glass conservatory165 opening out of the drawing-room. There was a sofa in it and there they found Ned Westlake extended at full length. He rose at once and made room for them.
“Well, Ned, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day?” asked Tom.
“Oh, splendidly! There was such a jolly party in Wharton’s grounds—most of them able to skate splendidly. The pond is so sheltered that the wind scarcely affected166 us, and a staff of sweepers cleared away the snow as fast as it fell. Afterwards, when it cleared up and the sun shone through the trees, it was absolutely magnificent. It’s the jolliest day I’ve had on the ice for years, though I’m almost knocked up by it. Jovially167 fatigued168, in fact. But where have you been?”
“We also have been skating,” said Matilda.
“Indeed! I thought you had intended to spend the day somewhere in the east-end attending some of those free breakfasts, and visiting the poor, or something of that sort—as if there were not enough of city missionaries169, and sisters of mercy, or charity, or whatever you call them, to look after such things.”
“You are right, Ned,” said Tom, “such was our intention, and we carried it out too. It was only at the end of the day that we took to skating on the Serpentine, and, considering the number of people we have run into, or overturned, or tumbled over, we found a couple of hours of it quite sufficient.”
From this point Tom Westlake “harked back” and related his experiences of the day. He possessed considerable power of graphic170 delineation171, and gradually aroused the interest of his gay and volatile172 but kindly-disposed brother.
“Ned,” said he, at last, “do you really believe in the truth of these words, ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor?’”
“Yes, Tom, I do,” replied Ned, becoming suddenly serious.
What Tom said to his brother after that we will not relate, but the result was that, before that Christmas evening closed, he succeeded in convincing Ned that a day of “jolly good fun” may be rendered inexpressibly more “jolly,” by being commenced with an effort to cheer and lighten the lot of those into whose sad lives there enter but a small amount of jollity and far too little fun.
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1
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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2
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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6
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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7
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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8
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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9
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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10
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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18
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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19
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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20
snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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21
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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22
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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23
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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25
hilariously
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26
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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30
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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31
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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32
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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34
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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38
Fahrenheit
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| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
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39
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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40
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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41
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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42
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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43
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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44
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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45
retrench
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| v.节省，削减 | |
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46
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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47
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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48
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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49
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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50
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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51
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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52
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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53
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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54
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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55
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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56
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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57
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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58
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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59
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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60
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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61
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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64
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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69
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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70
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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71
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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72
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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73
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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74
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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75
inefficiently
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| adv.无效率地 | |
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76
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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77
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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78
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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79
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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80
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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81
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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82
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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83
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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84
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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85
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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86
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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87
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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88
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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89
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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90
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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91
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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92
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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93
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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94
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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95
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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96
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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97
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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98
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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99
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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100
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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101
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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102
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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103
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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104
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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105
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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106
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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107
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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108
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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109
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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110
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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111
venting
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| 消除； 泄去； 排去； 通风 | |
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112
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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113
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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114
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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115
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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116
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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117
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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118
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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119
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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120
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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121
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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122
edibles
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| 可以吃的，可食用的( edible的名词复数 )； 食物 | |
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123
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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124
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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125
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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126
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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127
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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128
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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129
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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130
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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131
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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132
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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133
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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134
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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135
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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137
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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138
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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139
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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140
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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141
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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142
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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144
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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145
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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146
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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147
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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149
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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150
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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151
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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152
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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153
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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154
riotously
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| adv.骚动地，暴乱地 | |
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155
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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156
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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157
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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158
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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159
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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160
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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161
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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162
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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163
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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164
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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165
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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166
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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167
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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168
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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169
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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170
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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171
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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172
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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