And yet, on such a night in so degenerate20 a time, the object of my journey was theatrical. And yet within half an hour I was in an immense theatre, capable of holding nearly five thousand people.
What Theatre? Her Majesty21’s? Far better. Royal Italian Opera? Far better. Infinitely22 superior to the latter for hearing in; infinitely superior to both, for seeing in. To every part of this Theatre, spacious23 fire-proof ways of ingress and egress24. For every part of it, convenient places of refreshment25 and retiring rooms. Everything to eat and drink carefully supervised as to quality, and sold at an appointed price; respectable female attendants ready for the commonest women in the audience; a general air of consideration, decorum, and supervision26, most commendable27; an unquestionably humanising influence in all the social arrangements of the place.
Surely a dear Theatre, then? Because there were in London (not very long ago) Theatres with entrance-prices up to half-a-guinea a head, whose arrangements were not half so civilised. Surely, therefore, a dear Theatre? Not very dear. A gallery at three-pence, another gallery at fourpence, a pit at sixpence, boxes and pit-stalls at a shilling, and a few private boxes at half-a-crown.
My uncommercial curiosity induced me to go into every nook of this great place, and among every class of the audience assembled in it — amounting that evening, as I calculated, to about two thousand and odd hundreds. Magnificently lighted by a firmament28 of sparkling chandeliers, the building was ventilated to perfection. My sense of smell, without being particularly delicate, has been so offended in some of the commoner places of public resort, that I have often been obliged to leave them when I have made an uncommercial journey expressly to look on. The air of this Theatre was fresh, cool, and wholesome29. To help towards this end, very sensible precautions had been used, ingeniously combining the experience of hospitals and railway stations. Asphalt pavements substituted for wooden floors, honest bare walls of glazed30 brick and tile — even at the back of the boxes — for plaster and paper, no benches stuffed, and no carpeting or baize used; a cool material with a light glazed surface, being the covering of the seats.
These various contrivances are as well considered in the place in question as if it were a Fever Hospital; the result is, that it is sweet and healthful. It has been constructed from the ground to the roof, with a careful reference to sight and sound in every corner; the result is, that its form is beautiful, and that the appearance of the audience, as seen from the proscenium — with every face in it commanding the stage, and the whole so admirably raked and turned to that centre, that a hand can scarcely move in the great assemblage without the movement being seen from thence — is highly remarkable31 in its union of vastness with compactness. The stage itself, and all its appurtenances of machinery32, cellarage, height and breadth, are on a scale more like the Scala at Milan, or the San Carlo at Naples, or the Grand Opera at Paris, than any notion a stranger would be likely to form of the Britannia Theatre at Hoxton, a mile north of St. Luke’s Hospital in the Old-street-road, London. The Forty Thieves might be played here, and every thief ride his real horse, and the disguised captain bring in his oil jars on a train of real camels, and nobody be put out of the way. This really extraordinary place is the achievement of one man’s enterprise, and was erected33 on the ruins of an inconvenient34 old building in less than five months, at a round cost of five-and-twenty thousand pounds. To dismiss this part of my subject, and still to render to the proprietor35 the credit that is strictly36 his due, I must add that his sense of the responsibility upon him to make the best of his audience, and to do his best for them, is a highly agreeable sign of these times.
As the spectators at this theatre, for a reason I will presently show, were the object of my journey, I entered on the play of the night as one of the two thousand and odd hundreds, by looking about me at my neighbours. We were a motley assemblage of people, and we had a good many boys and young men among us; we had also many girls and young women. To represent, however, that we did not include a very great number, and a very fair proportion of family groups, would be to make a gross mis-statement. Such groups were to be seen in all parts of the house; in the boxes and stalls particularly, they were composed of persons of very decent appearance, who had many children with them. Among our dresses there were most kinds of shabby and greasy37 wear, and much fustian38 and corduroy that was neither sound nor fragrant39. The caps of our young men were mostly of a limp character, and we who wore them, slouched, high-shouldered, into our places with our hands in our pockets, and occasionally twisted our cravats40 about our necks like eels41, and occasionally tied them down our breasts like links of sausages, and occasionally had a screw in our hair over each cheek-bone with a slight Thief-flavour in it. Besides prowlers and idlers, we were mechanics, dock-labourers, costermongers, petty tradesmen, small clerks, milliners, stay-makers, shoe-binders, slop-workers, poor workers in a hundred highways and byways. Many of us — on the whole, the majority — were not at all clean, and not at all choice in our lives or conversation. But we had all come together in a place where our convenience was well consulted, and where we were well looked after, to enjoy an evening’s entertainment in common. We were not going to lose any part of what we had paid for through anybody’s caprice, and as a community we had a character to lose. So, we were closely attentive42, and kept excellent order; and let the man or boy who did otherwise instantly get out from this place, or we would put him out with the greatest expedition.
We began at half-past six with a pantomime — with a pantomime so long, that before it was over I felt as if I had been travelling for six weeks — going to India, say, by the Overland Mail. The Spirit of Liberty was the principal personage in the Introduction, and the Four Quarters of the World came out of the globe, glittering, and discoursed44 with the Spirit, who sang charmingly. We were delighted to understand that there was no liberty anywhere but among ourselves, and we highly applauded the agreeable fact. In an allegorical way, which did as well as any other way, we and the Spirit of Liberty got into a kingdom of Needles and Pins, and found them at war with a potentate45 who called in to his aid their old arch enemy Rust46, and who would have got the better of them if the Spirit of Liberty had not in the nick of time transformed the leaders into Clown, Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Harlequina, and a whole family of Sprites, consisting of a remarkably47 stout48 father and three spineless sons. We all knew what was coming when the Spirit of Liberty addressed the king with a big face, and His Majesty backed to the side-scenes and began untying49 himself behind, with his big face all on one side. Our excitement at that crisis was great, and our delight unbounded. After this era in our existence, we went through all the incidents of a pantomime; it was not by any means a savage50 pantomime, in the way of burning or boiling people, or throwing them out of window, or cutting them up; was often very droll51; was always liberally got up, and cleverly presented. I noticed that the people who kept the shops, and who represented the passengers in the thoroughfares, and so forth, had no conventionality in them, but were unusually like the real thing — from which I infer that you may take that audience in (if you wish to) concerning Knights52 and Ladies, Fairies, Angels, or such like, but they are not to be done as to anything in the streets. I noticed, also, that when two young men, dressed in exact imitation of the eel-and-sausage-cravated portion of the audience, were chased by policemen, and, finding themselves in danger of being caught, dropped so suddenly as to oblige the policemen to tumble over them, there was great rejoicing among the caps — as though it were a delicate reference to something they had heard of before.
The Pantomime was succeeded by a Melo-Drama. Throughout the evening I was pleased to observe Virtue53 quite as triumphant54 as she usually is out of doors, and indeed I thought rather more so. We all agreed (for the time) that honesty was the best policy, and we were as hard as iron upon Vice55, and we wouldn’t hear of Villainy getting on in the world — no, not on any consideration whatever.
Between the pieces, we almost all of us went out and refreshed. Many of us went the length of drinking beer at the bar of the neighbouring public-house, some of us drank spirits, crowds of us had sandwiches and ginger-beer at the refreshment-bars established for us in the Theatre. The sandwich — as substantial as was consistent with portability, and as cheap as possible — we hailed as one of our greatest institutions. It forced its way among us at all stages of the entertainment, and we were always delighted to see it; its adaptability56 to the varying moods of our nature was surprising; we could never weep so comfortably as when our tears fell on our sandwich; we could never laugh so heartily57 as when we choked with sandwich; Virtue never looked so beautiful or Vice so deformed58 as when we paused, sandwich in hand, to consider what would come of that resolution of Wickedness in boots, to sever59 Innocence60 in flowered chintz from Honest Industry in striped stockings. When the curtain fell for the night, we still fell back upon sandwich, to help us through the rain and mire61, and home to bed.
This, as I have mentioned, was Saturday night. Being Saturday night, I had accomplished62 but the half of my uncommercial journey; for, its object was to compare the play on Saturday evening with the preaching in the same Theatre on Sunday evening.
Therefore, at the same hour of half-past six on the similarly damp and muddy Sunday evening, I returned to this Theatre. I drove up to the entrance (fearful of being late, or I should have come on foot), and found myself in a large crowd of people who, I am happy to state, were put into excellent spirits by my arrival. Having nothing to look at but the mud and the closed doors, they looked at me, and highly enjoyed the comic spectacle. My modesty63 inducing me to draw off, some hundreds of yards, into a dark corner, they at once forgot me, and applied64 themselves to their former occupation of looking at the mud and looking in at the closed doors: which, being of grated ironwork, allowed the lighted passage within to be seen. They were chiefly people of respectable appearance, odd and impulsive65 as most crowds are, and making a joke of being there as most crowds do.
In the dark corner I might have sat a long while, but that a very obliging passer-by informed me that the Theatre was already full, and that the people whom I saw in the street were all shut out for want of room. After that, I lost no time in worming myself into the building, and creeping to a place in a Proscenium box that had been kept for me.
There must have been full four thousand people present. Carefully estimating the pit alone, I could bring it out as holding little less than fourteen hundred. Every part of the house was well filled, and I had not found it easy to make my way along the back of the boxes to where I sat. The chandeliers in the ceiling were lighted; there was no light on the stage; the orchestra was empty. The green curtain was down, and, packed pretty closely on chairs on the small space of stage before it, were some thirty gentlemen, and two or three ladies. In the centre of these, in a desk or pulpit covered with red baize, was the presiding minister. The kind of rostrum he occupied will be very well understood, if I liken it to a boarded-up fireplace turned towards the audience, with a gentleman in a black surtout standing66 in the stove and leaning forward over the mantelpiece.
A portion of Scripture67 was being read when I went in. It was followed by a discourse43, to which the congregation listened with most exemplary attention and uninterrupted silence and decorum. My own attention comprehended both the auditory and the speaker, and shall turn to both in this recalling of the scene, exactly as it did at the time.
‘A very difficult thing,’ I thought, when the discourse began, ‘to speak appropriately to so large an audience, and to speak with tact68. Without it, better not to speak at all. Infinitely better, to read the New Testament69 well, and to let THAT speak. In this congregation there is indubitably one pulse; but I doubt if any power short of genius can touch it as one, and make it answer as one.’
I could not possibly say to myself as the discourse proceeded, that the minister was a good speaker. I could not possibly say to myself that he expressed an understanding of the general mind and character of his audience. There was a supposititious working-man introduced into the homily, to make supposititious objections to our Christian70 religion and be reasoned down, who was not only a very disagreeable person, but remarkably unlike life — very much more unlike it than anything I had seen in the pantomime. The native independence of character this artisan was supposed to possess, was represented by a suggestion of a dialect that I certainly never heard in my uncommercial travels, and with a coarse swing of voice and manner anything but agreeable to his feelings, I should conceive, considered in the light of a portrait, and as far away from the fact as a Chinese Tartar. There was a model pauper71 introduced in like manner, who appeared to me to be the most intolerably arrogant72 pauper ever relieved, and to show himself in absolute want and dire73 necessity of a course of Stone Yard. For, how did this pauper testify to his having received the gospel of humility74? A gentleman met him in the workhouse, and said (which I myself really thought good-natured of him), ‘Ah, John? I am sorry to see you here. I am sorry to see you so poor.’ ‘Poor, sir!’ replied that man, drawing himself up, ‘I am the son of a Prince! MY father is the King of Kings. MY father is the Lord of Lords. MY father is the ruler of all the Princes of the Earth!’ &c. And this was what all the preacher’s fellow-sinners might come to, if they would embrace this blessed book — which I must say it did some violence to my own feelings of reverence75, to see held out at arm’s length at frequent intervals76 and soundingly slapped, like a slow lot at a sale. Now, could I help asking myself the question, whether the mechanic before me, who must detect the preacher as being wrong about the visible manner of himself and the like of himself, and about such a noisy lip-server as that pauper, might not, most unhappily for the usefulness of the occasion, doubt that preacher’s being right about things not visible to human senses?
Again. Is it necessary or advisable to address such an audience continually as ‘fellow-sinners’? Is it not enough to be fellow-creatures, born yesterday, suffering and striving to-day, dying to-morrow? By our common humanity, my brothers and sisters, by our common capacities for pain and pleasure, by our common laughter and our common tears, by our common aspiration77 to reach something better than ourselves, by our common tendency to believe in something good, and to invest whatever we love or whatever we lose with some qualities that are superior to our own failings and weaknesses as we know them in our own poor hearts — by these, Hear me! — Surely, it is enough to be fellow-creatures. Surely, it includes the other designation, and some touching78 meanings over and above.
Again. There was a personage introduced into the discourse (not an absolute novelty, to the best of my remembrance of my reading), who had been personally known to the preacher, and had been quite a Crichton in all the ways of philosophy, but had been an infidel. Many a time had the preacher talked with him on that subject, and many a time had he failed to convince that intelligent man. But he fell ill, and died, and before he died he recorded his conversion79 — in words which the preacher had taken down, my fellow-sinners, and would read to you from this piece of paper. I must confess that to me, as one of an uninstructed audience, they did not appear particularly edifying80. I thought their tone extremely selfish, and I thought they had a spiritual vanity in them which was of the before-mentioned refractory81 pauper’s family.
All slangs and twangs are objectionable everywhere, but the slang and twang of the conventicle — as bad in its way as that of the House of Commons, and nothing worse can be said of it — should be studiously avoided under such circumstances as I describe. The avoidance was not complete on this occasion. Nor was it quite agreeable to see the preacher addressing his pet ‘points’ to his backers on the stage, as if appealing to those disciples82 to show him up, and testify to the multitude that each of those points was a clincher.
But, in respect of the large Christianity of his general tone; of his renunciation of all priestly authority; of his earnest and reiterated83 assurance to the people that the commonest among them could work out their own salvation84 if they would, by simply, lovingly, and dutifully following Our Saviour85, and that they needed the mediation86 of no erring87 man; in these particulars, this gentleman deserved all praise. Nothing could be better than the spirit, or the plain emphatic88 words of his discourse in these respects. And it was a most significant and encouraging circumstance that whenever he struck that chord, or whenever he described anything which Christ himself had done, the array of faces before him was very much more earnest, and very much more expressive89 of emotion, than at any other time.
And now, I am brought to the fact, that the lowest part of the audience of the previous night, WAS NOT THERE. There is no doubt about it. There was no such thing in that building, that Sunday evening. I have been told since, that the lowest part of the audience of the Victoria Theatre has been attracted to its Sunday services. I have been very glad to hear it, but on this occasion of which I write, the lowest part of the usual audience of the Britannia Theatre, decidedly and unquestionably stayed away. When I first took my seat and looked at the house, my surprise at the change in its occupants was as great as my disappointment. To the most respectable class of the previous evening, was added a great number of respectable strangers attracted by curiosity, and drafts from the regular congregations of various chapels90. It was impossible to fail in identifying the character of these last, and they were very numerous. I came out in a strong, slow tide of them setting from the boxes. Indeed, while the discourse was in progress, the respectable character of the auditory was so manifest in their appearance, that when the minister addressed a supposititious ‘outcast,’ one really felt a little impatient of it, as a figure of speech not justified91 by anything the eye could discover.
The time appointed for the conclusion of the proceedings92 was eight o’clock. The address having lasted until full that time, and it being the custom to conclude with a hymn93, the preacher intimated in a few sensible words that the clock had struck the hour, and that those who desired to go before the hymn was sung, could go now, without giving offence. No one stirred. The hymn was then sung, in good time and tune94 and unison95, and its effect was very striking. A comprehensive benevolent96 prayer dismissed the throng97, and in seven or eight minutes there was nothing left in the Theatre but a light cloud of dust.
That these Sunday meetings in Theatres are good things, I do not doubt. Nor do I doubt that they will work lower and lower down in the social scale, if those who preside over them will be very careful on two heads: firstly, not to disparage98 the places in which they speak, or the intelligence of their hearers; secondly99, not to set themselves in antagonism100 to the natural inborn101 desire of the mass of mankind to recreate themselves and to be amused.
There is a third head, taking precedence of all others, to which my remarks on the discourse I heard, have tended. In the New Testament there is the most beautiful and affecting history conceivable by man, and there are the terse102 models for all prayer and for all preaching. As to the models, imitate them, Sunday preachers — else why are they there, consider? As to the history, tell it. Some people cannot read, some people will not read, many people (this especially holds among the young and ignorant) find it hard to pursue the verse-form in which the book is presented to them, and imagine that those breaks imply gaps and want of continuity. Help them over that first stumbling-block, by setting forth the history in narrative103, with no fear of exhausting it. You will never preach so well, you will never move them so profoundly, you will never send them away with half so much to think of. Which is the better interest: Christ’s choice of twelve poor men to help in those merciful wonders among the poor and rejected; or the pious104 bullying105 of a whole union-full of paupers106? What is your changed philosopher to wretched me, peeping in at the door out of the mud of the streets and of my life, when you have the widow’s son to tell me about, the ruler’s daughter, the other figure at the door when the brother of the two sisters was dead, and one of the two ran to the mourner, crying, ‘The Master is come and calleth for thee’? — Let the preacher who will thoroughly107 forget himself and remember no individuality but one, and no eloquence108 but one, stand up before four thousand men and women at the Britannia Theatre any Sunday night, recounting that narrative to them as fellow creatures, and he shall see a sight!
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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smeary
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| 弄脏的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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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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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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diadems
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| n.王冠，王权，带状头饰( diadem的名词复数 ) | |
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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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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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egress
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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52
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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53
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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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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adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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62
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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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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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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68
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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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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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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mediation
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| n.调解 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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99
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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100
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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101
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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102
terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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103
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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104
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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105
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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106
paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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107
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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108
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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