Yes, I have seen it from the first, whenever the conversation has fallen on this subject of salaried intellects. ‘Happy men!’ some enthusiast30 has cried. ‘The elite31 of Rome are their friends. They dine sumptuously32, and call for no reckoning. They are lodged33 splendidly, and travel comfortably — nay34, luxuriously36 — with cushions at their backs, and as often as not a fine pair of creams in front of them. And, as if this were not enough, the friendship they enjoy and the handsome treatment they receive is made good to them with a substantial salary. They sow not, they plough not; yet all things grow for their use.’ How I have seen you prick37 up your ears at such words as these! How wide your mouth has opened to the bait!
Now I will have a clear conscience in this matter. I will not be told hereafter that I saw you swallowing this palpable bait, and never stirred a finger to snatch it from you, and show you the hook while there was yet time; that I watched you nibbling38, saw the hook well in and the fish hauled up, and then stood by shedding useless tears. A grave charge, indeed, were I to leave it in your power to bring it; such neglect would admit of no palliation. You shall therefore hear the whole truth. Now, in leisurely39 fashion, from without, not hereafter from within, shall you examine this weel from which no fish escapes. You shall take in hand this hook of subtle barb40. You shall try the prongs of this eel-spear against your inflated41 cheek; and if you decide that they are not sharp, that they would be easily evaded42, that a wound from them would be no great matter, that they are deficient43 in power and grasp — then write me among those who have cowardice44 to thank for their empty bellies45; and for yourself, take heart of grace, and swoop46 upon your prey47, and cormorant-wise, if you will, swallow all at a gulp48.
But however much the present treatise49 is indebted to you for its existence, its application is not confined to you who are philosophers, whose ambition it is to form your conduct upon serious principles; it extends to the teachers of literature, of rhetoric50, of music — to all, in short, whose intellectual attainments51 can command a maintenance and a wage. And where the life, from beginning to end, is one and the same for all, the philosopher (I need not say), so far from being a privileged person, has but the additional ignominy of being levelled with the rest, and treated by his paymaster with as scant53 ceremony as the rest. In conclusion, whatever disclosures I may be led to make, the blame must fall in the first instance on the aggressors, and in the second instance on those who suffer the aggression54. For me, unless truth and candour be crimes, I am blameless.
As to the vulgar rabble55 of trainers and toadies56, illiterate57, mean-souled creatures, born to obscurity, should we attempt to dissuade58 them from such pursuits, our labour would be wasted. Nor can we fairly blame them, for putting up any affront59, rather than part with their employers. The life suits them; they are in their element. And what other channel is there, into which their energies could be directed? Take away this, their sole vocation60, and they are idle cumberers of the earth. They have nothing, then, to complain of; nor are their employers unreasonable61 in turning these humble62 vessels63 to the use for which they were designed. They come into a house prepared for such treatment from the first; it is their profession to endure and suffer wrong.
But the case of educated men, such as I have mentioned above, is another matter; it calls for our indignation, and for our utmost endeavours to restore them to liberty. I think it will not be amiss, if I first examine into the provocations64 under which they turn to a life of dependence. By showing how trivial, how inadequate66 these provocations are, I shall forestall67 the main argument used by the defenders68 of voluntary servitude. Most of them are content to cloak their desertion under the names of Poverty and Necessity. It is enough, they think, to plead in extenuation69, that they sought to flee from this greatest of human ills, Poverty. Theognis comes pat to their purpose. His
Poverty, soul-subduing Poverty,
is in continual requisition, together with other fearful utterances70 of our most degenerate71 poets to the same effect. Now if I could see that they really found an escape from poverty in the lives they lead, I would not be too nice on the point of absolute freedom. But when we find them (to use the expression of a famous orator72) ‘faring like men that are sick,’ what conclusion is then left to us to draw? What but this, that here again they have been misled, the very evil which they sold their liberty to escape remaining as it was? Poverty unending is their lot. From the bare pittance73 they receive nothing can be set apart. Suppose it paid, and paid in full: the whole sum is swallowed up to the last farthing, before their necessities are supplied. I would advise them to think upon better expedients74; not such as are merely the protectors and accomplices75 of Poverty, but such as will make an end of her altogether. What say you, Theognis? Might this be a case for,
Steep plunge76 from crags into the teeming77 deep?
For when a pauper78, a needy79 hireling, persuades himself that by being what he is he has escaped poverty, one cannot avoid the conclusion that he labours under some mistake.
Others tell a different tale. For them, mere19 poverty would have had no terrors, had they been able, like other men, to earn their bread by their labours. But, stricken as they were by age or infirmity, they turned to this as the easiest way of making a living. Now let us consider whether they are right. This ‘easy’ way may be found to involve much labour before it yields any return; more labour perhaps than any other. To find money ready to one’s hand, without toil80 or trouble on one’s own part, would indeed be a dream of happiness. But the facts are otherwise. The toils81 and troubles of their situation are such as no words can adequately describe. Health, as it turns out, is nowhere more essential than in this vocation, in which a thousand daily labours combine to grind the victim down, and reduce him to utter exhaustion82. These I shall describe in due course, when I come to speak of their other grievances83. For the present let it suffice to have shown that this excuse for the sale of one’s liberty is as untenable as the former.
And now for the true reason, which you will never hear from their lips. Voluptuousness85 and a whole pack of desires are what induce them to force their way into great houses. The dazzling spectacle of abundant gold and silver, the joys of high feeding and luxurious35 living, the immediate86 prospect87 of wallowing in riches, with no man to say them nay — these are the temptations that lure22 them on, and make slaves of free men; not lack of the necessaries of life, as they pretend, but lust88 of its superfluities, greed of its costly89 refinements90. And their employers, like finished coquettes, exercise their rigours upon these hapless slaves of love, and keep them for ever dangling91 in amorous92 attendance; but for fruition, no! never so much as a kiss may they snatch. To grant that would be to give the lover his release, a conclusion against which they are jealously on their guard. But upon hopes he is abundantly fed. Despair might else cure his ardent93 passion, and the lover be lover no more. So there are smiles for him, and promises; always something shall be done, some favour shall be granted, a handsome provision shall be made for him — some day. Meanwhile, old age steals upon the pair; the superannuated95 lover ceases from desire, and his mistress has nothing left to give. Life has gone by, and all they have to show for it is hope.
Well now, that a man for the sake of pleasure should put up with every hardship is perhaps no great matter. Devoted96 to this one object, he can think of nothing, but how to procure97 it. Let that pass. Though it seems but a scurvy98 bargain, a bargain for a slave; to sell one’s liberty for pleasures far less pleasant than liberty itself. Still, as I say, let that pass, provided the price is paid. But to endure unlimited99 pain, merely in the hope that pleasure may come of it, this surely is carrying folly100 to the height of absurdity101. And men do it with their eyes open. The hardships, they know, are certain, unmistakable, inevitable102. As to the pleasure, that vague, hypothetic pleasure, they have never had it in all these years, and in all reasonable probability they never will. The comrades of Odysseus forgot all else in the Lotus: but it was while they were tasting its sweets. They esteemed103 lightly of Honour: but it was in the immediate presence of Pleasure. In men so occupied, such forgetfulness was not wholly unnatural104. But to dwell a prisoner, with Famine for company, to watch one’s neighbour fattening105 on the Lotus, and keeping it all to himself, and to forget Honour and Virtue106 in the bare prospect of a possible mouthful — by Heaven, it is too absurd, and calls in good truth for Homeric scourgings.
Such, as nearly as I can describe them, are men’s motives108 for taking service with the rich, for handing themselves over bodily, to be used as their employers think fit. There is one class, however, of which I ought perhaps to make mention — those whose vanity is gratified by the mere fact of being seen in the company of well-born and well-dressed men. For there are those who consider this a distinguished109 privilege; though for my own part I would not give a fig110 to enjoy and to be seen enjoying the company of the King of Persia, if I was to get nothing by it.
And now, since we understand what it is that these men would be at, let us mentally review their whole career; — the difficulties that beset111 the applicant112 before he gains acceptance; his condition when he is duly installed in his office; and the closing scene of his life’s drama. You may perhaps suppose that his situation, whatever its drawbacks, is at least attainable113 without much trouble; that you have but to will it, and the thing is done in a trice. Far from it. Much tramping about is in store for you, much kicking of heels. You will rise early, and stand long before your patron’s closed door; you will be jostled; you will hear occasional comments on your impudence114. You will be exposed to the vile52 gabble of a Syrian porter, and to the extortions of a Libyan nomenclator, whose memory must be fee’d, if he is not to forget your name. You must dress beyond your means, or you will be a discredit116 to your patron; and select his favourite colours, or you will be out of harmony with your surroundings. Finally, you will be indefatigable117 in following his steps, or rather in preceding them, for you will be thrust forward by his slaves, to swell118 his triumphal progress. And for days together you will not be favoured with a glance.
But one day the best befalls you. You catch his eye; he beckons119 you to him, and puts a random120 question. In that supreme121 moment what cold sweats, what palpitations, what untimely tremors122 are yours! and what mirth is theirs who witness your confusion! ‘Who was the king of the Achaeans?’ is the question: and your answer, as likely as not, ‘A thousand sail.’ With the charitable this passes for bashfulness; but to the impudent123 you are a craven, and to the ill-natured a yokel125. This first experience teaches you that the condescensions of the great are not unattended with danger; and as you depart you pronounce upon yourself a sentence of utter despair. Thereafter,
many a sleepless126 night,
Many a day of strife127 shall be thy lot —
not for the sake of Helen, not for the towers of Troy, but for the sevenpence halfpenny of your desire. At length some heaven-sent protector gives you an introduction: the scholar is brought up for examination. For the great man, who has but to receive your flatteries and compliments, this is an agreeable pastime: for you, it is a life-and-death struggle; all is hazarded on the one throw. For it will of course occur to you, that if you are rejected at the first trial, you will never pass current with any one else. A thousand different feelings now distract you. You are jealous of your rivals (for we will assume that there is competition for the post); you are dissatisfied with your own replies; you hope; you fear; you cannot remove your eye from the countenance129 of your judge. Does he pooh-pooh your efforts? You are a lost man. Was that a smile? You rejoice, and hope rises high. It is only to be expected, that many of the company are your enemies, and others your rivals, and each has his secret shaft130 to let fly at you from his lurking-place. What a picture! The venerable grey-beard being put through his paces. Is he any use? Some say yes, others no. Time is taken for consideration. Your antecedents are industriously131 overhauled132. Some envious133 compatriot, some neighbour with a trivial grievance84, is asked his opinion; he has but to drop a word of ‘loose morality,’ and your business is done; ‘the man speaks God’s truth!’ Every one else may testify to your character: their evidence proves nothing; they are suspected; they are venal134. The fact is, you must gain every point; there must be no hitch135 anywhere. That is your only chance of success.
And now, take it that you have succeeded — beyond all expectation. Your words have found favour with the great man. Those friends, by whose judgement in such matters he sets most store, have made no attempt to alter his decision. His wife approves his choice; the steward136 and the major-domo have neither of them anything against you. No aspersions have been cast on your character; all is propitious137, every omen115 is in your favour. Hail, mighty138 conqueror139, wreathed in the Olympian garland! Babylon is yours, Sardis falls before you. The horn of plenty is within your grasp; pigeons shall yield you milk.
Now, if your crown is to be of anything better than leaves, there must be some solid benefits to compensate140 you for the labours you have undergone. A considerable salary will be placed at your disposal, and you will draw upon it without ceremony, whenever you have occasion. You will be a privileged person in every respect. As for toils, and muddy tramps, and wakeful nights, the time for those have gone by. Your prayers have been heard: you will take your ease, and sleep your fill. You will do the work you were engaged to do, and not a stroke besides. This, indeed, is what you have a right to expect. There would be no great hardship in bowing one’s neck to a yoke124 so light, so easy — and so superbly gilded141. But alas142, Timocles, many, nay all of these requirements are unsatisfied. Your office, now that you have got it, is attended with a thousand details insufferable to all but slaves. Let me rehearse them to you; you shall judge for yourself whether any man with the slightest pretence143 to culture would endure such treatment.
Let me begin with your first invitation to dinner, which may reasonably be expected to follow, as an earnest of the patronage144 to come. It is brought to you by a most communicative slave, whose goodwill145 it must be your first care to secure. Five shillings is the least you can slip into his palm, if you would do the thing properly. He has scruples146. ‘Really, sir — couldn’t think of it; no, indeed, sir.’ But he is prevailed upon at last, and goes off, grinning from ear to ear. You then look out your best clothes, have your bath, make yourself as presentable as possible, and arrive — in fear and trembling lest you should be the first, which would wear an awkward air, just as it savours of ostentation147 to arrive last. Accordingly you contrive148 to hit on the right moment, are received with every attention, and shown to your place, a little above the host, separated from him only by a couple of his intimates. And now you feel as if you were in heaven. You are all admiration149; everything you see done throws you into ecstasies150. It is all so new and strange! The waiters stare at you, the company watch your movements. Nor is the host without curiosity. Some of his servants have instructions to observe you narrowly, lest your glance should fall too often on his wife or children. The other guests’ men perceive your amazement151 at the novel scene, and exchange jesting asides. From the fact that you do not know what to make of your napkin, they conclude that this is your first experience of dining-out. You perspire152 with embarrassment153; not unnaturally154. You are thirsty, but you dare not ask for wine, lest you should be thought a tippler. The due connexion between the various dishes which make their appearance is beyond you: which ought you to take first? which next? There is nothing for it but to snatch a side glance at your neighbour, do as he does, and learn to dine in sequence. On the whole, your feelings are mingled155, your spirit perturbed157, and stricken with awe158. One moment you are envying your host his gold, his ivory, and all his magnificence; the next, you are pitying yourself — that miserable159 nonentity160 which calls its existence life; and then at intervals161 comes the thought, ‘how happy shall I be, sharing in these splendours, enjoying them as if they were my own!’ For you conceive of your future life as one continual feast; and the smiling attendance of gracious Ganymedes gives a charming finish to the picture. That line of Homer keeps coming to your lips: Small blame to Trojan or to greaved Achaean, if such happiness as this was to be the reward of their toils and sufferings. Presently healths are drunk. The host calls for a large beaker, and drinks to ‘the Professor,’ or whatever your title is to be. You, in your innocence163, do not know that you ought to say something in reply; you receive the cup in silence, and are set down as a boor165.
Apart from this, your host’s pledge has secured you the enmity of many of his old friends, with some of whom it was already a grievance, that an acquaintance of a few hours’ standing should sit above men who have been drinking the cup of slavery for years. Tongues are busy with you at once. Listen to some of them. ‘So! We are to give place to new-comers! It wanted but this. The gates of Rome are open to none but these Greeks. Now what is their claim to be set over our heads? I suppose they think they are conferring a favour on us with their wordy stuff?’ ‘How he did drink, to be sure!’ says another. ‘And did you see how he shovelled166 his food down, hand over hand? Mannerless starveling! He has never so much as dreamt of white bread before. ’Twas the same with the capon and pheasant; much if he left us the bones to pick!’ ‘My dear sirs’ (cries number three), ‘I give him five days at the outside; after which you will see him at our end of the table, making like moan with ourselves. He is a new pair of shoes just now, and is treated with all ceremony. Wait till he has been worn a few times, and the mud has done its work; he will be flung under the bed, poor wretch167, like the rest of us, to be a receptacle for bugs168.’ Such are some among the many comments you excite; and, for all we know, mischief169 may be brewing170 at this moment.
Meanwhile, you are the guest of the evening, and the principal theme of conversation. Your unwonted situation has led you on to drink more than was advisable. For some time you have been feeling uncomfortable effects from your host’s light, eager wine. To get up before the rest would be bad manners: to remain is perilous171. The drinking is prolonged; subject upon subject is started, spectacle after spectacle is produced; for your host is determined172 that you shall see all he has to show. You suffer the torments174 of the damned. You see nothing of what is going forward: some favourite singer or musician is performing — you hear him not; and while you force out some complimentary175 phrase, you are praying that an earthquake may swallow up all, or that the news of a fire may break up the party.
Such, my friend, is your first dinner, the best you will ever get. For my part, give me a dinner of herbs, with liberty to eat when I will and as much as I will. I shall spare you the recital176 of the nocturnal woes177 that follow your excess. The next morning, you have to come to terms as to the amount of your salary, and the times of payment. Appearing in answer to his summons, you find two or three friends with him. He bids you be seated, and begins to speak. ‘You have now seen the sort of way in which we live — no ostentation, no fuss; everything quite plain and ordinary. Now you will consider everything here as your own. It would be a strange thing, indeed, were I to entrust178 you with the highest responsibility of all, the moral guidance of myself and my children’— if there are children to be taught —‘and yet hesitate to place the rest at your disposal. Something, however, must be settled. I know your moderate, independent spirit. I quite realize that you come to us from no mercenary motive107, that you are influenced only by the regard and uniform respect which will be assured to you in this house. Still, as I say, something must be settled. Now, my dear sir, tell me yourself, what you think right; remembering that there is something to be expected at the great festivals; for you will not find me remiss179 in that respect, though I say nothing definite at present; and these occasions, as you know, come pretty frequently in the course of the year. This consideration will no doubt influence you in settling the amount of your salary; and apart from that, it sits well on men of culture like yourself, to be above the thought of money.’ Your hopes are blasted at the words, and your proud spirit is tamed. The dream of the millionaire and landed proprietor180 fades away, as you gradually catch his parsimonious181 drift. Yet you smirk182 appreciation183 of the promise. You are to ‘consider everything as your own’; there, surely, is something solid? ’Tis a draught184 (did you but know it)
That wets the lips, but leaves the palate dry. After an interval162 of embarrassment, you leave the matter to his decision. He declines the responsibility, and calls for the intervention185 of one of the company: let him name a sum, at once worthy186 of your acceptance, and not burdensome to his purse, which has so many more urgent calls upon it. ‘Sir,’ says this officious old gentleman, who has been a toady187 from his youth, ‘Sir, you are the luckiest man in Rome. Deny it if you can! You have gained a privilege which many a man has longed for, and is not like to obtain at Fortune’s hands. You have been admitted to enjoy the company and share the hearth188 and home of the first citizen of our empire. Used aright, such a privilege will be more to you than the wealth of a Croesus or a Midas. Knowing as I do how many there are — persons of high standing — who would be glad to pay money down, merely for the honour and glory of the acquaintanceship, of being seen in his company, and ranking as his friends and intimates — knowing this, I am at a loss for words in which to express my sense of your good fortune. You are not only to enjoy this happiness, but to be paid for enjoying it! Under the circumstances, I think we shall satisfy your most extravagant189 expectations, if we say’— and he names a sum which in itself is of the smallest, quite apart from all reference to your brilliant hopes. However, there is nothing for it but to submit with a good grace. It is too late now for escape; you are in the toils. So you open your mouth for the bit, and are very manageable from the first. You give your rider no occasion to keep a tight rein190, or to use the spur; and at last by imperceptible degrees you are quite broken in to him.
The outside world from that time watches you with envy. You dwell within his courts; you have free access; you are become a person of consequence. Yet it is now incomprehensible to you how they can suppose you to be happy. At the same time, you are not without a certain exultation191: you cheat yourself from day to day with the thought that there are better things to come. Quite the contrary turns out to be the case. Your prospects192, like the proverbial sacrifice of Mandrobulus, dwindle193 and contract from day to day. Gradually you get some faint glimmerings of the truth. It begins to dawn upon you at last, that those golden hopes were neither more nor less than gilded bubbles: the vexations, on the other hand, are realities; solid, abiding194, uncompromising realities. ‘And what are these vexations?’ you will perhaps exclaim; ‘I see nothing so vexatious about the matter; I know not what are the hardships and the drudgery alluded196 to.’ Then listen. And do not confine yourself to the article of drudgery, but keep a sharp look-out for ignominy, for degradation197, for everything, in short, that is unworthy of a free man.
Let me remind you then, to begin with, that you are no longer free-born, no longer a man of family. Birth, freedom, ancestry198, all these you will leave on the other side of the door, when you enter upon the fulfilment of your servile contract; for Freedom will never bear you company in that ignoble199 station. You are a slave, wince200 as you may at the word; and, be assured, a slave of many masters; a downward-looking drudge4, from morning till night
serving for sorry wage.
Then again, you are a backward pupil: Servitude was not the nurse of your childhood; you are getting on in years when she takes you in hand; accordingly, you will do her little credit, and give little satisfaction to your lord. Recollections of Freedom will exercise their demoralizing influence upon you, causing you to jib at times, and you will make villanous work of your new profession. Or will your aspirations201 after Freedom be satisfied, perhaps, with the thought, that you are no son of a Pyrrhias or a Zopyrion, no Bithynian, to be knocked down under the hammer of a bawling202 auctioneer? My dear sir, when pay-day comes round each month, and you mingle156 in the herd203 of Pyrrhiases and Zopyrions, and hold out your hand for the wage that is due to you, what is that but a sale? No need of an auctioneer, for the man who can cry his own wares204, and hawks205 his liberty about from day to day. Wretch! (one is prompted to exclaim, and particularly when the culprit is a professed206 philosopher) Wretch! Were you captured and sold by a pirate or a brigand207, you would bewail your lot, and think that Fortune had dealt hardly with you. Were a man to lay violent hands on you, and claim a master’s rights in you, loud and bitter would be your outcry: ‘By heaven and earth, ’tis monstrous208! I appeal to the laws!’ And now, at an age at which a born slave may begin to look towards Freedom, now for a few pence do you sell yourself, your virtue and wisdom, in one parcel? And could Plato’s noble words, could all that Chrysippus and Aristotle have said, of the blessings209 of freedom and the curse of slavery, raise no compunction in you? Do you count it no shame to be pitted against toadies and vulgar parasites210? no shame to sit at the noisy banquets of a promiscuous211, and for the most part a disreputable company, a Greek among Romans, wearing the foreign garb212 of philosophy, and stammering213 their tongue with a foreign accent? How fulsome214 are your flatteries on these occasions! how indecent your tipplings! And next morning the bell rings, and up you must get, losing the best of your sleep, to trudge215 up and down with yesterday’s mud still on your shoes. Were lupines and wild herbs so scarce with you? had the springs ceased to give their wonted supply, that you were brought to such a pass? No, the cause of your captivity216 is too clear. Not water, not lupines were the object of your desire, but dainty viands217 and fragrant218 wines; and your sin has found you out: you are hooked like a pike by your greedy jaws220. We have not far to look for the reward of gluttony. Like a monkey with a collar about its neck, you are kept to make amusement for the company; fancying yourself supremely221 happy, because you are unstinted in the matter of dried figs222. As to freedom and generosity223, they are fled, with the memories of Greece, and have left no trace behind them. And would that that were all, the disgrace of falling from freedom to servitude! Would that your employments were not those of a very menial! Consider: are your duties any lighter224 than those of a Dromo or a Tibius? As to the studies in which your employer professed an interest when he engaged you, they are nothing to him. Shall an ass94 affect the lyre? Remove from these men’s minds the gold and the silver, with the cares that these involve, and what remains225? Pride, luxury, sensuality, insolence226, wantonness, ignorance. Consuming must be their desire, doubt it not, for the wisdom of Homer, the eloquence227 of Demosthenes, the sublimity228 of Plato!
No, your employer has no need of your services in this direction. On the other hand, you have a long beard and a venerable countenance; the Grecian cloak hangs admirably upon your shoulders, and you are known to be a professor of rhetoric, or literature, or philosophy; it will not be amiss, he thinks, to have such pursuits represented in the numerous retinue229 that marches before him. It will give him an air of Grecian culture, of liberal curiosity in fact. Friend, friend! your stock-intrade would seem to be not words of wisdom, but a cloak and a beard. If you would do your duty, therefore, be always well in evidence; begin your unfailing attendance from the early hours of the morning, and never quit his side. Now and again he places a hand upon your shoulder, and mutters some nonsense for the benefit of the passers-by, who are to understand that though he walk abroad the Muses230 are not forgotten, that in all his comings and goings he can find elegant employment for his mind. Breathless and perspiring231, you trot232, a pitiable spectacle, at the litter’s side; or if he walks — you know what Rome is — up hill and down dale after him you tramp. While he is paying a call on a friend, you are left outside, where, for lack of a seat, you are fain to take out your book and read standing.
Night finds you hungry and thirsty. You snatch an apology for a bath; and it is midnight or near it before you get to dinner. You are no longer an honoured guest; no longer do you engage the attention of the company. You have retired233 to make room for some newer capture. Thrust into the most obscure corner, you sit watching the progress of dinner, gnawing234 in canine235 sort any bones that come down to you and regaling yourself with hungry zest236 on such tough mallow-leaves — the wrappers of daintier fare — as may escape the vigilance of those who sit above you. No slight is wanting. You have not so much as an egg to call your own; for there is no reason why you should expect to be treated in the same way as a stranger; that would be absurd. The birds that fall to your lot are not like other birds. Your neighbour gets some plump, luscious237 affair; you, a poor half-chicken, or lean pigeon, an insult, a positive outrage238 in poultry239. As often as not, an extra guest appears unexpectedly, and the waiter solves the difficulty by removing your share (with the whispered consolation240 that you are ‘one of the family’), and placing it before the new-comer. When the joint241, be it pork or venison, is brought in to be carved, let us hope that you stand well with the carver, or you will receive a Promethean helping242 of ‘bones wrapped up in fat.’ And the way in which a dish is whisked past you, after remaining with your neighbour till he can eat no more! — what free man would endure it, though he were as innocent of gall243 as any stag? And I have said nothing yet of the wine. While the other guests are drinking of some rare old vintage, you have vile thick stuff, whose colour you must industriously conceal244 with the help of a gold or silver cup, lest it should betray the estimation in which the drinker is held. It would be something if you could get enough even of this. Alas! you may call and call: the waiter is
as one that marketh not.
Many are your grievances; nay, all is one huge grievance. And the climax245 is reached, when you find yourself eclipsed by some minion246, some dancing-master, some vile Alexandrian patterer of Ionic lays. How should you hope to rank with the minister of Love’s pleasures, with the stealthy conveyer of billets-doux? You cower247 shamefaced in your corner, and bewail your hard lot, as well you may; cursing your luck that you have never a smattering of such graceful248 accomplishments249 yourself. I believe you wish that you could turn love-songs, or sing other men’s with a good grace; perceiving as you do what a thing it is to be in request. Nay, you could find it in you to play the wizard’s, the fortune-teller’s part; to deal in thrones and in millions of money. For these, too, you observe, make their way in the world, and are high in favour. Gladly would you enter on any one of these vocations65, rather than be a useless castaway. Alas, even these are beyond you; you lack plausibility250. It remains for you to give place to others; to endure neglect, and keep your complaints to yourself.
Nay, more. Should some slave whisper that you alone withheld251 your praise, when his mistress’s favourite danced or played, the neglect may cost you dear. Then let your dry throat be as busy as any thirsty frog’s. See to it, that your voice is heard leading the chorus of applause; and time after time, when all else are silent, throw in some studied servile compliment. The situation is not without humour. Hungry as you are, ay, and thirsty into the bargain, you must anoint yourself with oil of gladness, and crown your head with garlands. It reminds one of the offerings made by recent mourners at a tomb. The tomb gets the ointment252 and the garlands, while the mourners drink and enjoy the feast.
If your patron is of a jealous disposition253, and has a young wife or handsome children, and you are not wholly without personal attractions, then beware! you are on dangerous ground. Many are the ears of a king, and many the eyes, that see not the truth only, but ever something over and above the truth, lest they should seem to fail of their office. Imagine yourself, therefore, at a Persian banquet. Keep your eyes downwards254, lest a eunuch should catch them resting on one of the concubines. For see, there stands another with his bow ever on the stretch: one glance at the forbidden object as you raise your cup, and his arrow is through your jaw219 before you can put it down.
And now dinner is over; you retire, and snatch a little sleep. But at cock-crow you are aroused. ‘Wretch! Worm that I am!’ you exclaim. ‘To sacrifice the pursuits, the society of former days, the placid255 life wherein sleep was measured by inclination256, and my comings and goings were unfettered, and all to precipitate257 myself bodily into this hideous258 gulf259! And why? What, in God’s name, is my glorious recompense? Was there no other way? Could I not have provided for myself better than this, and preserved liberty and free-will into the bargain? Alas! the lion is fast bound in the net. I am haled hither and thither260. Pitiable is my lot, where no honour is to be won, no favour to be hoped for. Untaught, unpractised in the arts of flattery, I am pitted against professionals. I am no choice spirit, no jolly companion; to raise a laugh is beyond me. My presence (well do I know it) is a vexation to my patron, and then most when he is in his most gracious mood. He finds me sullen261; and how to attune262 myself to him I know not. If I wear a grim face, I am a sour fellow, scarcely to be endured. If I assume my most cheerful expression, my smiles arouse his contempt and disgust. As well attempt to act a comic part in the mask of tragedy! And what is the end of it all? My present life has been another’s: do I look to have a new life which shall be my own?’
Your soliloquy is interrupted by the bell. The old routine awaits you: you must trudge, and you must stand; and first anoint your limbs, if you would hold out to the end. Dinner will be the same as ever, and go on as late as ever. The change from all your former habits, the wakeful night, the violent exercise, the exhaustion, are slowly undermining your health at this moment, and preparing you for consumption or colic, for asthma263 or the delights of gout. However, you hold out in spite of all, though many a time your right place would be in bed. But that would never do: that looks like shamming264, like shirking your work. The result is that you grow as pallid265 as a man at the point of death.
So much for your city life. And now for an excursion into the country. I will content myself with a single detail. As likely as not it is a wet day. Your turn for the carriage (as might be expected) comes last. You wait and wait, till at last its return is out of the question, and you are squeezed into some vehicle with the cook, or with my lady’s friseur, without even a proper allowance of straw. I shall make no scruple of relating to you an experience of Thesmopolis the Stoic266, which I had from his own mouth; a most amusing incident, and just the sort of thing one might expect to find happening again. He was in the service of a certain wealthy and luxurious lady of quality, whom on one occasion he had to accompany on a journey from Rome. The fun began at once. The philosopher received as his travelling companion a beardless exquisite267 of the pitch-plastering persuasion268, by whom, you may be certain, my lady set great store; his name, she informed the philosopher, was ‘Robinetta.’ Is not this a promising195 start? — the grave and reverend Thesmopolis, with his hoary270 beard (you know what a long, venerable affair it is), side by side with this rouged271 and painted ogler272, whose drooping273 neck and plucked throat suggested the vulture rather than the robin269! ’Twas all that Thesmopolis could do to persuade him not to wear his hair-net; and as it was he had a sad journey of it, with the fellow singing and whistling all the time — I daresay he would have danced there and then, if Thesmopolis had not prevented him. But there was more to come, as you will see. ‘Thesmopolis,’ cries my lady, calling him to her, ‘I have a great favour to ask of you; now please don’t say no, and don’t wait to be asked twice, there’s a good creature.’ Of course, he said he would do anything she wished. ‘I only ask you, because I know you are to be trusted; you are so good-natured and affectionate! I want you to take my little dog Myrrhina in with you, and see that she wants for nothing. Poor little lady! she is soon to become a mother. These hateful, inattentive servants take no notice of me when we are travelling, much less of her. You will be doing me a great kindness, I assure you, in taking charge of her; I am so fond of the sweet little pet!’ She prayed and almost wept; and Thesmopolis promised. Imagine the ludicrous picture. The little beast peeping out from beneath the philosophic274 cloak; within licking distance of that beard, which perhaps still held traces of the thick soup of yesterday; yapping away with its shrill275 pipe of a voice, as Maltese terriers will; and no doubt taking other liberties, which Thesmopolis did not think worth mentioning. That night at dinner, the exquisite, his fellow traveller, after cracking a passable joke here and there at the expense of the other guests, came to Thesmopolis. ‘Of him,’ he remarked, ‘I have only this to say, that our Stoic has turned Cynic.’ According to what I heard, the little animal actually littered in his mantle276!
Such are the caprices, nay, the insults, let me rather say, with which the patron gradually breaks the spirit of his dependants277. I know myself of an orator, a very free speaker, who was actually ordered to stand up and deliver a speech at table; and a masterly speech it was, trenchant278 and terse279. He received the congratulations of the company on being timed by a wine — instead of a water-clock; and this affront, it is said, he was content to put up, for the consideration of 8 pounds. But what of that? Wait till you get a patron who has poetical280 or historical tendencies, and spouts281 passages of his own works all through dinner: you must praise, you must flatter, you must devise original compliments for him — or die in the attempt. Then there are the beaux, the Adonises and Hyacinths, as you must be careful to call them, undeterred by the eighteen inches or so of nose that some of them carry on their faces. Do your praises halt? ’Tis envy, ’tis treason! Away with you, Philoxenus that you are, to Syracusan quarries282! — Let them be orators283, let them be philosophers, if they will: what matter for a solecism here and there? Find Attic284 elegance285, find honey of Hymettus in every word; and pronounce it law henceforth, to speak as they speak.
If we had only men to deal with, it would be something: but there are the women too. For among the objects of feminine ambition is this, of having a scholar or two in their pay, to dance attendance at the litter’s side; it adds one more to the list of their adornments, if they can get the reputation of culture and philosophy, of turning a song which will bear comparison with Sappho’s. So they too keep their philosopher, their orator, or their litterateur; and give him audience — when, think you? Why, at the toilet, by all that is ridiculous, among the rouge-pots and hair-brushes; or else at the dinner-table. They have no leisure at other times. As it is, the philosopher is often interrupted by the entrance of a maid with a billet-doux. Virtue has then to bide287 her time; for the audience will not be resumed till the gallant288 has his answer.
At rare intervals, at the Saturnalia or the Feast of Minerva, you will be presented with a sorry cloak, or a worn-out tunic289; and a world of ceremony will go to the presentation. The first who gets wind of the great man’s intention flies to you with the news of what is in store for you; and the bringer of glad tidings does not go away empty-handed. The next morning a dozen of them arrive, conveying the present, each with his tale of how he spoke290 up for you, or the hints he threw out, or how he was entrusted291 with the choice, and chose the best. Not a man of them but departs with your money in his pocket, grumbling292 that it is no more.
As to that salary, it will be paid to you sixpence at a time, and there will be black looks when you ask for it. Still, you must get it somehow. Ply164 your patron therefore with flatteries and entreaties293, and pay due observance to his steward, and let it be the kind of observance that stewards294 like best; nor must you forget your kind introducer. You do get something at last; but it all goes to pay the tailor, the doctor, or the shoemaker, and you are left the proud possessor of nothing at all.
Meanwhile, jealousy295 is rife128, and some slander296 is perhaps working its stealthy way to ears which are predisposed to hear anything to your discredit. For your employer perceives that by this time incessant297 fatigues298 have worn you out; you are crippled, you are good for nothing more, and gout is coming on. All the profit that was to be had of you, he has effectually sucked out. Your prime has gone by, your bodily vigour299 is exhausted300, you are a tattered301 remnant. He begins to look about for a convenient dunghill whereon to deposit you, and for an able-bodied substitute to do your work. You have attempted the honour of one of his minions302: you have been trying to corrupt303 his wife’s maid, venerable sinner that you are! — any accusation304 will serve. You are gagged and turned out neck and crop into the darkness. Away you go, helpless and destitute, with gout for the cheering companion of your old age. Whatever you once knew, you have unlearnt in all these years: on the other hand, you have developed a paunch like a balloon; a monster insatiable, inexorable, which has acquired a habit of asking for more, and likes not at all the unlearning process. It is not to be supposed that any one else will give you employment, at your age; you are like an old horse, whose very hide has deteriorated305 in value. Not to mention that the worst interpretation306 will be put upon your late dismissal; you will be credited with adultery, or poisoning, or something of that kind. Your accuser, you see, is convincing even in silence; whereas you — you are a loose-principled, unscrupulous Greek. That is the character we Greeks bear; and it serves us right; I see excellent grounds for the opinion they have of us. Greek after Greek who enters their service sets up (in default of any other practical knowledge) for wizard or poisoner, and deals in love-charms and evil spells; and these are they who talk of culture, who wear grey beards and philosophic cloaks! When these, who are accounted the best of us, stand thus exposed, when men observe their interested servility, their gross flatteries at table and elsewhere, it is not to be wondered at that we have all fallen under suspicion. Those whom they have cast off, they hate, and seek to make an end of them altogether; arguing, naturally enough, that men who know their secrets, and have seen them in all their nakedness, may divulge307 many a foible which will not bear the light; and the thought is torment173 to them. The fact is, that these great men are for all the world like handsomely bound books. Outside are the gilt308 edges and the purple cover: and within? a Thyestes feasts upon his own children; an Oedipus commits incest with his mother; a Tereus woos two sisters at once. Such are these human books: their brilliancy attracts all eyes, but between the purple covers lurks309 many a horrid310 tale. Turn over the pages of any one of them, and you find a drama worthy the pen of Sophocles or Euripides: close the volume — all is gilt edge and exquisite tooling. Well may they hate the confidants of such crimes, and plot their destruction! What if the outcast should take to rehearsing in public the tragedy that he has got by heart?
I am minded to give you, after the manner of Cebes, a life-picture of Dependence; with this before your eyes, you may judge for yourself, whether it is the life for you. I would gladly call in the aid of an Apelles or a Parrhasius, an Aetion or a Euphranor, but no such perfect painters are to be found in these days; I must sketch311 you the picture in outline as best I can. I begin then with tall golden gates, not set in the plain, but high upon a hill. Long and steep and slippery is the ascent312; and many a time when a man looks to reach the top, his foot slips, and he is plunged313 headlong. Within the gates sits Wealth, a figure all of gold (so at least she seems); most fair, most lovely. Her lover painfully scales the height, and draws near to the door; and that golden sight fills him with amazement. The beautiful woman in gorgeous raiment who now takes him by the hand is Hope. As she leads him in, his spirit is stricken with awe. Hope still shows the way; but two others, Despair and Servitude, now take charge of him, and conduct him to Toil, who grinds the poor wretch down with labour, and at last hands him over to Age. He looks sickly now, and all his colour is gone. Last comes Contempt, and laying violent hands on him drags him into the presence of Despair; it is now time for Hope to take wing and vanish. Naked, potbellied, pale and old, he is thrust forth286, not by those golden gates by which he entered, but by some obscure back-passage. One hand covers his nakedness; with the other he would fain strangle himself. Now let Regret meet him without, dropping vain tears and heaping misery314 on misery — and my picture is complete.
Examine it narrowly in all its details, and see whether you like the idea of going in at my golden front door, to be expelled ignominiously315 at the back. And whichever way you decide, remember the words of the wise man: ‘Blame not Heaven, but your own choice.’
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1
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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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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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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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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46
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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49
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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51
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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52
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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54
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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55
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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toadies
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| n.谄媚者，马屁精( toady的名词复数 )v.拍马，谄媚( toady的第三人称单数 ) | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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64
provocations
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| n.挑衅( provocation的名词复数 )；激怒；刺激；愤怒的原因 | |
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65
vocations
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| n.（认为特别适合自己的）职业( vocation的名词复数 )；使命；神召；（认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的）信心 | |
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66
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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67
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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68
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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69
extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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70
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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71
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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72
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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73
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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74
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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75
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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76
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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77
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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78
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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79
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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80
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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81
toils
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| 网 | |
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82
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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83
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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84
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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85
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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86
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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87
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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88
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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89
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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90
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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91
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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92
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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93
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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94
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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95
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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96
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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97
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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98
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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99
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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100
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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101
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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102
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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103
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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104
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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105
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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106
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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107
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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108
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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109
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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110
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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111
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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112
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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113
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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114
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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115
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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116
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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117
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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118
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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119
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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121
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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122
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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123
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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124
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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125
yokel
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| n.乡下人；农夫 | |
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126
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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127
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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128
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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129
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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130
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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131
industriously
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132
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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133
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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134
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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135
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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136
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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137
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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138
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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139
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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140
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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141
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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142
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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143
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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144
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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145
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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146
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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148
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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149
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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150
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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151
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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152
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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153
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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154
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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155
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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156
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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157
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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159
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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160
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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161
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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162
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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163
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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164
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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165
boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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166
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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167
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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168
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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169
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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170
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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171
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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172
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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173
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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174
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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175
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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176
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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177
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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178
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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179
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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180
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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181
parsimonious
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| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
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182
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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183
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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184
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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185
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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186
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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187
toady
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| v.奉承；n.谄媚者，马屁精 | |
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188
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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189
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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190
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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191
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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192
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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193
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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194
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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195
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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196
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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198
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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199
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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200
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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201
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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202
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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203
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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204
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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205
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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206
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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207
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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208
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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209
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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210
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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211
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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212
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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213
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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214
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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215
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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216
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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217
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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218
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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219
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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220
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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221
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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222
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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223
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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224
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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225
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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226
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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227
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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228
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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229
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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230
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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231
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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232
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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233
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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234
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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235
canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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236
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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237
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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238
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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239
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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240
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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241
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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242
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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243
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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244
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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245
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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246
minion
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| n.宠仆；宠爱之人 | |
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247
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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248
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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249
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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250
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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251
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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252
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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253
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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254
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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255
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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256
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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257
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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258
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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259
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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260
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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261
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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262
attune
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| v.使调和 | |
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263
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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264
shamming
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| 假装，冒充( sham的现在分词 ) | |
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265
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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266
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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267
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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268
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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269
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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270
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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271
rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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272
ogler
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273
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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274
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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275
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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276
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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277
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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278
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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279
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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280
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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281
spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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282
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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283
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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284
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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285
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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286
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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287
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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288
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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289
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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290
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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291
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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292
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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293
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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294
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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295
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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296
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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297
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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298
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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299
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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300
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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301
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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302
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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303
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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304
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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305
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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306
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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307
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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308
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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309
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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310
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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311
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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312
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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313
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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314
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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315
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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