How very good most of them are, I did not know till I re-read them for the purpose of writing this chapter. There is a manifest falling off in some few,—which has come from that source of literary failure which is now so common. If a man write a book or a poem because it is in him to write it,—the motive7 power being altogether in himself and coming from his desire to express himself,—he will write it well, presuming him to be capable of the effort. But if he write his book or poem simply because a book or poem is required from him, let his capability9 be what it may, it is not unlikely that he will do it badly. Thackeray occasionally suffered from the weakness thus produced. A ballad from Policeman X,—Bow Street Ballads they were first called,—was required by Punch, and had to be forthcoming, whatever might be the poet's humour, by a certain time. Jacob Omnium's Hoss is excellent. His heart and feeling were all there, on behalf of his friend, and against that obsolete10 old court of justice. But we can tell well when he was looking through the police reports for a subject, and taking what chance might send him, without any special interest in the matter. The Knight11 and the Lady of Bath, and the Damages Two Hundred Pounds, as they were demanded at Guildford, taste as though they were written to order.
Here, in his verses as in his prose, the charm of Thackeray's work lies in the mingling12 of humour with pathos and indignation. There is hardly a piece that is not more or less funny, hardly a piece that is not satirical;—and in most of them, for those who will look a little below the surface, there is something that will touch them. Thackeray, though he rarely uttered a word, either [Pg 170]with his pen or his mouth, in which there was not an intention to reach our sense of humour, never was only funny. When he was most determined13 to make us laugh, he had always a further purpose;—some pity was to be extracted from us on behalf of the sorrows of men, or some indignation at the evil done by them.
This is the beginning of that story as to the Two Hundred Pounds, for which as a ballad I do not care very much:
Special jurymen of England who admire your country's laws, And proclaim a British jury worthy14 of the nation's applause, Gaily15 compliment each other at the issue of a cause, Which was tried at Guildford 'sizes, this day week as ever was.
Here he is indignant, not only in regard to some miscarriage16 of justice on that special occasion, but at the general unfitness of jurymen for the work confided17 to them. "Gaily compliment yourselves," he says, "on your beautiful constitution, from which come such beautiful results as those I am going to tell you!" When he reminded us that Ivanhoe had produced Magna Charta, there was a purpose of irony18 even there in regard to our vaunted freedom. With all your Magna Charta and your juries, what are you but snobs19! There is nothing so often misguided as general indignation, and I think that in his judgment20 of outside things, in the measure which he usually took of them, Thackeray was very frequently misguided. A satirist21 by trade will learn to satirise everything, till the light of the sun and the moon's loveliness will become evil and mean to him. I think that he was mistaken in his views of things. But we have to do with him as a writer, not as a political economist22 or a politician. His indignation was all true, and the expression of it was often perfect. The lines in which he [Pg 171]addresses that Pallis Court, at the end of Jacob Omnium's Hoss, are almost sublime24.
O Pallis Court, you move My pity most profound. A most amusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound.
Good sport it is to you To grind the honest poor, To pay their just or unjust debts With eight hundred per cent, for Lor; Make haste and get your costes in, They will not last much mor!
Come down from that tribewn, Thou shameless and unjust; Thou swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth august; Come down, thou hoary25 Blasphemy26, For die thou shalt and must.
And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply8 your iron pen, And rise up, Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den27; That sty for fattening28 lawyers in, On the bones of honest men.
"Come down from that tribewn, thou shameless and unjust!" It is impossible not to feel that he felt this as he wrote it.
There is a branch of his poetry which he calls,—or which at any rate is now called, Lyra Hybernica, for which no doubt The Groves29 of Blarney was his model. There have been many imitations since, of which perhaps Barham's ballad on the coronation was the best, "When to Westminster the Royal Spinster and the Duke of Leinster all in order did repair!" Thackeray in some of his attempts has been equally droll30 and equally graphic31. That on The Cristal Palace,—not that at Sydenham, but its forerunner32, the palace of the Great Exhibition,—is very good, as the following catalogue of its contents will show;
There's holy saints And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in.
There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urns33; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see? "God save the Queen," by turns.
There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver, and of copper34; And some in zinc35, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.
There's staym ingynes, That stands in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal36 and snort Like whales in sport, Or elephants a grazing.
There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs, There's dibblers and there's harrows, And ploughs like toys For little boys, And ilegant wheel-barrows.
For thim genteels Who ride on wheels, There's plenty to indulge 'em There's droskys snug37 From Paytersbug, And vayhycles from Bulgium.
There's cabs on stands And shandthry danns; There's waggons38 from New York here; There's Lapland sleighs Have cross'd the seas, And jaunting cyars from Cork39 here.
In writing this Thackeray was a little late with his copy for Punch; not, we should say, altogether an uncommon40 accident to him. It should have been with the editor early on Saturday, if not before, but did not come till late on Saturday evening. The editor, who was among men the most good-natured and I should think the most forbearing, either could not, or in this case would not, insert it in the next week's issue, and Thackeray, angry and disgusted, sent it to The Times. In The Times of next Monday it appeared,—very much I should think to the delight of the readers of that august newspaper.
Mr. Molony's account of the ball given to the Nepaulese ambassadors by the Peninsular and Oriental Company, is so like Barham's coronation in the account [Pg 173]it gives of the guests, that one would fancy it must be by the same hand.
The noble Chair[7] stud at the stair And bade the dhrums to thump41; and he Did thus evince to that Black Prince The welcome of his Company.[8]
O fair the girls and rich the curls, And bright the oys you saw there was; And fixed42 each oye you then could spoi On General Jung Bahawther was!
This gineral great then tuck his sate43, With all the other ginerals, Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat, All bleezed with precious minerals; And as he there, with princely air, Recloinin on his cushion was, All round about his royal chair The squeezin and the pushin was.
O Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls, Such fashion and nobilitee! Just think of Tim, and fancy him Amidst the high gentilitee! There was the Lord de L'Huys, and the Portygeese Ministher and his lady there, And I recognised, with much surprise, Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there.
All these are very good fun,—so good in humour and so good in expression, that it would be needless to criticise44 their peculiar45 dialect, were it not that Thackeray has made for himself a reputation by his writing of Irish. In this he has been so entirely46 successful that for many English [Pg 174]readers he has established a new language which may not improperly47 be called Hybernico-Thackerayan. If comedy is to be got from peculiarities48 of dialect, as no doubt it is, one form will do as well as another, so long as those who read it know no better. So it has been with Thackeray's Irish, for in truth he was not familiar with the modes of pronunciation which make up Irish brogue. Therefore, though he is always droll, he is not true to nature. Many an Irishman coming to London, not unnaturally49 tries to imitate the talk of Londoners. You or I, reader, were we from the West, and were the dear County Galway to send either of us to Parliament, would probably endeavour to drop the dear brogue of our country, and in doing so we should make some mistakes. It was these mistakes which Thackeray took for the natural Irish tone. He was amused to hear a major called "Meejor," but was unaware50 that the sound arose from Pat's affection of English softness of speech. The expression natural to the unadulterated Irishman would rather be "Ma-ajor." He discovers his own provincialism, and trying to be polite and urbane51, he says "Meejor." In one of the lines I have quoted there occurs the word "troat." Such a sound never came naturally from the mouth of an Irishman. He puts in an h instead of omitting it, and says "dhrink." He comes to London, and finding out that he is wrong with his "dhrink," he leaves out all the h's he can, and thus comes to "troat." It is this which Thackeray has heard. There is a little piece called the Last Irish Grievance52, to which Thackeray adds a still later grievance, by the false sounds which he elicits53 from the calumniated54 mouth of the pretended Irish poet. Slaves are "sleeves," places are "pleeces," Lord John is "Lard Jahn," fatal is "fetal," danger is "deenger," and native is "neetive." [Pg 175]All these are unintended slanders55. Tea, Hibernicé, is "tay," please is "plaise," sea is "say," and ease is "aise." The softer sound of e is broadened out by the natural Irishman,—not, to my ear, without a certain euphony;—but no one in Ireland says or hears the reverse. The Irishman who in London might talk of his "neetive" race, would be mincing56 his words to please the ear of the cockney.
The Chronicle of the Drum would be a true ballad all through, were it not that there is tacked57 on to it a long moral in an altered metre. I do not much value the moral, but the ballad is excellent, not only in much of its versification and in the turns of its language, but in the quaint58 and true picture it gives of the French nation. The drummer, either by himself or by some of his family, has drummed through a century of French battling, caring much for his country and its glory, but understanding nothing of the causes for which he is enthusiastic. Whether for King, Republic, or Emperor, whether fighting and conquering or fighting and conquered, he is happy as long as he can beat his drum on a field of glory. But throughout his adventures there is a touch of chivalry59 about our drummer. In all the episodes of his country's career he feels much of patriotism60 and something of tenderness. It is thus he sings during the days of the Revolution:
We had taken the head of King Capet, We called for the blood of his wife; Undaunted she came to the scaffold, And bared her fair neck to the knife. As she felt the foul61 fingers that touched her, She shrank, but she deigned62 not to speak; She looked with a royal disdain63, And died with a blush on her cheek!
[Pg 176]'Twas thus that our country was saved! So told us the Safety Committee! But, psha, I've the heart of a soldier,— All gentleness, mercy, and pity. I loathed64 to assist at such deeds, And my drum beat its loudest of tunes65, As we offered to justice offended, The blood of the bloody66 tribunes.
Away with such foul recollections! No more of the axe68 and the block. I saw the last fight of the sections, As they fell 'neath our guns at St. Rock. Young Bonaparte led us that day.
And so it goes on. I will not continue the stanza69, because it contains the worst rhyme that Thackeray ever permitted himself to use. The Chronicle of the Drum has not the finish which he achieved afterwards, but it is full of national feeling, and carries on its purpose to the end with an admirable persistency70;
A curse on those British assassins Who ordered the slaughter71 of Ney; A curse on Sir Hudson who tortured The life of our hero away. A curse on all Russians,—I hate them; On all Prussian and Austrian fry; And, oh, but I pray we may meet them And fight them again ere I die.
The White Squall,—which I can hardly call a ballad, unless any description of a scene in verse may be included in the name,—is surely one of the most graphic descriptions ever put into verse. Nothing written by Thackeray shows more plainly his power over words and rhymes. He draws his picture without a line omitted or a line too much, saying with apparent facility all that he has to say, [Pg 177]and so saying it that every word conveys its natural meaning.
When a squall, upon a sudden, Came o'er the waters scudding72; And the clouds began to gather, And the sea was lashed73 to lather74, And the lowering thunder grumbled75, And the lightning jumped and tumbled, And the ship and all the ocean Woke up in wild commotion76. Then the wind set up a howling, And the poodle dog a yowling, And the cocks began a crowing, And the old cow raised a lowing, As she heard the tempest blowing; And fowls77 and geese did cackle, And the cordage and the tackle Began to shriek78 and crackle; And the spray dashed o'er the funnels79, And down the deck in runnels; And the rushing water soaks all, From the seamen80 in the fo'ksal To the stokers whose black faces Peer out of their bed-places; And the captain, he was bawling81, And the sailors pulling, hauling, And the quarter-deck tarpauling Was shivered in the squalling; And the passengers awaken82, Most pitifully shaken; And the steward84 jumps up and hastens For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned85 and quivered, And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, As the plunging86 waters met them, And splashed and overset them; And they call in their emergence87 Upon countless88 saints and virgins89; And their marrowbones are bended, And they think the world is ended.
[Pg 178]And the Turkish women for'ard Were frightened and behorror'd; And shrieking90 and bewildering, The mothers clutched their children; The men sang "Allah! Illah! Mashallah Bis-millah!" As the warning waters doused91 them, And splashed them and soused them And they called upon the Prophet, And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas92 in Jewry Jumped up and bit like fury; And the progeny93 of Jacob Did on the main-deck wake up. (I wot these greasy94 Rabbins Would never pay for cabins); And each man moaned and jabbered95 in His filthy96 Jewish gaberdine, In woe97 and lamentation98, And howling consternation99. And the splashing water drenches100 Their dirty brats101 and wenches; And they crawl from bales and benches, In a hundred thousand stenches. This was the White Squall famous, Which latterly o'ercame us.
Peg102 of Limavaddy has always been very popular, and the public have not, I think, been generally aware that the young lady in question lived in truth at Newton Limavady (with one d). But with the correct name Thackeray would hardly have been so successful with his rhymes.
Citizen or Squire103 Tory, Whig, or Radi- Cal would all desire Peg of Limavaddy. [Pg 179]Had I Homer's fire Or that of Sergeant104 Taddy Meetly I'd admire Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire Or till I go mad I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy.
The Cane-bottomed Chair is another, better, I think, than Peg of Limavaddy, as containing that mixture of burlesque105 with the pathetic which belonged so peculiarly to Thackeray, and which was indeed the very essence of his genius.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish106 my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best. For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.
'Tis a bandy-legged, high-bottomed, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.
* * * * *
She comes from the past and revisits my room, She looks as she then did all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.
This, in the volume which I have now before me, is followed by a picture of Fanny in the chair, to which I cannot but take exception. I am quite sure that when Fanny graced the room and seated herself in the chair of her old bachelor friend, she had not on a low dress and loosely-flowing drawing-room shawl, nor was there a footstool ready for her feet. I doubt also the headgear. Fanny on that occasion was dressed in her morning apparel, and [Pg 180]had walked through the streets, carried no fan, and wore no brooch but one that might be necessary for pinning her shawl.
The Great Cossack Epic107 is the longest of the ballads. It is a legend of St. Sophia of Kioff, telling how Father Hyacinth, by the aid of St. Sophia, whose wooden statue he carried with him, escaped across the Borysthenes with all the Cossacks at his tail. It is very good fun; but not equal to many of the others. Nor is the Carmen Lilliense quite to my taste. I should not have declared at once that it had come from Thackeray's hand, had I not known it.
But who could doubt the Bouillabaisse? Who else could have written that? Who at the same moment could have been so merry and so melancholy,—could have gone so deep into the regrets of life, with words so appropriate to its jollities? I do not know how far my readers will agree with me that to read it always must be a fresh pleasure; but in order that they may agree with me, if they can, I will give it to them entire. If there be one whom it does not please, he will like nothing that Thackeray ever wrote in verse.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.
A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue23 Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— The New Street of the Little Fields; And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is,— A sort of soup, or broth108, or brew109 [Pg 181]Or hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terré's tavern110, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savoury stew83 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals111 and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly sure his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting112 Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is Still opening oysters113 at the door. Is Terré still alive and able? I recollect67 his droll grimace114; He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter,—nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs115 his shoulder,— "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner; So honest Terré's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer, "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" "Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir: The chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
[Pg 182]My old accustomed corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty, Of early days here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty; I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace116; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack117 has made a wondrous118 marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; O'er James's head the grass is growing. Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place,—but not alone. A fair young face was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke119 and smiled to cheer me! There's no one now to share my cup. * * * * * I drink it as the Fates ordain120 it. Come fill it, and have done with rhymes; Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. [Pg 183]Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse.
I am not disposed to say that Thackeray will hold a high place among English poets. He would have been the first to ridicule121 such an assumption made on his behalf. But I think that his verses will be more popular than those of many highly reputed poets, and that as years roll on they will gain rather than lose in public estimation.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Chair—i.e. Chairman.
[8] I.e. The P. and O. Company.
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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misnomer
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| n.误称 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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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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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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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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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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blasphemy
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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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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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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copper
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zinc
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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40
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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41
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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42
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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43
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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44
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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45
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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46
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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47
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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48
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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49
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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50
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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51
urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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52
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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53
elicits
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| 引出，探出( elicit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
slanders
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| 诽谤，诋毁( slander的名词复数 ) | |
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56
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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57
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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58
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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59
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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60
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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61
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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62
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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64
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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65
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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66
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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67
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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68
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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69
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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70
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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71
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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72
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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73
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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74
lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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75
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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76
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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77
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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78
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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79
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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80
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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81
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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82
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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83
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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84
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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85
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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86
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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87
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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88
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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89
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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90
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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91
doused
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的过去式和过去分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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92
fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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93
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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94
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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95
jabbered
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的过去式和过去分词 )；急促兴奋地说话 | |
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96
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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97
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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98
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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99
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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100
drenches
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| v.使湿透( drench的第三人称单数 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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101
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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102
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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103
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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104
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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105
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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106
garnish
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| n.装饰，添饰，配菜 | |
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107
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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108
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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109
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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110
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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111
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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112
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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113
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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114
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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115
shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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116
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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117
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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118
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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119
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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120
ordain
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| vi.颁发命令；vt.命令，授以圣职，注定，任命 | |
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121
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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