Having got my cattle-agent out of the door, I resume my consideration of that little mark on the doorpost, which is scored up as the text of the present little sermon; and which I hope will relate, not to chalk, nor to any of its special uses or abuses (such as milk, neck-powder, and the like), but to servants. Surely ours might remove that unseemly little mark. Suppose it were on my coat, might I not request its removal? I remember, when I was at school, a little careless boy, upon whose forehead an ink-mark remained, and was perfectly14 recognizable for three weeks after its first appearance. May I take any notice of this chalk-stain on the forehead of my house? Whose business is it to wash that forehead? and ought I to fetch a brush and a little hot water, and wash it off myself?
Yes. But that spot removed, why not come down at six, and wash the doorsteps? I dare say the early rising and exercise would do me a great deal of good. The housemaid, in that case, might lie in bed a little later, and have her tea and the morning paper brought to her in bed: then, of course, Thomas would expect to be helped about the boots and knives; cook about the saucepans, dishes, and what not; the lady’s-maid would want somebody to take the curl-papers out of her hair, and get her bath ready. You should have a set of servants for the servants, and these under servants should have slaves to wait on them. The king commands the first lord in waiting to desire the second lord to intimate to the gentleman usher15 to request the page of the ante-chamber to entreat4 the groom16 of the stairs to implore17 John to ask the captain of the buttons to desire the maid of the still-room to beg the housekeeper18 to give out a few more lumps of sugar, as his Majesty19 has none for his coffee, which probably is getting cold during the negotiation20. In our little Brentfords we are all kings, more or less. There are orders, gradations, hierarchies21, everywhere. In your house and mine there are mysteries unknown to us. I am not going in to the horrid22 old question of “followers.” I don’t mean cousins from the country, love-stricken policemen, or gentlemen in mufti from Knightsbridge Barracks; but people who have an occult right on the premises23; the uncovenanted servants of the house; gray women who are seen at evening with baskets flitting about area-railings; dingy24 shawls which drop you furtive25 curtsies in your neighborhood; demure26 little Jacks27, who start up from behind boxes in the pantry. Those outsiders wear Thomas’s crest28 and livery, and call him “Sir;” those silent women address the female servants as “Mum,” and curtsy before them, squaring their arms over their wretched lean aprons29. Then, again, those servi servorum have dependants30 in the vast, silent, poverty-stricken world outside your comfortable kitchen fire, in the world of darkness, and hunger, and miserable31 cold, and dank, flagged cellars, and huddled32 straw, and rags, in which pale children are swarming33. It may be your beer (which runs with great volubility) has a pipe or two which communicates with those dark caverns34 where hopeless anguish35 pours the groan36, and would scarce see light but for a scrap37 or two of candle which has been whipped away from your worship’s kitchen. Not many years ago — I don’t know whether before or since that white mark was drawn38 on the door — a lady occupied the confidential39 place of housemaid in this “private residence,” who brought a good character, who seemed to have a cheerful temper, whom I used to hear clattering40 and bumping overhead or on the stairs long before daylight — there, I say, was poor Camilla, scouring41 the plain, trundling and brushing, and clattering with her pans and brooms, and humming at her work. Well, she had established a smuggling42 communication of beer over the area frontier. This neat-handed Phyllis used to pack up the nicest baskets of my provender43, and convey them to somebody outside — I believe, on my conscience, to some poor friend in distress44. Camilla was consigned45 to her doom46. She was sent back to her friends in the country; and when she was gone we heard of many of her faults. She expressed herself, when displeased47, in language that I shall not repeat. As for the beer and meat, there was no mistake about them. But apres? Can I have the heart to be very angry with that poor jade48 for helping49 another poorer jade out of my larder50? On your honor and conscience, when you were a boy, and the apples looked temptingly over Farmer Quarringdon’s hedge, did you never —? When there was a grand dinner at home, and you were sliding, with Master Bacon, up and down the stairs, and the dishes came out, did you ever do such a thing as just to —? Well, in many and many a respect servants are like children. They are under domination. They are subject to reproof51, to ill temper, to petty exactions and stupid tyrannies not seldom. They scheme, conspire52, fawn53, and are hypocrites. “Little boys should not loll on chairs.” “Little girls should be seen, and not heard;” and so forth. Have we not almost all learnt these expressions of old foozles: and uttered them ourselves when in the square-toed state? The Eton master, who was breaking a lance with our Paterfamilias of late, turned on Paterfamilias, saying, He knows not the nature and exquisite candor54 of well-bred English boys. Exquisite fiddlestick’s end, Mr. Master! Do you mean for to go for to tell us that the relations between young gentlemen and their schoolmasters are entirely55 frank and cordial; that the lad is familiar with the man who can have him flogged; never shirks his exercise; never gets other boys to do his verses; never does other boys’ verses; never breaks bounds; never tells fibs — I mean the fibs permitted by scholastic56 honor? Did I know of a boy who pretended to such a character, I would forbid my scapegraces to keep company with him. Did I know a schoolmaster who pretended to believe in the existence of many hundred such boys in one school at one time, I would set that man down as a baby in knowledge of the world. “Who was making that noise?” “I don’t know, sir.”— And he knows it was the boy next him in school. “Who was climbing over that wall?” “I don’t know, sir.”— And it is in the speaker’s own trousers, very likely, the glass bottle-tops have left their cruel scars. And so with servants. “Who ate up the three pigeons which went down in the pigeon-pie at breakfast this morning?” “O dear me! sir, it was John, who went away last month!”— or, “I think it was Miss Mary’s canary-bird, which got out of the cage, and is so fond of pigeons, it never can have enough of them.” Yes, it WAS the canary-bird; and Eliza saw it; and Eliza is ready to vow57 she did. These statements are not true; but please don’t call them lies. This is not lying; this is voting with your party. You MUST back your own side. The servants’-hall stands by the servants’-hall against the dining-room. The schoolboys don’t tell tales of each other. They agree not to choose to know who has made the noise, who has broken the window, who has eaten up the pigeons, who has picked all the plovers’-eggs out of the aspic, how it is that liqueur brandy of Gledstane’s is in such porous58 glass bottles —— and so forth. Suppose Brutus had a footman, who came and told him that the butler drank the Curacoa, which of these servants would you dismiss? — the butler, perhaps, but the footman certainly.
No. If your plate and glass are beautifully bright, your bell quickly answered, and Thomas ready, neat, and good-humored, you are not to expect absolute truth from him. The very obsequiousness60 and perfection of his service prevents truth. He may be ever so unwell in mind or body, and he must go through his service — hand the shining plate, replenish62 the spotless glass, lay the glittering fork — never laugh when you yourself or your guests joke — be profoundly attentive63, and yet look utterly64 impassive — exchange a few hurried curses at the door with that unseen slavey who ministers without, and with you be perfectly calm and polite. If you are ill, he will come twenty times in an hour to your bell; or leave the girl of his heart — his mother, who is going to America — his dearest friend, who has come to say farewell — his lunch, and his glass of beer just freshly poured out — any or all of these, if the door-bell rings, or the master calls out “THOMAS” from the hall. Do you suppose you can expect absolute candor from a man whom you may order to powder his hair? As between the Rev61. Henry Holyshade and his pupil, the idea of entire unreserve is utter bosh; so the truth as between you and Jeames or Thomas, or Mary the housemaid, or Betty the cook, is relative, and not to be demanded on one side or the other. Why, respectful civility is itself a lie, which poor Jeames often has to utter or perform to many a swaggering vulgarian, who should black Jeames’s boots, did Jeames wear them and not shoes. There is your little Tom, just ten, ordering the great, large, quiet, orderly young man about — shrieking65 calls for hot water — bullying66 Jeames because the boots are not varnished67 enough, or ordering him to go to the stables, and ask Jenkins why the deuce Tomkins hasn’t brought his pony68 round — or what you will. There is mamma rapping the knuckles69 of Pincot the lady’s-maid, and little Miss scolding Martha, who waits up five pair of stairs in the nursery. Little Miss, Tommy, papa, mamma, you all expect from Martha, from Pincot, from Jenkins, from Jeames, obsequious59 civility and willing service. My dear, good people, you can’t have truth too. Suppose you ask for your newspaper, and Jeames says, “I’m reading it, and jest beg not to be disturbed;” or suppose you ask for a can of water, and he remarks, “You great, big, ‘ulking fellar, ain’t you big enough to bring it hup yoursulf?” what would your feelings be? Now, if you made similar proposals or requests to Mr. Jones next door, this is the kind of answer Jones would give you. You get truth habitually71 from equals only; so my good Mr. Holyshade, don’t talk to me about the habitual70 candor of the young Etonian of high birth, or I have my own opinion of YOUR candor or discernment when you do. No. Tom Bowling72 is the soul of honor and has been true to Black-eyed Syousan since the last time they parted at Wapping Old Stairs; but do you suppose Tom is perfectly frank, familiar, and aboveboard in his conversation with Admiral Nelson, K.C.B.? There are secrets, prevarications, fibs, if you will, between Tom and the Admiral — between your crew and THEIR captain. I know I hire a worthy73, clean, agreeable, and conscientious74 male or female hypocrite, at so many guineas a year, to do so and so for me. Were he other than hypocrite I would send him about his business. Don’t let my displeasure be too fierce with him for a fib or two on his own account.
Some dozen years ago, my family being absent in a distant part of the country, and my business detaining me in London, I remained in my own house with three servants on board wages. I used only to breakfast at home; and future ages will be interested to know that this meal used to consist, at that period, of tea, a penny roll, a pat of butter, and, perhaps, an egg. My weekly bill used invariably to be about fifty shillings; so that, as I never dined in the house, you see, my breakfast, consisting of the delicacies75 before mentioned, cost about seven shillings and threepence per diem. I must, therefore, have consumed daily —
s. d.
A quarter of a pound of tea (say) 1 3
A penny roll (say) 1 0
One pound of butter (say) 1 3
One pound of lump sugar 1 0
A new-laid egg 2 9
Which is the only possible way I have for making out the sum.
Well, I fell ill while under this regimen, and had an illness which, but for a certain doctor, who was brought to me by a certain kind friend I had in those days, would, I think, have prevented the possibility of my telling this interesting anecdote76 now a dozen years after. Don’t be frightened, my dear madam; it is not a horrid, sentimental77 account of a malady78 you are coming to — only a question of grocery. This illness, I say, lasted some seventeen days, during which the servants were admirably attentive and kind; and poor John, especially, was up at all hours, watching night after night — amiable79, cheerful, untiring, respectful, the very best of Johns and nurses.
Twice or thrice in the seventeen days I may have had a glass of eau sucree — say a dozen glasses of eau sucree — certainly not more. Well, this admirable, watchful80, cheerful, tender, affectionate John brought me in a little bill for seventeen pounds of sugar consumed during the illness —“Often ‘ad sugar and water; always was a callin’ for it,” says John, wagging his head quite gravely. You are dead, years and years ago, poor John — so patient, so friendly, so kind, so cheerful to the invalid81 in the fever. But confess, now, wherever you are, that seventeen pounds of sugar to make six glasses of eau sucree was a LITTLE too strong, wasn’t it, John? Ah, how frankly82, how trustily, how bravely he lied, poor John! One evening, being at Brighton, in the convalescence83, I remember John’s step was unsteady, his voice thick, his laugh queer — and having some quinine to give me, John brought the glass to me — not to my mouth, but struck me with it pretty smartly in the eye, which was not the way in which Dr. Elliotson had intended his prescription84 should be taken. Turning that eye upon him, I ventured to hint that my attendant had been drinking. Drinking! I never was more humiliated85 at the thought of my own injustice86 than at John’s reply. “Drinking! Sulp me! I have had only one pint87 of beer with my dinner at one o’clock!”— and he retreats, holding on by a chair. These are fibs, you see, appertaining to the situation. John is drunk. “SULP him, he has only had an ‘alf-pint of beer with his dinner six hours ago;” and none of his fellow-servants will say other wise. Polly is smuggled88 on board ship. Who tells the lieutenant89 when he comes his rounds? Boys are playing cards in the bedroom. The outlying fag announces master coming — out go candles — cards popped into bed — boys sound asleep. Who had that light in the dormitory? Law bless you! the poor dear innocents are every one snoring. Every one snoring, and every snore is a lie told through the nose! Suppose one of your boys or mine is engaged in that awful crime, are we going to break our hearts about it? Come, come. We pull a long face, waggle a grave head, and chuckle90 within our waistcoats.
Between me and those fellow-creatures of mine who are sitting in the room below, how strange and wonderful is the partition! We meet at every hour of the daylight, and are indebted to each other for a hundred offices of duty and comfort of life; and we live together for years, and don’t know each other. John’s voice to me is quite different from John’s voice when it addresses his mates below. If I met Hannah in the street with a bonnet91 on, I doubt whether I should know her. And all these good people with whom I may live for years and years, have cares, interests, dear friends and relatives, mayhap schemes, passions, longing92 hopes, tragedies of their own, from which a carpet and a few planks93 and beams utterly separate me. When we were at the seaside, and poor Ellen used to look so pale, and run after the postman’s bell, and seize a letter in a great scrawling94 hand, and read it, and cry in a corner, how should we know that the poor little thing’s heart was breaking? She fetched the water, and she smoothed the ribbons, and she laid out the dresses, and brought the early cup of tea in the morning, just as if she had had no cares to keep her awake. Henry (who lived out of the house) was the servant of a friend of mine who lived in chambers95. There was a dinner one day, and Harry96 waited all through the dinner. The champagne97 was properly iced, the dinner was excellently served; every guest was attended to; the dinner disappeared; the dessert was set; the claret was in perfect order, carefully decanted98, and more ready. And then Henry said, “If you please, sir, may I go home?” He had received word that his house was on fire; and, having seen through his dinner, he wished to go and look after his children, and little sticks of furniture. Why, such a man’s livery is a uniform of honor. The crest on his button is a badge of bravery.
Do you see — I imagine I do myself — in these little instances, a tinge8 of humor? Ellen’s heart is breaking for handsome Jeames of Buckley Square, whose great legs are kneeling, and who has given a lock of his precious powdered head, to some other than Ellen. Henry is preparing the sauce for his master’s wild-ducks while the engines are squirting over his own little nest and brood. Lift these figures up but a story from the basement to the ground-floor, and the fun is gone. We may be en pleine tragedie. Ellen may breathe her last sigh in blank verse, calling down blessings99 upon James the profligate100 who deserts her. Henry is a hero, and epaulettes are on his shoulders. Atqui sciebat, &c., whatever tortures are in store for him, he will be at his post of duty.
You concede, however, that there is a touch of humor in the two tragedies here mentioned. Why? Is it that the idea of persons at service is somehow ludicrous? Perhaps it is made more so in this country by the splendid appearance of the liveried domestics of great people. When you think that we dress in black ourselves, and put our fellow-creatures in green, pink, or canary-colored breeches; that we order them to plaster their hair with flour, having brushed that nonsense out of our own heads fifty years ago; that some of the most genteel and stately among us cause the men who drive their carriages to put on little Albino wigs101, and sit behind great nosegays — I say I suppose it is this heaping of gold lace, gaudy102 colors, blooming plushes, on honest John Trot103, which makes the man absurd in our eyes, who need be nothing but a simple reputable citizen and indoor laborer104. Suppose, my dear sir, that you yourself were suddenly desired to put on a full dress, or even undress, domestic uniform with our friend Jones’s crest repeated in varied105 combinations of button on your front and back? Suppose, madam, your son were told, that he could not get out except in lower garments of carnation106 or amber-colored plush — would you let him? . . . But as you justly say, this is not the question, and besides it is a question fraught107 with danger, sir; and radicalism108, sir; and subversion109 of the very foundations of the social fabric110, sir. . . . Well, John, we won’t enter on your great domestic question. Don’t let us disport111 with Jeames’s dangerous strength, and the edge-tools about his knife-board: but with Betty and Susan who wield112 the playful mop, and set on the simmering kettle. Surely you have heard Mrs. Toddles113 talking to Mrs. Doddles about their mutual114 maids. Miss Susan must have a silk gown, and Miss Betty must wear flowers under her bonnet when she goes to church if you please, and did you ever hear such impudence115? The servant in many small establishments is a constant and endless theme of talk. What small wage, sleep, meal, what endless scouring, scolding, tramping on messages fall to that poor Susan’s lot; what indignation at the little kindly116 passing word with the grocer’s young man, the pot-boy, the chubby117 butcher! Where such things will end, my dear Mrs. Toddles, I don’t know. What wages they will want next, my dear Mrs. Doddles, &c.
Here, dear ladies, is an advertisement which I cut out of The Times a few days since, expressly for you:
“A lady is desirous of obtaining a SITUATION for a very respectable young woman as HEAD KITCHEN-MAID under a man-cook. She has lived four years under a very good cook and housekeeper. Can make ice, and is an excellent baker118. She will only take a place in a very good family, where she can have the opportunity of improving herself, and, if possible, staying for two years. Apply by letter to,” &c. &c.
There, Mrs. Toddles, what do you think of that, and did you ever? Well, no, Mrs. Doddles. Upon my word now, Mrs. T., I don’t think I ever did. A respectable young woman — as head kitchen-maid — under a man-cook, will only take a place in a very good family, where she can improve, and stay two years. Just note up the conditions, Mrs. Toddles, mum, if you please, mum, and THEN let us see:—
1. This young woman is to be HEAD kitchen-maid, that is to say there is to be a chorus of kitchen-maids, of which Y. W. is to be chief.
2. She will only be situated119 under a man-cook. (A) Ought he to be a French cook; and (B), if so, would the lady desire him to be a Protestant?
3. She will only take a place in a VERY GOOD FAMILY. How old ought the family to be, and what do you call good? that is the question. How long after the Conquest will do? Would a banker’s family do, or is a baronet’s good enough? Best say what rank in the peerage would be sufficiently120 high. But the lady does not say whether she would like a High Church or a Low Church family. Ought there to be unmarried sons, and may they follow a profession? and please say how many daughters; and would the lady like them to be musical? And how many company dinners a week? Not too many, for fear of fatiguing121 the upper kitchen-maid; but sufficient, so as to keep the upper kitchen-maid’s hand in. [N.B. — I think I can see a rather bewildered expression on the countenances122 of Mesdames Doddles and Toddles as I am prattling123 on in this easy bantering124 way.]
4. The head kitchen-maid wishes to stay for two years, and improve herself under the man-cook, and having of course sucked the brains (as the phrase is) from under the chefs nightcap, then the head kitchen-maid wishes to go.
And upon my word, Mrs. Toddles, mum, I will go and fetch the cab for her. The cab? Why not her ladyship’s own carriage and pair, and the head coachman to drive away the head kitchen-maid? You see she stipulates125 for everything — the time to come; the time to stay; the family she will be with; and as soon as she has improved herself enough, of course the upper kitchen-maid will step into the carriage and drive off.
Well, upon my word and conscience, if things are coming to THIS pass, Mrs. Toddles and Mrs. Doddles, mum, I think I will go up stairs and get a basin and a sponge, and then down stairs and get some hot water; and then I will go and scrub that chalk-mark off my own door with my own hands.
It is wiped off, I declare! After ever so many weeks! Who has done it? It was just a little round-about mark, you know, and it was there for days and weeks, before I ever thought it would be the text of a Roundabout Paper.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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4
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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5
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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throttled
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| v.扼杀( throttle的过去式和过去分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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mashes
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| （水、谷物等混合而成的）糊状物( mash的名词复数 ) | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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14
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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negotiation
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hierarchies
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| 等级制度( hierarchy的名词复数 )； 统治集团； 领导层； 层次体系 | |
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horrid
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premises
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dingy
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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crest
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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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dependants
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miserable
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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anguish
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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38
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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39
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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40
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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41
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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42
smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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43
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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44
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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45
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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46
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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47
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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48
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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49
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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50
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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51
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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52
conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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53
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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54
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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57
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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58
porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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59
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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60
obsequiousness
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| 媚骨 | |
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61
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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62
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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63
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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64
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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65
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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66
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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67
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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68
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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69
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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70
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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71
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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72
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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73
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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75
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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76
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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77
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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78
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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80
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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81
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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82
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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83
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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84
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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85
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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86
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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87
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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88
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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89
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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90
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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91
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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92
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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93
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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94
scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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95
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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96
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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97
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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98
decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
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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100
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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101
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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102
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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103
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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104
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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105
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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106
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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107
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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108
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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109
subversion
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| n.颠覆，破坏 | |
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110
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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111
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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112
wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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113
toddles
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的第三人称单数 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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114
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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115
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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116
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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117
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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118
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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119
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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120
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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121
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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122
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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123
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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124
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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125
stipulates
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| n.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的名词复数 )；规定，明确要求v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的第三人称单数 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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