Imagine three or four large, square, comfortless-looking, shut-up houses, all apparently5 uninhabited; add some half-dozen miserable6 little cottages standing7 near the houses, with the nasal notes of a Methodist hymn8 pouring disastrously9 through the open door of one of them; let the largest of the large buildings be called an inn, but let it make up no beds, because nobody ever stops to sleep there: place in the kitchen of this inn a sickly little girl, and a middle-aged10, melancholy11 woman, the first staring despondently13 on a wasting fire, the second offering to the stranger a piece of bread, three eggs, and some sour porter corked14 down in an earthenware16 jar, as all that her larder17 and cellar can afford; fancy next an old, grim, dark church, with two or three lads leaning against the churchyard wall, looking out together in gloomy silence on a solitary18 high road; conceive a thin, slow rain falling, a cold twilight19 just changing into darkness, a surrounding landscape wild, barren, and shelterless — imagine all this, and you will have the picture before you which presented itself to me and my companion, when we found ourselves in the village of Morvah.
Late that night, we got to the large sea-port town of St. Ives; and stayed there two or three days to look at the pilchard fishery, which was then proceeding20 with all the bustle21 and activity denoting the commencement of a good season. Leaving St. Ives, on our way up the northern coast, we now passed through the central part of the mining districts of Cornwall. Chimneys and engine-houses chequered the surface of the landscape; the roads glittered with metallic22 particles; the walls at their sides were built with crystallized stones; towns showed a sudden increase in importance; villages grew large and populous23; inns disappeared, and hotels arose in their stead; people became less curious to know who we were, stared at us less, gossiped with us less; gave us information, but gave us nothing more — no long stories, no invitations to stop and smoke a pipe, no hospitable24 offers of bed and board. All that we saw and heard tended to convince us that we had left the picturesque25 and the primitive26, with the streets of Looe and the fishermen at the Land’s End; and had got into the commercial part of the county, among sharp, prosperous, business like people — it was like walking out of a painter’s studio into a merchant’s counting-house!
As we were travelling, like the renowned27 Doctor Syntax, in search of the picturesque, we hurried through this populous and highly-civilized region of Cornwall as rapidly as possible. I doubt much whether we should not have passed as unceremoniously through the large town of Redruth — the capital city of the mining districts — as we passed through several towns and villages before it, had not our attention been attracted and our departure delayed by a public notice, printed on rainbow-coloured paper, and pasted up in the most conspicuous28 part of the market-place.
The notice set forth29, that “the beautiful drama of The Curate’s Daughter” was to be performed at night, in the “unrivalled Sans Pareil Theatre,” by “the most talented company in England,” before “the most discerning audience in the world.” As far as we were individually concerned, this theatrical30 announcement was remarkably31 tempting32 and well-timed. We were now within one day’s journey of Piran Round, the famous amphitheatre where the old Cornish Miracle Plays used to be performed. Anything connected with the stage was, therefore, a subject of particular interest in our eyes. The bill before us seemed to offer a curious opportunity of studying the dramatic tastes of the modern Cornish, on the very day before we were about to speculate on the dramatic tastes of the ancient Cornish, among the remains33 of their public theatre. Such an occasion was too favourable34 to be neglected; we ordered our beds at Redruth, and joined the “discerning audience” assembled to sit in judgment35 on “The Curate’s Daughter.”
The Sans Pareil Theatre was not of that order of architecture in which outward ornament36 is studied. There was nothing “florid” about it; canvas, ropes, scaffolding-poles, and old boards, threw an air of Saxon simplicity37 over the whole structure. Admitted within, we turned instinctively38 towards the stage. On each side of the proscenium boards was painted a knight39 in full armour40, with powerful calves41, weak knees, and an immense spear. Tallow candles, stuck round two hoops42, threw a mysterious light on the green curtain, in front of which sat an orchestra of four musicians, playing on a trombone, an ophicleide, a clarionet, and a fiddle43, as loudly as they could — the artist on the trombone, especially, performing prodigies44 of blowing, though he had not room enough to develop the whole length of his instrument. Every now and then great excitement was created among the expectant audience by the vehement45 ringing of a bell behind the scenes, and by the occasional appearance of a youth who gravely snuffed the candles all round, with a skill and composure highly creditable to him, considering the pertinacity46 with which he was stared at by everybody while he pursued his occupation.
At last, the bell was rung furiously for the twentieth time; the curtain drew up, and the drama of “The Curate’s Daughter” began.
Our sympathies were excited at the outset. We beheld a lady-like woman who answered to the name of “Grace;” and an old gentleman, dressed in dingy47 black, who personated her father, the Curate; and who was, on this occasion (I presume through unavoidable circumstances), neither more nor less than — drunk. There was no mistaking the cause of the fixed48 leer in the reverend gentleman’s eye; of the slow swaying in his gait; of the gruff huskiness in his elocution. It appeared, from the opening dialogue, that a pending49 law-suit, and the absence of his daughter Fanny in London, combined to make him uneasy in his mind just at present. But he was by no means so clear on this subject as could be desired — in fact, he spoke50 through his nose, put in and left out his hs in the wrong places, and involved his dialogue in a long labyrinth51 of parentheses52 whenever he expressed himself at any length. It was not until the entrance of his daughter Fanny (just arrived from London: nobody knew why or wherefore), that he grew more emphatic53 and intelligible54. We now observed with pleasure that he gave his children his blessing55 and embraced them both at once; and we were additionally gratified by hearing from his own lips, that his “daughters were the h’all on which his h’all depended — that they would watch h’over his ’ale autumn; and that whatever happened the whole party must invariably trust in heabben’s obdipotent power!”
Grateful for this clerical advice, Fanny retired57 into the garden to gather her parent some flowers; but immediately returned shrieking58. She was followed by a Highwayman with a cocked hat, mustachios, bandit’s ringlets, a scarlet59 hunting-coat, and buff boots. This gentleman had shown his extraordinary politeness — although a perfect stranger — by giving Miss Fanny a kiss in the garden; conduct for which the Curate very properly cursed him, in the strongest language. Apparently a quiet and orderly character, the Highwayman replied by beginning a handsome apology, when he was interrupted by the abrupt60 entrance of another personage, who ordered him (rather late in the day, as we ventured to think) to “let go his holt, and beware how he laid his brutal61 touch on the form of innocence62!” This newcomer, the parson informed us, was “good h’Adam Marle, the teacher of the village school.” We found “h’Adam,” in respect of his outward appearance, to be a very short man, dressed in a high-crowned modern hat, with a fringed vandyck collar drooping63 over his back and shoulders, a modern frock-coat, buttoned tight at the waist, and a pair of jack-boots of the period of James the Second. Aided by his advantages of costume, this character naturally interested us; and we regretted seeing but little of him in the first scene, from which he retired, following the penitent64 Highwayman out, and lecturing him as he went. No sooner were their backs turned, than a waggoner, in a clean smock-frock and high-lows, entered with an offer of a situation in London for Fanny, which the unsuspicious Curate accepted immediately. As soon as he had committed himself, it was confided65 to the audience that the waggoner was a depraved villain66, in the employ of that notorious profligate67, Colonel Chartress, who had commissioned a second myrmidon (of the female sex) to lure68 Fanny from virtue69 and the country, to vice56 and the metropolis70. By the time the plot had “thickened” thus far, the scene changed, and we got to London at once.
We now beheld the Curate, Chartress’s female accomplice71, Fanny, and the vicious waggoner, all standing in a row, across the stage. The Curate, in a burst of amiability72, had just lifted up his hands to bless the company, when Colonel Chartress (dressed in an old naval73 uniform, with an opera-hat of the year 1800), suddenly rushed in, followed by the Highwayman, who having relapsed from penitence74 to guilt75, had, as a necessary consequence, determined76 to supplant77 Chartress in the favour of Miss Fanny. These two promptly78 seized each other by the throat; vehement shouting, scuffling, and screaming ensued; and the Curate, clasping his daughter round the waist, frantically79 elevated his walking-stick in the air. Was he about to inflict80 personal chastisement81 on his innocent child? Who could say? Before there was time to ask the question, the curtain fell with a bang, on the crisis of the first act.
In act the second, the first scene was described in the bills as Temple Bar by moonlight. Neither Bar nor moonlight appeared when the curtain rose — so we took both for granted, and fixed our minds on the story. The first person who now confronted us, was “good h’Adam Marle.” The paint was all washed off his face; his immense spread of collar looked grievously in want of washing; and he leaned languidly on an oaken stick. He had been walking — he informed us — through the streets of London for six consecutive82 days and nights, without sustenance83, in search of Miss Fanny, who had disappeared since the skirmish at the end of act the first, and had never been heard of since. Poor dear Marle! how eloquent84 he was with his white handkerchief, when he fairly opened his heart, and confided to us that he was madly attached to Fanny; that he knew he “was nothink” to her; and that, under existing circumstances, he felt inclined to rest himself on a door step! Just as he had comfortably settled down, the valet of the profligate Chartress entered, in the communicative stage of intoxication85; and immediately mentioned all his master’s private affairs to “h’Adam.” It appeared that the Colonel had carried off Miss Fanny, had then got tired of her, and had coolly handed her over to a Jew, in part payment of “a little bill.” Having ascertained86 the Jew’s address, the indefatigable87 Marle left us (still without sustenance) to rescue the Curate’s daughter, or die in the attempt.
The next scene disclosed Fanny, sitting conscience-stricken and inconsolable, in a red polka jacket and white muslin slip. Mr. Marle, having discovered her place of refuge, now stepped in to lecture and reclaim88. Vain proceeding! The Curate’s daughter looked at him with a scream, exclaimed, “Cuss me, h’Adam! cuss me!” and rushed out. “H’Adam,” after a despondent12 soliloquy, followed with his eloquent handkerchief to his eyes; but, while he had been talking to himself, our old friend the Highwayman had been on the alert, and had picked Fanny up, fainting in the street. And what did he do with her after that? He handed her over to his “comrades in villany.” And who were his comrades in villany? They were the trombone and ophicleide players from the orchestra, and the “Miss Grace,” of act first, disguised as a bad character, in a cloak, with a red pocket-handkerchief over her head. And what happened next? A series of events happened next. Miss Fanny recovered on a sudden, perceived what sort of company she had about her, rushed out a second time into the street, fell fainting a second time on the pavement, and was picked up on this occasion by Colonel Chartress — in the interests, it is to be presumed, of his friend, the Jew money-lender. Before, however, he could get clear off with his prize, the indefatigably89 vicious Highwayman, and the indefatigably virtuous90 Marle, precipitated91 themselves on the stage, assaulting Chartress, assaulting each other, assaulting everybody. Fanny fell fainting a third time in the street; and before we could find out who was the third person who picked her up, down came the curtain in the midst of the catastrophe92.
Act the third was opened by the heroine, still injured, still inconsolable, and still clad in the polka jacket and white slip. We thought her a very nice little woman, with a melodious93, genteel-comedy-voice, trim ankles, and a habit of catching94 her breath in the most pathetic manner, at least a dozen times in the course of one soliloquy. While she was still assuring us that she felt the most forlorn creature on the face of the earth, she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of no less a person than the Curate himself. We had seen nothing of the reverend gentleman throughout the second act; but “h’Adam” had casually95 informed us that his time had been passed at his parsonage, “sittun with his ’ed between his knees, sobbun!” Having now wearied of this gymnastic method of indulging in parental96 grief, he had set forth to seek his lost daughter, and had accidentally stopped at the very inn where she had taken refuge. Nothing could be more piteous than his present appearance; he was infinitely97 more tipsy, infinitely more dignified98, and infinitely more parenthetical in his mode of expressing himself, than when we last beheld him. A streak99 of burnt cork15 running down each side of his venerable nose, showed us how deeply grief had increased the wrinkles of age; and our pity for him reached its climax100 when he cast his clerical hat on the floor, sank drowsily101 into a chair, and began to pray in these words: “Oh heabben! hear a solemn and a solid prayer — hear a solemn heart who wants to embrace his darling Fanny!”
All this time, the lost daughter was hiding behind the forlorn father’s chair; an awful and convenient darkness being thrown on the stage by the introduction of a plank102 between the actors and the tallow candles. In this striking situation, Miss Fanny told her sad story, and pleaded her own cause as a stranger, under disguise of the darkness. Useless — quite useless! The reverend gentleman, having never turned round to see who it was that was speaking to him, and having therefore no idea that it was his own daughter, received in dignified silence the advances of a young person unknown to him. What course was now left to the unhappy Fanny? The old course — a rush off the stage, and a swoon in the street. As soon as her back was turned, the Parson, forgetting to take away his hat with him, staggered out at the opposite side to continue his journey. He uttered as he went the following moral observation:—“No soul so lost to Nature, but must be lost eternally — my ’art is broken!”
The next moment, we were startled by a long and elaborate trampling103 of feet behind the scenes, and the villain Chartress, ran panic-stricken across the stage, hotly pursued by “good h’Adam Marle.” In the eloquent language of virtue, thus did Adam address him:—“Stay, ruffian, stay! Inquiring for Chartress at the bar of this inn, I found indeed that you was the very identical. You foul104, venomous, treacherous105, voluptuous106 liar107, where is the un’appy Fanny? where is the victim of your prey108? — Ha! ’oary-’edded ruffian, I have yer!” (Collars Chartress.) “But no! I will not strike yer; I will drag yer!” It was interesting to see Adam exemplify the peculiar109 distinction in the science of assault implied in his last words, by hauling Chartress all round the stage. It was awful to observe that the Colonel lost his temper at the second round, murderously snapped a pistol in “h’Adam’s” face, and rushed off in hot homicidal triumph. We waited breathless for the fall of Marle. Nothing of the sort happened. He started, frowned, paused, laughed fiercely, exclaimed — “The villain ’as missed!” and followed in pursuit.
In the interim110, Miss Fanny had been picked up in the street, for the fourth time, by a benevolent111 “washerwoman,” who happened to be passing by at the moment; had been conveyed to the said washerwoman’s lodgings112; and now appeared before us, despoiled113, at last, of all the glories of the red polka, enveloped114 from head to foot in clouds of white muslin, and dying with frightful115 rapidity in an armchair. In the next and last scene, all that remained to represent the unhappy heroine was a coffin116 decently covered with a white sheet. With slow and funereal117 steps, the Curate, Miss Grace, “h’Adam,” the Highwayman, and the “venomous and voluptuous liar,” Chartress, approached to weep over it. The Curate had gone raving118 mad since we saw him last. His wig119 was set on wrong side foremost; the ends of his clerical cravat120 floated wildly, a yard long at least over his shoulders; his eyes rolled in frenzy121; he swooned at the sight of the coffin; recovered convulsively; placed Marle’s hand in the hand of Miss Grace (telling him that now one daughter was dead, nothing was left for him but to marry the other); and then fell flat on his back, with a thump122 that shook the stage and made the audience start unanimously. Marle — well-bred to the last — politely offered his arm to Grace; and pointing to the coffin, asked Chartress, reproachfully, whether that was not his work. The Colonel took off his opera-hat, raised his hand to his eyes, and doggedly123 answered, “Indeed, it is!” The Tableau124 thus formed, was completed by the Highwayman, the coffin, and the defunct125 Curate; and the curtain fell to slow music.
Such was the plot of this remarkable126 dramatic work, exactly as I took it down in the theatre, between the acts; noting also in my pocket-book such scraps127 of dialogue as I have presented to the reader, while they fell from the actors’ lips. There were plenty of comic scenes in the play which I leave unmentioned; for their humour was of the dreariest, and their morality of the lowest order that can possibly be conceived. I can only say, as the result of my own experience at Redruth, that if the dramatic reforms which are now being attempted in the theatrical by-ways of the metropolis succeed, there would be no harm in extending the experiment as far as the locomotive stage of Cornwall. Good plays are good missionaries128; and, like missionaries, let them travel to teach.
And now, having seen enough of the modern drama in Cornwall, without waiting for the songs, the dances, and the farces129 which are to follow the “Curate’s Daughter,” let us go on to Piranzabuloe, and look at the theatre in which the Cornish of former days assembled; endeavouring to discover, at the same time, by what sort of performances the people were instructed or amused some two hundred and fifty years ago.
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1
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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3
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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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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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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9
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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12
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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14
corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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15
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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19
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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40
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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41
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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42
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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43
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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44
prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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45
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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46
pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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48
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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49
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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50
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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51
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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52
parentheses
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲（ parenthesis的名词复数 ） | |
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53
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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54
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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58
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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59
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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62
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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71
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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75
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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80
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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99
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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103
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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104
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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107
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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108
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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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110
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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111
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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112
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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113
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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116
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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117
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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118
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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119
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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120
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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121
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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122
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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123
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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124
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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125
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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126
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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127
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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128
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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129
farces
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| n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 )；闹剧；笑剧剧目；作假的可笑场面 | |
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