Who should come in to the farther end of the field but a wolf? He was so cunningly dressed up in sheep’s clothing, that the very lambs did not know Master Wolf; nay10, one of them, whose dam the wolf had just eaten, after which he had thrown her skin over his shoulders, ran up innocently towards the devouring12 monster, mistaking him for her mamma.
“He, he!” says a fox, sneaking13 round the hedge-paling, over which the tree grew, whereupon the crow was perched looking down on the frog, who was staring with his goggle14 eyes fit to burst with envy, and croaking15 abuse at the ox. “How absurd those lambs are! Yonder silly little knock-kneed baah-ling does not know the old wolf dressed in the sheep’s fleece. He is the same old rogue16 who gobbled up little Red Riding Hood17’s grandmother for lunch, and swallowed little Red Riding Hood for supper. Tirez la bobinette et la chevillette cherra. He, he!”
An owl18 that was hidden in the hollow of the tree woke up. “Oho, Master Fox,” says she, “I cannot see you, but I smell you! If some folks like lambs, other folks like geese,” says the owl.
“And your ladyship is fond of mice,” says the fox.
“The Chinese eat them,” says the owl, “and I have read that they are very fond of dogs,” continued the old lady.
“I wish they would exterminate19 every cur of them off the face of the earth,” said the fox.
“And I have also read, in works of travel, that the French eat frogs,” continued the owl. “Aha, my friend Crapaud! are you there? That was a very pretty concert we sang together last night!”
“If the French devour11 my brethren, the English eat beef,” croaked20 out the frog — “great, big, brutal21, bellowing23 oxen.”
“Ho, whoo!” says the owl, “I have heard that the English are toad-eaters too!”
“But who ever heard of them eating an owl or a fox, madam?” says Reynard, “or their sitting down and taking a crow to pick?” adds the polite rogue, with a bow to the old crow who was perched above them with the cheese in his mouth. “We are privileged animals, all of us; at least, we never furnish dishes for the odious24 orgies of man.”
“I am the bird of wisdom,” says the owl; “I was the companion of Pallas Minerva: I am frequently represented in the Egyptian monuments.”
“I have seen you over the British barn-doors,” said the fox, with a grin. “You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or two myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar — a mere25 man of the world — a fellow that lives by his wits — a mere country gentleman.”
“You sneer26 at scholarship,” continues the owl, with a sneer on her venerable face. “I read a good deal of a night.”
“When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost,” says the fox.
“It’s a pity for all that you can’t read; that board nailed over my head would give you some information.”
“What does it say?” says the fox.
“I can’t spell in the daylight,” answered the owl; and, giving a yawn, went back to sleep till evening in the hollow of her tree.
“A fig27 for her hieroglyphics28!” said the fox, looking up at the crow in the tree. “What airs our slow neighbour gives herself! She pretends to all the wisdom; whereas, your reverences29, the crows, are endowed with gifts far superior to these benighted30 old big-wigs of owls31, who blink in the darkness, and call their hooting32 singing. How noble it is to hear a chorus of crows! There are twenty-four brethren of the Order of St. Corvinus, who have builded themselves a convent near a wood which I frequent; what a droning and a chanting they keep up! I protest their reverences’ singing is nothing to yours! You sing so deliciously in parts, do for the love of harmony favour me with a solo!”
While this conversation was going on, the ox was thumping33 the grass; the frog was eyeing him in such a rage at his superior proportions, that he would have spurted34 venom35 at him if he could, and that he would have burst, only that is impossible, from sheer envy; the little lambkin was lying unsuspiciously at the side of the wolf in fleecy hosiery, who did not as yet molest36 her, being replenished37 with the mutton her mamma. But now the wolf’s eyes began to glare, and his sharp white teeth to show, and he rose up with a growl38, and began to think he should like lamb for supper.
“What large eyes you have got!” bleated39 out the lamb, with rather a timid look.
“The better to see you with, my dear.”
“What large teeth you have got!”
“The better to ——”
At this moment such a terrific yell filled the field, that all its inhabitants started with terror. It was from a donkey, who had somehow got a lion’s skin, and now came in at the hedge, pursued by some men and boys with sticks and guns.
When the wolf in sheep’s clothing heard the bellow22 of the ass9 in the lion’s skin, fancying that the monarch40 of the forest was near, he ran away as fast as his disguise would let him. When the ox heard the noise he dashed round the meadow-ditch, and with one trample41 of his hoof42 squashed the frog who had been abusing him. When the crow saw the people with guns coming, he instantly dropped the cheese out of his mouth, and took to wing. When the fox saw the cheese drop, he immediately made a jump at it (for he knew the donkey’s voice, and that his asinine43 bray44 was not a bit like his royal master’s roar), and making for the cheese, fell into a steel trap, which snapped off his tail; without which he was obliged to go into the world, pretending, forsooth, that it was the fashion not to wear tails any more; and that the fox-party were better without ’em.
Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and belaboured Master Donkey until he roared louder than ever. The wolf, with the sheep’s clothing draggling about his legs, could not run fast, and was detected and shot by one of the men. The blind old owl, whirring out of the hollow tree, quite amazed at the disturbance45, flounced into the face of a ploughboy, who knocked her down with a pitchfork. The butcher came and quietly led off the ox and the lamb; and the farmer, finding the fox’s brush in the trap, hung it up over his mantelpiece, and always bragged46 that he had been in at his death.
“What a farrago of old fables48 is this! What a dressing49 up in old clothes!” says the critic. (I think I see such a one — a Solomon that sits in judgment50 over us authors and chops up our children.) “As sure as I am just and wise, modest, learned, and religious, so surely I have read something very like this stuff and nonsense about jackasses and foxes before. That wolf in sheep’s clothing? — do I not know him? That fox discoursing52 with the crow? — have I not previously53 heard of him? Yes, in Lafontaine’s fables: let us get the Dictionary and the Fable47 and the Biographie Universelle, article Lafontaine, and confound the impostor.”
“Then in what a contemptuous way,” may Solomon go on to remark, “does this author speak of human nature! There is scarce one of these characters he represents but is a villain54. The fox is a flatterer; the frog is an emblem55 of impotence and envy; the wolf in sheep’s clothing a bloodthirsty hypocrite, wearing the garb56 of innocence57; the ass in the lion’s skin a quack58 trying to terrify, by assuming the appearance of a forest monarch (does the writer, writhing59 under merited castigation60, mean to sneer at critics in this character? We laugh at the impertinent comparison); the ox, a stupid commonplace; the only innocent being in the writer’s (stolen) apologue is a fool — the idiotic61 lamb, who does not know his own mother!” And then the critic, if in a virtuous62 mood, may indulge in some fine writing regarding the holy beauteousness of maternal63 affection.
Why not? If authors sneer, it is the critic’s business to sneer at them for sneering64. He must pretend to be their superior, or who would care about his opinion? And his livelihood65 is to find fault. Besides, he is right sometimes; and the stories he reads, and the characters drawn66 in them, are old, sure enough. What stories are new? All types of all characters march through all fables: tremblers and boasters; victims and bullies67; dupes and knaves68; long-eared Neddies, giving themselves leonine airs; Tartuffes wearing virtuous clothing; lovers and their trials, their blindness, their folly69 and constancy. With the very first page of the human story do not love and lies too begin? So the tales were told ages before Aesop; and asses51 under lions’ manes roared in Hebrew; and sly foxes flattered in Etruscan; and wolves in sheep’s clothing gnashed their teeth in Sanskrit, no doubt. The sun shines today as he did when he first began shining; and the birds in the tree overhead, while I am writing, sing very much the same note they have sung ever since there were finches. Nay, since last he besought70 good-natured friends to listen once a month to his talking, a friend of the writer has seen the New World, and found the (featherless) birds there exceedingly like their brethren of Europe. There may be nothing new under and including the sun; but it looks fresh every morning, and we rise with it to toil72, hope, scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the night comes and quiet. And then will wake Morrow and the eyes that look on it; and so da capo.
This, then, is to be a story, may it please you, in which jackdaws will wear peacocks’ feathers, and awaken73 the just ridicule74 of the peacocks; in which, while every justice is done to the peacocks themselves, the splendour of their plumage, the gorgeousness of their dazzling necks, and the magnificence of their tails, exception will yet be taken to the absurdity75 of their rickety strut76, and the foolish discord77 of their pert squeaking78; in which lions in love will have their claws pared by sly virgins79; in which rogues80 will sometimes triumph, and honest folks, let us hope, come by their own; in which there will be black crape and white favours; in which there will be tears under orange-flower wreaths, and jokes in mourning-coaches; in which there will be dinners of herbs with contentment and without, and banquets of stalled oxen where there is care and hatred81 — ay, and kindness and friendship too, along with the feast. It does not follow that all men are honest because they are poor; and I have known some who were friendly and generous, although they had plenty of money. There are some great landlords who do not grind down their tenants82; there are actually bishops83 who are not hypocrites; there are liberal men even among the Whigs, and the Radicals84 themselves are not all aristocrats85 at heart. But who ever heard of giving the Moral before the Fable? Children are only led to accept the one after their delectation over the other: let us take care lest our readers skip both; and so let us bring them on quickly — our wolves and lambs, our foxes and lions, our roaring donkeys, our billing ringdoves, our motherly partlets, and crowing chanticleers.
There was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter than it appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth century; when the zest87 of life was certainly keener; when tavern88 wines seemed to be delicious, and tavern dinners the perfection of cookery; when the perusal89 of novels was productive of immense delight, and the monthly advent90 of magazine-day was hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know Thompson, who had written a magazine-article, was an honour and a privilege; and to see Brown, the author of the last romance, in the flesh, and actually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was an event remarkable91, and to the end of life to be perfectly92 well remembered; when the women of this world were a thousand times more beautiful than those of the present time; and the houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again was to struggle for half an hour previously at the door of the pit; when tailors called at a man’s lodgings93 to dazzle him with cards of fancy waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide lace caps, and work rich clothes, for the expected darling); when to ride in the Park on a ten-shilling hack94 seemed to be the height of fashionable enjoyment95, and to splash your college tutor as you were driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire96; when the acme97 of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin of Trinity Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square), to dine at the Piazza98, go to the play and see Braham in Fra Diavolo, and end the frolic evening by partaking of supper and a song at the “Cave of Harmony.”— It was in the days of my own youth, then, that I met one or two of the characters who are to figure in this history, and whom I must ask leave to accompany for a short while, and until, familiarised with the public, they can make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.
Going to the play, then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in those honest days, with some young fellows of my own age, having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce99, we became naturally hungry at twelve o’clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the “Cave of Harmony,” then kept by the celebrated100 Hoskins, among whose friends we were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy101 with Mr. Hoskins that he never failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John the waiter made room for us near the President of the convivial102 meeting. We knew the three admirable glee-singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and-water at our expense. One of us gave his call dinner at Hoskins’s, and a merry time we had of it. Where are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night? Do you warble your songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black Avernus?
The goes of stout103, the “Chough and Crow,” the welsh-rabbit, the “Red-Cross Knight,” the hot brandy-and-water (the brown, the strong!), the “Bloom is on the Rye” (the bloom isn’t on the rye any more!)— the song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, I daresay, the songs and bumpers104 were encored. It happened that there was a very small attendance at the “Cave” that night, and we were all more sociable105 and friendly because the company was select. The songs were chiefly of the sentimental106 class; such ditties were much in vogue107 at the time of which I speak.
There came into the “Cave” a gentleman with a lean brown face and long black mustachios, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the music, and twirled his mustachios with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said, “Don’t you know me?”
It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for six years, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy.
“What the deuce brings you here?” said I.
He laughed and looked roguish. “My father — that’s my father — would come. He’s just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come here — Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger108, Professor Porson. I told him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I first went to Smithfield. I’ve left now; I’m to have a private tutor. I say, I’ve got such a jolly pony109. It’s better fun than old Smile.”
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome’s father, pointing to a waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode across the room twirling his mustachios, and came up to the table where we sate, making a salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins himself was, as it were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among themselves (their eyes rolling over their glasses towards one another as they sucked brandy-and water), and that mischievous110 little wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to mimic111 him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, after the manner of the stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief in the most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly looking towards Nadab, and at the same time called upon the gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr. Bellew about to sing a song.
Newcome’s father came up and held out his hand to me. I dare say I blushed, for I had been comparing him to the admirable Harley in the Critic, and had christened him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos.
He spoke112 in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, and with a cordiality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed, and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man of the world may, of course, be grateful or not as he chooses.
“I have heard of your kindness, sir,” says he, “to my boy. And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down by you? and may I beg you to try my cheroots?” We were friends in a minute — young Newcome snuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after a minute or two of conversation, I presented my three college friends.
“You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits,” says the Colonel. “Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have been five-and-thirty years from home, and want to see all that is to be seen.”
King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible113 wag) was on the point of pulling some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a halfdozen of people in the room, as R. and H. and L., etc., the most celebrated wits of that day; but I cut King’s shins under the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue.
“Maxima debetur pueris,” says Jones (a fellow of very kind feeling, who has gone into the Church since), and, writing on his card to Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room, and a gentleman, who was quite a greenhorn: hence that the songs had better be carefully selected.
And so they were. A ladies’ school might have come in, and, but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water, have taken no harm by what happened. Why should it not always be so? If there are any “Caves of Harmony” now, I warrant Messieurs the landlords, their interests would be better consulted by keeping their singers within bounds. The very greatest scamps like pretty songs, and are melted by them; so are honest people. It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel, and his delight at the music. He forgot all about the distinguished114 wits whom he had expected to see in his ravishment over the glees.
“I say, Clive, this is delightful115. This is better than your aunt’s concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall come here often. Landlord, may I venture to ask those gentlemen if they will take any refreshment116? What are their names?” (to one of his neighbours). “I was scarcely allowed to hear any singing before I went out, except an oratorio117, where I fell asleep; but this, by George, is as fine as Incledon!” He became quite excited over his sherry-and-water-(“I’m sorry to see you, gentlemen, drinking brandy-pawnee,” says he; “it plays the deuce with our young men in India.”) He joined in all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice. He laughed at “The Derby Ram” so that it did you good to hear him; and when Hoskins sang (as he did admirably) “The Old English Gentleman,” and described, in measured cadence118, the death of that venerable aristocrat86, tears trickled119 down the honest warrior’s cheek, while he held out his hand to Hoskins and said, “Thank you, sir, for that song; it is an honour to human nature.” On which Hoskins began to cry too.
And now young Nadab, having been cautioned, commenced one of those surprising feats120 of improvisation121 with which he used to charm audiences. He took us all off, and had rhymes pat about all the principal persons in the room: King’s pins (which he wore very splendid), Martin’s red waistcoat, etc. The Colonel was charmed with each feat71, and joined delighted with the chorus —“Ritolderol ritolderol ritolderolderay” (bis). And when, coming to the Colonel himself, he burst out —
“A military gent I see — And while his face I scan,
I think you’ll all agree with me — He came from Hindostan.
And by his side sits laughing free — A youth with curly head,
I think you’ll all agree with me — That he was best in bed.
Ritolderol,” etc.
— the Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his son, young Clive, on the shoulder. “Hear what he says of you, sir? Clive, best be off to bed, my boy — ho, ho! No, no. We know a trick worth two of that. ‘We won’t go home till morning, till daylight does appear.’ Why should we? Why shouldn’t my boy have innocent pleasure? I was allowed none when I was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin of me. I must go and speak with that young man — the most astonishing thing I ever heard in my life. What’s his name? Mr. Nadab? Mr. Nadab, sir, you have delighted me. May I make so free as to ask you to come and dine with me tomorrow at six? Colonel Newcome, if you please, Nerot’s Hotel, Clifford Street. I am always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and you are one, or my name is not Newcome!”
“Sir, you do me hhonour,” says Mr. Nadab, pulling up his shirt-collar, “and perhaps the day will come when the world will do me justice — may I put down your hhonoured name for my book of poems?”
“Of course, my dear sir,” says the enthusiastic Colonel; “I’ll send them all over India. Put me down for six copies, and do me the favour to bring them tomorrow when you come to dinner.”
And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song, what was our amazement123 when the simple Colonel offered to sing himself, at which the room applauded vociferously124; whilst methought poor Clive Newcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a peony. I felt for the young lad, and thought what my own sensations would have been if, in that place, my own uncle, Major Pendennis, had suddenly proposed to exert his lyrical powers.
The Colonel selected the ditty of “Wapping Old Stairs” (a ballad125 so sweet and touching126 that surely any English poet might be proud to be the father of it), and he sang this quaint122 and charming old song in an exceedingly pleasant voice, with flourishes and roulades in the old Incledon manner, which has pretty nearly passed away. The singer gave his heart and soul to the simple ballad, and delivered Molly’s gentle appeal so pathetically that even the professional gentlemen hummed and buzzed — a sincere applause; and some wags who were inclined to jeer127 at the beginning of the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song was over, Clive held up his head too; after the shock of the first verse, looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes; and we, I need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come out of his queer scrape so triumphantly128. The Colonel bowed and smiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits. It was like Dr. Primrose129 preaching his sermon in the prison. There was something touching in the naivete and kindness of the placid130 and simple gentleman.
Great Hoskins, placed on high, amidst the tuneful choir131, was pleased to signify his approbation132, and gave his guest’s health in his usual dignified133 manner. “I am much obliged to you, sir,” says Mr. Hoskins; “the room ought to be much obliged to you: I drink your ‘ealth and song, sir;” and he bowed to the Colonel politely over his glass of brandy-and-water, of which he absorbed a little in his customer’s honour. “I have not heard that song,” he was kind enough to say, “better performed since Mr. Incledon sung it. He was a great singer, sir, and I may say, in the words of our immortal134 Shakspeare, that, take him for all in all, we shall not look upon his like again.”
The Colonel blushed in his turn, and turning round to his boy with an arch smile, said, “I learnt it from Incledon. I used to slip out from Grey Friars to hear him, Heaven bless me, forty years ago; and I used to be flogged afterwards, and serve me right too. Lord! Lord! how the time passes!” He drank off his sherry-and-water, and fell back in his chair; we could see he was thinking about his youth — the golden time — the happy, the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself nearly two-and-twenty years of age at that period, and felt as old as, ay, older than the Colonel.
Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had walked, or rather reeled, into the room, a gentleman in a military frock-coat and duck trousers of dubious135 hue136, with whose name and person some of my readers are perhaps already acquainted. In fact it was my friend Captain Costigan, in his usual condition at this hour of the night.
Holding on by various tables, the Captain had sidled up, without accident to himself or any of the jugs137 and glasses round about him, to the table where we sat, and had taken his place near the writer, his old acquaintance. He warbled the refrain of the Colonel’s song, not inharmoniously; and saluted138 its pathetic conclusion with a subdued139 hiccup140 and a plentiful141 effusion of tears. “Bedad, it is a beautiful song,” says he, “and many a time I heard poor Harry142 Incledon sing it.”
“He’s a great character,” whispered that unlucky King of Corpus to his neighbour the Colonel; “was a Captain in the army. We call him the General. Captain Costigan, will you take something to drink?”
“Bedad, I will,” says the Captain, “and I’ll sing ye a song tu.”
And, having procured143 a glass of whisky-and-water from the passing waiter, the poor old man, settling his face into a horrid144 grin, and leering, as he was wont145 when he gave what he called one of his prime songs, began his music.
The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, selected one of the most outrageous146 performances of his repertoire147, fired off a tipsy howl by way of overture148, and away he went. At the end of the second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, seizing his stick, and looking as ferocious149 as though he had been going to do battle with a Pindaree.
“Silence!” he roared out.
“Hear, hear!” cried certain wags at a farther table. “Go on, Costigan!” said others.
“Go on!” cries the Colonel, in his high voice trembling with anger. “Does any gentleman say ‘Go On?’ Does any man who has a wife and sisters, or children at home, say ‘Go on’ to such disgusting ribaldry as this? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to say that you hold the King’s commission, and to sit down amongst Christians150 and men of honour, and defile151 the ears of young boys with this wicked balderdash?”
“Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?” cries a voice of the malcontents.
“Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of gentlemen,” cried out the indignant Colonel. “Because I never could have believed that Englishmen could meet together and allow a man, and an old man, so to disgrace himself. For shame, you old wretch! Go home to your bed, you hoary152 old sinner! And for my part, I’m not sorry that my son should see, for once in his life, to what shame and degradation153 and dishonour154, drunkenness and whisky may bring a man. Never mind the change, sir! — Curse the change!” says the Colonel, facing the amazed waiter. “Keep it till you see me in this place again; which will be never — by George, never!” And shouldering his stick, and scowling155 round at the company of scared bacchanalians, the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him.
Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest of the company looked still more foolish.
“Aussi que diable venait — il faire dans cette galere?” says King of Corpus to Jones of Trinity; and Jones gave a shrug156 of his shoulders, which were smarting, perhaps; for that uplifted cane157 of the Colonel’s had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room.
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sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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goggling
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| v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的现在分词 ) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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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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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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14
goggle
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| n.瞪眼，转动眼珠，护目镜；v.瞪眼看，转眼珠 | |
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15
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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16
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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17
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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18
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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19
exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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20
croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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21
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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22
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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23
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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24
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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27
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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28
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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29
reverences
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| n.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的名词复数 )；敬礼 | |
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30
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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31
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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32
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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33
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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34
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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35
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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36
molest
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| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
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37
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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38
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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39
bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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40
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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41
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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42
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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43
asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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44
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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45
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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46
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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48
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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49
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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50
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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51
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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52
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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53
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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54
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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55
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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56
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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57
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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58
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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59
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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60
castigation
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| n.申斥，强烈反对 | |
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61
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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62
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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63
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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64
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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65
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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68
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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69
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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70
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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71
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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72
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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73
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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74
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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75
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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76
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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77
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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78
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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79
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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80
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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81
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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82
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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83
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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84
radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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85
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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86
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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87
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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88
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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89
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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90
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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91
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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92
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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93
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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94
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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95
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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96
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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97
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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98
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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99
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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100
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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101
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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102
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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104
bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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105
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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106
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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107
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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108
hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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109
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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110
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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111
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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112
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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113
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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114
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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115
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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116
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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117
oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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118
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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119
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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120
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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121
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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122
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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123
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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124
vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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125
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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126
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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127
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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128
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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129
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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130
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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131
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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132
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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133
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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134
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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135
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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136
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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137
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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138
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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139
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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140
hiccup
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| n.打嗝 | |
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141
plentiful
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|
| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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142
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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143
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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144
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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145
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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146
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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147
repertoire
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| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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148
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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149
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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150
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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151
defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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152
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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153
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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154
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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155
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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156
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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157
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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