We are credibly2 informed, in reference to the nation whom this choice spirit so happily disposed of, that the caricatures and stage representations which were current in England some half a century ago, exactly depict3 their present condition. For example, we understand that every Frenchman, without exception, wears a pigtail and curl-papers. That he is extremely sallow, thin, long-faced, and lantern-jawed. That the calves4 of his legs are invariably undeveloped; that his legs fail at the knees, and that his shoulders are always higher than his ears. We are likewise assured that he rarely tastes any food but soup maigre, and an onion; that he always says, ‘By Gar! Aha! Vat5 you tell me, sare?’ at the end of every sentence he utters; and that the true generic6 name of his race is the Mounseers, or the Parly-voos. If he be not a dancing-master, or a barber, he must be a cook; since no other trades but those three are congenial to the tastes of the people, or permitted by the Institutions of the country. He is a slave, of course. The ladies of France (who are also slaves) invariably have their heads tied up in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long earrings7, carry tambourines8, and beguile9 the weariness of their yoke10 by singing in head voices through their noses — principally to barrel-organs.
It may be generally summed up, of this inferior people, that they have no idea of anything.
Of a great Institution like Smithfield, they are unable to form the least conception. A Beast Market in the heart of Paris would be regarded an impossible nuisance. Nor have they any notion of slaughter-houses in the midst of a city. One of these benighted11 frog-eaters would scarcely understand your meaning, if you told him of the existence of such a British bulwark12.
It is agreeable, and perhaps pardonable, to indulge in a little self-complacency when our right to it is thoroughly13 established. At the present time, to be rendered memorable14 by a final attack on that good old market which is the (rotten) apple of the Corporation’s eye, let us compare ourselves, to our national delight and pride as to these two subjects of slaughter-house and beast-market, with the outlandish foreigner.
The blessings15 of Smithfield are too well understood to need recapitulation; all who run (away from mad bulls and pursuing oxen) may read. Any market-day they may be beheld16 in glorious action. Possibly the merits of our slaughter-houses are not yet quite so generally appreciated.
Slaughter-houses, in the large towns of England, are always (with the exception of one or two enterprising towns) most numerous in the most densely17 crowded places, where there is the least circulation of air. They are often underground, in cellars; they are sometimes in close back yards; sometimes (as in Spitalfields) in the very shops where the meat is sold. Occasionally, under good private management, they are ventilated and clean. For the most part, they are unventilated and dirty; and, to the reeking18 walls, putrid19 fat and other offensive animal matter clings with a tenacious20 hold. The busiest slaughter-houses in London are in the neighbourhood of Smithfield, in Newgate Market, in Whitechapel, in Newport Market, in Leadenhall Market, in Clare Market. All these places are surrounded by houses of a poor description, swarming21 with inhabitants. Some of them are close to the worst burial-grounds in London. When the slaughter-house is below the ground, it is a common practice to throw the sheep down areas, neck and crop — which is exciting, but not at all cruel. When it is on the level surface, it is often extremely difficult of approach. Then, the beasts have to be worried, and goaded22, and pronged, and tail-twisted, for a long time before they can be got in — which is entirely23 owing to their natural obstinacy24. When it is not difficult of approach, but is in a foul25 condition, what they see and scent26 makes them still more reluctant to enter — which is their natural obstinacy again. When they do get in at last, after no trouble and suffering to speak of (for, there is nothing in the previous journey into the heart of London, the night’s endurance in Smithfield, the struggle out again, among the crowded multitude, the coaches, carts, waggons27, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, dogs, boys, whoopings, roarings, and ten thousand other distractions), they are represented to be in a most unfit state to be killed, according to microscopic28 examinations made of their fevered blood by one of the most distinguished29 physiologists30 in the world, PROFESSOR OWEN— but that’s humbug31. When they ARE killed, at last, their reeking carcases are hung in impure32 air, to become, as the same Professor will explain to you, less nutritious33 and more unwholesome — but he is only an UNcommon34 counsellor, so don’t mind HIM. In half a quarter of a mile’s length of Whitechapel, at one time, there shall be six hundred newly slaughtered35 oxen hanging up, and seven hundred sheep — but, the more the merrier — proof of prosperity. Hard by Snow Hill and Warwick Lane, you shall see the little children, inured36 to sights of brutality37 from their birth, trotting38 along the alleys39, mingled40 with troops of horribly busy pigs, up to their ankles in blood — but it makes the young rascals42 hardy43. Into the imperfect sewers44 of this overgrown city, you shall have the immense mass of corruption45, engendered46 by these practices, lazily thrown out of sight, to rise, in poisonous gases, into your house at night, when your sleeping children will most readily absorb them, and to find its languid way, at last, into the river that you drink — but, the French are a frog-eating people who wear wooden shoes, and it’s O the roast beef of England, my boy, the jolly old English roast beef.
It is quite a mistake — a newfangled notion altogether — to suppose that there is any natural antagonism47 between putrefaction48 and health. They know better than that, in the Common Council. You may talk about Nature, in her wisdom, always warning man through his sense of smell, when he draws near to something dangerous; but, that won’t go down in the City. Nature very often don’t mean anything. Mrs. Quickly says that prunes49 are ill for a green wound; but whosoever says that putrid animal substances are ill for a green wound, or for robust50 vigour51, or for anything or for anybody, is a humanity-monger and a humbug. Britons never, never, never, &c., therefore. And prosperity to cattle-driving, cattle-slaughtering52, bone-crushing, blood-boiling, trotter-scraping, tripe53-dressing54, paunch-cleaning, gut-spinning, hide-preparing, tallow-melting, and other salubrious proceedings55, in the midst of hospitals, churchyards, workhouses, schools, infirmaries, refuges, dwellings56, provision-shops nurseries, sick-beds, every stage and baiting-place in the journey from birth to death!
These UNcommon counsellors, your Professor Owens and fellows, will contend that to tolerate these things in a civilised city, is to reduce it to a worse condition than BRUCE found to prevail in ABYSSINIA. For there (say they) the jackals and wild dogs came at night to devour57 the offal; whereas, here there are no such natural scavengers, and quite as savage59 customs. Further, they will demonstrate that nothing in Nature is intended to be wasted, and that besides the waste which such abuses occasion in the articles of health and life — main sources of the riches of any community — they lead to a prodigious60 waste of changing matters, which might, with proper preparation, and under scientific direction, be safely applied61 to the increase of the fertility of the land. Thus (they argue) does Nature ever avenge58 infractions of her beneficent laws, and so surely as Man is determined62 to warp63 any of her blessings into curses, shall they become curses, and shall he suffer heavily. But, this is cant64. Just as it is cant of the worst description to say to the London Corporation, ‘How can you exhibit to the people so plain a spectacle of dishonest equivocation65, as to claim the right of holding a market in the midst of the great city, for one of your vested privileges, when you know that when your last market holding charter was granted to you by King Charles the First, Smithfield stood IN THE SUBURBS OF LONDON, and is in that very charter so described in those five words?’ — which is certainly true, but has nothing to do with the question.
Now to the comparison, in these particulars of civilisation66, between the capital of England, and the capital of that frog-eating and wooden-shoe wearing country, which the illustrious Common Councilman so sarcastically67 settled.
In Paris, there is no Cattle Market. Cows and calves are sold within the city, but, the Cattle Markets are at Poissy, about thirteen miles off, on a line of railway; and at Sceaux, about five miles off. The Poissy market is held every Thursday; the Sceaux market, every Monday. In Paris, there are no slaughter-houses, in our acceptation of the term. There are five public Abattoirs69 — within the walls, though in the suburbs — and in these all the slaughtering for the city must be performed. They are managed by a Syndicat or Guild70 of Butchers, who confer with the Minister of the Interior on all matters affecting the trade, and who are consulted when any new regulations are contemplated71 for its government. They are, likewise, under the vigilant72 superintendence of the police. Every butcher must be licensed74: which proves him at once to be a slave, for we don’t license73 butchers in England — we only license apothecaries75, attorneys, post-masters, publicans, hawkers, retailers77 of tobacco, snuff, pepper, and vinegar — and one or two other little trades, not worth mentioning. Every arrangement in connexion with the slaughtering and sale of meat, is matter of strict police regulation. (Slavery again, though we certainly have a general sort of Police Act here.)
But, in order that the reader may understand what a monument of folly78 these frog-eaters have raised in their abattoirs and cattle-markets, and may compare it with what common counselling has done for us all these years, and would still do but for the innovating79 spirit of the times, here follows a short account of a recent visit to these places:
It was as sharp a February morning as you would desire to feel at your fingers’ ends when I turned out — tumbling over a chiffonier with his little basket and rake, who was picking up the bits of coloured paper that had been swept out, over-night, from a Bon-Bon shop — to take the Butchers’ Train to Poissy. A cold, dim light just touched the high roofs of the Tuileries which have seen such changes, such distracted crowds, such riot and bloodshed; and they looked as calm, and as old, all covered with white frost, as the very Pyramids. There was not light enough, yet, to strike upon the towers of Notre Dame80 across the water; but I thought of the dark pavement of the old Cathedral as just beginning to be streaked81 with grey; and of the lamps in the ‘House of God,’ the Hospital close to it, burning low and being quenched82; and of the keeper of the Morgue going about with a fading lantern, busy in the arrangement of his terrible waxwork83 for another sunny day.
The sun was up, and shining merrily when the butchers and I, announcing our departure with an engine shriek84 to sleepy Paris, rattled85 away for the Cattle Market. Across the country, over the Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees — the hoar frost lying cold in shady places, and glittering in the light — and here we are — at Poissy! Out leap the butchers, who have been chattering87 all the way like madmen, and off they straggle for the Cattle Market (still chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and caps of all shapes, in coats and blouses, in calf88-skins, cow-skins, horse-skins, furs, shaggy mantles89, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oil-skin, anything you please that will keep a man and a butcher warm, upon a frosty morning.
Many a French town have I seen, between this spot of ground and Strasburg or Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little Poissy! Barring the details of your old church, I know you well, albeit90 we make acquaintance, now, for the first time. I know your narrow, straggling, winding91 streets, with a kennel92 in the midst, and lamps slung93 across. I know your picturesque94 street-corners, winding up-hill Heaven knows why or where! I know your tradesmen’s inscriptions95, in letters not quite fat enough; your barbers’ brazen97 basins dangling98 over little shops; your Cafes and Estaminets, with cloudy bottles of stale syrup99 in the windows, and pictures of crossed billiard cues outside. I know this identical grey horse with his tail rolled up in a knot like the ‘back hair’ of an untidy woman, who won’t be shod, and who makes himself heraldic by clattering101 across the street on his hind-legs, while twenty voices shriek and growl102 at him as a Brigand103, an accursed Robber, and an everlastingly-doomed Pig. I know your sparkling town-fountain, too, my Poissy, and am glad to see it near a cattle-market, gushing104 so freshly, under the auspices105 of a gallant106 little sublimated107 Frenchman wrought108 in metal, perched upon the top. Through all the land of France I know this unswept room at The Glory, with its peculiar109 smell of beans and coffee, where the butchers crowd about the stove, drinking the thinnest of wine from the smallest of tumblers; where the thickest of coffee-cups mingle41 with the longest of loaves, and the weakest of lump sugar; where Madame at the counter easily acknowledges the homage110 of all entering and departing butchers; where the billiard-table is covered up in the midst like a great bird-cake — but the bird may sing by-and-by!
A bell! The Calf Market! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty payment and departure on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame reproaches Ma’amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to the devotion of a Butcher in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of The Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without an unobliterated inscription96, or an undamaged crowned head, among them.
There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confusion. The open area devoted111 to the market is divided into three portions: the Calf Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep Market. Calves at eight, cattle at ten, sheep at mid-day. All is very clean.
The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or four feet high, open on all sides, with a lofty overspreading roof, supported on stone columns, which give it the appearance of a sort of vineyard from Northern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie innumerable calves, all bound hind-legs and fore-legs together, and all trembling violently — perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear, perhaps with pain; for, this mode of tying, which seems to be an absolute superstition113 with the peasantry, can hardly fail to cause great suffering. Here, they lie, patiently in rows, among the straw, with their stolid114 faces and inexpressive eyes, superintended by men and women, boys and girls; here they are inspected by our friends, the butchers, bargained for, and bought. Plenty of time; plenty of room; plenty of good humour. ‘Monsieur Francois in the bear-skin, how do you do, my friend? You come from Paris by the train? The fresh air does you good. If you are in want of three or four fine calves this market morning, my angel, I, Madame Doche, shall be happy to deal with you. Behold115 these calves, Monsieur Francois! Great Heaven, you are doubtful! Well, sir, walk round and look about you. If you find better for the money, buy them. If not, come to me!’ Monsieur Francois goes his way leisurely116, and keeps a wary117 eye upon the stock. No other butcher jostles Monsieur Francois; Monsieur Francois jostles no other butcher. Nobody is flustered118 and aggravated119. Nobody is savage. In the midst of the country blue frocks and red handkerchiefs, and the butchers’ coats, shaggy, furry120, and hairy: of calf-skin, cow-skin, horse-skin, and bear-skin: towers a cocked hat and a blue cloak. Slavery! For OUR Police wear great-coats and glazed121 hats.
But now the bartering122 is over, and the calves are sold. ‘Ho! Gregoire, Antoine, Jean, Louis! Bring up the carts, my children! Quick, brave infants! Hola! Hi!’
The carts, well littered with straw, are backed up to the edge of the raised pavement, and various hot infants carry calves upon their heads, and dexterously123 pitch them in, while other hot infants, standing124 in the carts, arrange the calves, and pack them carefully in straw. Here is a promising125 young calf, not sold, whom Madame Doche unbinds. Pardon me, Madame Doche, but I fear this mode of tying the four legs of a quadruped together, though strictly126 a la mode, is not quite right. You observe, Madame Doche, that the cord leaves deep indentations in the skin, and that the animal is so cramped127 at first as not to know, or even remotely suspect that HE is unbound, until you are so obliging as to kick him, in your delicate little way, and pull his tail like a bell-rope. Then, he staggers to his knees, not being able to stand, and stumbles about like a drunken calf, or the horse at Franconi’s, whom you may have seen, Madame Doche, who is supposed to have been mortally wounded in battle. But, what is this rubbing against me, as I apostrophise Madame Doche? It is another heated infant with a calf upon his head. ‘Pardon, Monsieur, but will you have the politeness to allow me to pass?’ ‘Ah, sir, willingly. I am vexed128 to obstruct129 the way.’ On he staggers, calf and all, and makes no allusion130 whatever either to my eyes or limbs.
Now, the carts are all full. More straw, my Antoine, to shake over these top rows; then, off we will clatter100, rumble131, jolt132, and rattle86, a long row of us, out of the first town-gate, and out at the second town-gate, and past the empty sentry-box, and the little thin square bandbox of a guardhouse, where nobody seems to live: and away for Paris, by the paved road, lying, a straight, straight line, in the long, long avenue of trees. We can neither choose our road, nor our pace, for that is all prescribed to us. The public convenience demands that our carts should get to Paris by such a route, and no other (Napoleon had leisure to find that out, while he had a little war with the world upon his hands), and woe133 betide us if we infringe134 orders.
Drovers of oxen stand in the Cattle Market, tied to iron bars fixed135 into posts of granite136. Other droves advance slowly down the long avenue, past the second town-gate, and the first town-gate, and the sentry-box, and the bandbox, thawing137 the morning with their smoky breath as they come along. Plenty of room; plenty of time. Neither man nor beast is driven out of his wits by coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, boys, whoopings, roarings, and multitudes. No tail-twisting is necessary — no iron pronging is necessary. There are no iron prongs here. The market for cattle is held as quietly as the market for calves. In due time, off the cattle go to Paris; the drovers can no more choose their road, nor their time, nor the numbers they shall drive, than they can choose their hour for dying in the course of nature.
Sheep next. The sheep-pens are up here, past the Branch Bank of Paris established for the convenience of the butchers, and behind the two pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My name is Bull: yet I think I should like to see as good twin fountains — not to say in Smithfield, but in England anywhere. Plenty of room; plenty of time. And here are sheep-dogs, sensible as ever, but with a certain French air about them — not without a suspicion of dominoes — with a kind of flavour of moustache and beard — demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose where an English dog would be tight and close — not so troubled with business calculations as our English drovers’ dogs, who have always got their sheep upon their minds, and think about their work, even resting, as you may see by their faces; but, dashing, showy, rather unreliable dogs: who might worry me instead of their legitimate138 charges if they saw occasion — and might see it somewhat suddenly.
The market for sheep passes off like the other two; and away they go, by THEIR allotted139 road to Paris. My way being the Railway, I make the best of it at twenty miles an hour; whirling through the now high-lighted landscape; thinking that the inexperienced green buds will be wishing, before long, they had not been tempted140 to come out so soon; and wondering who lives in this or that chateau141, all window and lattice, and what the family may have for breakfast this sharp morning.
After the Market comes the Abattoir68. What abattoir shall I visit first? Montmartre is the largest. So I will go there.
The abattoirs are all within the walls of Paris, with an eye to the receipt of the octroi duty; but, they stand in open places in the suburbs, removed from the press and bustle142 of the city. They are managed by the Syndicat or Guild of Butchers, under the inspection143 of the Police. Certain smaller items of the revenue derived144 from them are in part retained by the Guild for the payment of their expenses, and in part devoted by it to charitable purposes in connexion with the trade. They cost six hundred and eighty thousand pounds; and they return to the city of Paris an interest on that outlay145, amounting to nearly six and a-half per cent.
Here, in a sufficiently146 dismantled147 space is the Abattoir of Montmartre, covering nearly nine acres of ground, surrounded by a high wall, and looking from the outside like a cavalry148 barrack. At the iron gates is a small functionary149 in a large cocked hat. ‘Monsieur desires to see the abattoir? Most certainly.’ State being inconvenient150 in private transactions, and Monsieur being already aware of the cocked hat, the functionary puts it into a little official bureau which it almost fills, and accompanies me in the modest attire151 — as to his head — of ordinary life.
Many of the animals from Poissy have come here. On the arrival of each drove, it was turned into yonder ample space, where each butcher who had bought, selected his own purchases. Some, we see now, in these long perspectives of stalls with a high over-hanging roof of wood and open tiles rising above the walls. While they rest here, before being slaughtered, they are required to be fed and watered, and the stalls must be kept clean. A stated amount of fodder152 must always be ready in the loft112 above; and the supervision153 is of the strictest kind. The same regulations apply to sheep and calves; for which, portions of these perspectives are strongly railed off. All the buildings are of the strongest and most solid description.
After traversing these lairs154, through which, besides the upper provision for ventilation just mentioned, there may be a thorough current of air from opposite windows in the side walls, and from doors at either end, we traverse the broad, paved, court-yard until we come to the slaughter-houses. They are all exactly alike, and adjoin each other, to the number of eight or nine together, in blocks of solid building. Let us walk into the first.
It is firmly built and paved with stone. It is well lighted, thoroughly aired, and lavishly155 provided with fresh water. It has two doors opposite each other; the first, the door by which I entered from the main yard; the second, which is opposite, opening on another smaller yard, where the sheep and calves are killed on benches. The pavement of that yard, I see, slopes downward to a gutter156, for its being more easily cleansed157. The slaughter-house is fifteen feet high, sixteen feet and a-half wide, and thirty-three feet long. It is fitted with a powerful windlass, by which one man at the handle can bring the head of an ox down to the ground to receive the blow from the pole-axe that is to fell him — with the means of raising the carcass and keeping it suspended during the after-operation of dressing — and with hooks on which carcasses can hang, when completely prepared, without touching158 the walls. Upon the pavement of this first stone chamber159, lies an ox scarcely dead. If I except the blood draining from him, into a little stone well in a corner of the pavement, the place is free from offence as the Place de la Concorde. It is infinitely160 purer and cleaner, I know, my friend the functionary, than the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Ha, ha! Monsieur is pleasant, but, truly, there is reason, too, in what he says.
I look into another of these slaughter-houses. ‘Pray enter,’ says a gentleman in bloody161 boots. ‘This is a calf I have killed this morning. Having a little time upon my hands, I have cut and punctured162 this lace pattern in the coats of his stomach. It is pretty enough. I did it to divert myself.’ — ‘It is beautiful, Monsieur, the slaughterer163!’ He tells me I have the gentility to say so.
I look into rows of slaughter-houses. In many, retail76 dealers164, who have come here for the purpose, are making bargains for meat. There is killing165 enough, certainly, to satiate an unused eye; and there are steaming carcasses enough, to suggest the expediency166 of a fowl167 and salad for dinner; but, everywhere, there is an orderly, clean, well-systematised routine of work in progress — horrible work at the best, if you please; but, so much the greater reason why it should be made the best of. I don’t know (I think I have observed, my name is Bull) that a Parisian of the lowest order is particularly delicate, or that his nature is remarkable168 for an infinitesimal infusion169 of ferocity; but, I do know, my potent170, grave, and common counselling Signors, that he is forced, when at this work, to submit himself to a thoroughly good system, and to make an Englishman very heartily171 ashamed of you.
Here, within the walls of the same abattoir, in other roomy and commodious172 buildings, are a place for converting the fat into tallow and packing it for market — a place for cleansing173 and scalding calves’ heads and sheep’s feet — a place for preparing tripe — stables and coach-houses for the butchers — innumerable conveniences, aiding in the diminution174 of offensiveness to its lowest possible point, and the raising of cleanliness and supervision to their highest. Hence, all the meat that goes out of the gate is sent away in clean covered carts. And if every trade connected with the slaughtering of animals were obliged by law to be carried on in the same place, I doubt, my friend, now reinstated in the cocked hat (whose civility these two francs imperfectly acknowledge, but appear munificently175 to repay), whether there could be better regulations than those which are carried out at the Abattoir of Montmartre. Adieu, my friend, for I am away to the other side of Paris, to the Abattoir of Grenelle! And there I find exactly the same thing on a smaller scale, with the addition of a magnificent Artesian well, and a different sort of conductor, in the person of a neat little woman with neat little eyes, and a neat little voice, who picks her neat little way among the bullocks in a very neat little pair of shoes and stockings.
Such is the Monument of French Folly which a foreigneering people have erected177, in a national hatred178 and antipathy179 for common counselling wisdom. That wisdom, assembled in the City of London, having distinctly refused, after a debate of three days long, and by a majority of nearly seven to one, to associate itself with any Metropolitan180 Cattle Market unless it be held in the midst of the City, it follows that we shall lose the inestimable advantages of common counselling protection, and be thrown, for a market, on our own wretched resources. In all human probability we shall thus come, at last, to erect176 a monument of folly very like this French monument. If that be done, the consequences are obvious. The leather trade will be ruined, by the introduction of American timber, to be manufactured into shoes for the fallen English; the Lord Mayor will be required, by the popular voice, to live entirely on frogs; and both these changes will (how, is not at present quite clear, but certainly somehow or other) fall on that unhappy landed interest which is always being killed, yet is always found to be alive — and kicking.
The End
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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credibly
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| ad.可信地；可靠地 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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tambourines
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓( tambourine的名词复数 )；（鸣声似铃鼓的）白胸森鸠 | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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benighted
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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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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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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21
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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22
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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23
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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24
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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25
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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26
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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27
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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28
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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29
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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30
physiologists
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| n.生理学者( physiologist的名词复数 )；生理学( physiology的名词复数 )；生理机能 | |
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31
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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32
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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33
nutritious
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| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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34
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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35
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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37
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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38
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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39
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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40
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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41
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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42
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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43
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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44
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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45
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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46
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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48
putrefaction
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| n.腐坏，腐败 | |
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49
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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50
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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51
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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52
slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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53
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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54
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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55
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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56
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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57
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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58
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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59
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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60
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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61
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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64
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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65
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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66
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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67
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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68
abattoir
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| n.屠宰场，角斗场 | |
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69
abattoirs
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| n.屠场( abattoir的名词复数 )；（拳击、摔跤、斗牛等的）角斗场 | |
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70
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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71
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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72
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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73
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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74
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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75
apothecaries
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| n.药剂师，药店( apothecary的名词复数 ) | |
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76
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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77
retailers
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| 零售商，零售店( retailer的名词复数 ) | |
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78
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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79
innovating
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| v.改革，创新( innovate的现在分词 )；引入（新事物、思想或方法）， | |
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80
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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81
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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82
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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83
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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84
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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85
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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86
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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87
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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88
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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89
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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90
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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91
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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92
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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93
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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94
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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95
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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96
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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97
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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98
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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99
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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100
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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101
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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102
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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103
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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104
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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105
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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106
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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107
sublimated
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| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
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108
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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109
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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110
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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111
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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112
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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113
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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114
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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115
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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116
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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117
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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118
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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119
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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120
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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121
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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122
bartering
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的现在分词 ) | |
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123
dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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124
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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125
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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126
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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127
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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128
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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129
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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130
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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131
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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132
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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133
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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134
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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135
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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136
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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137
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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138
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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139
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
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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141
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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142
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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143
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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144
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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145
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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146
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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147
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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148
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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149
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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150
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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151
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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152
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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153
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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154
lairs
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| n.（野兽的）巢穴，窝( lair的名词复数 )；（人的）藏身处 | |
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155
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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156
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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157
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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159
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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160
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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161
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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162
punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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163
slaughterer
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| 屠夫，刽子手 | |
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164
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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165
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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166
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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167
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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168
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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169
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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170
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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171
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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172
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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173
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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174
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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175
munificently
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176
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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177
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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178
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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179
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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180
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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