—— The play’s the thing.
Hamlet.
The important day had now arrived, the arrangement for which had for some time occupied all the conversation and thoughts of the good company at the Well of St. Ronan’s. To give it, at the same time, a degree of novelty and consequence, Lady Penelope Penfeather had long since suggested to Mr. Mowbray, that the more gifted and accomplished2 part of the guests might contribute to furnish out entertainment for the rest, by acting3 a few scenes of some popular drama; an accomplishment4 in which her self-conceit5 assured her that she was peculiarly qualified6 to excel. Mr. Mowbray, who seemed on this occasion to have thrown the reins7 entirely8 into her ladyship’s hands, made no objection to the plan which she proposed, excepting that the old-fashioned hedges and walks of the garden at Shaws-Castle must necessarily serve for stage and scenery, as there was no time to fit up the old hall for the exhibition of the proposed theatricals.24 But upon enquiry among the company, this plan was wrecked9 upon the ordinary shelve, to wit, the difficulty of finding performers who would consent to assume the lower characters of the drama. For the first parts there were candidates more than enough; but most of these were greatly too high-spirited to play the fool, except they were permitted to top the part. Then amongst the few unambitious underlings, who could be coaxed10 or cajoled to undertake subordinate characters, there were so many bad memories, and short memories, and treacherous11 memories, that at length the plan was resigned in despair.
A substitute, proposed by Lady Penelope, was next considered. It was proposed to act what the Italians call a Comedy of Character; that is, not an exact drama, in which the actors deliver what is set down for them by the author; but one, in which the plot having been previously13 fixed14 upon, and a few striking scenes adjusted, the actors are expected to supply the dialogue extempore, or, as Petruchio says, from their mother wit. This is an amusement which affords much entertainment in Italy, particularly in the state of Venice, where the characters of their drama have been long since all previously fixed, and are handed down by tradition; and this species of drama, though rather belonging to the mask than the theatre, is distinguished16 by the name of Commedia dell’ Arte.25 But the shamefaced character of Britons is still more alien from a species of display, where there is a constant and extemporaneous17 demand for wit, or the sort of ready small-talk which supplies its place, than from the regular exhibitions of the drama, where the author, standing18 responsible for language and sentiment, leaves to the personators of the scenes only the trouble of finding enunciation19 and action.
But the ardent20 and active spirit of Lady Penelope, still athirst after novelty, though baffled in her two first projects, brought forward a third, in which she was more successful. This was the proposal to combine a certain number, at least, of the guests, properly dressed for the occasion, as representing some well-known historical or dramatic characters, in a group, having reference to history, or to a scene of the drama. In this representation, which may be called playing a picture, action, even pantomimical action, was not expected; and all that was required of the performers, was to throw themselves into such a group as might express a marked and striking point of an easily remembered scene, but where the actors are at a pause, and without either speech or motion. In this species of representation there was no tax, either on the invention or memory of those who might undertake parts; and, what recommended it still farther to the good company, there was no marked difference betwixt the hero and heroine of the group, and the less distinguished characters by whom they were attended on the stage; and every one who had confidence in a handsome shape and a becoming dress, might hope, though standing in not quite so broad and favourable21 a light as the principal personages, to draw, nevertheless, a considerable portion of attention and applause. This motion, therefore, that the company, or such of them as might choose to appear properly dressed for the occasion, should form themselves into one or more groups, which might be renewed and varied22 as often as they pleased, was hailed and accepted as a bright idea, which assigned to every one a share of the importance attached to its probable success.
Mowbray, on his side, promised to contrive23 some arrangement which should separate the actors in this mute drama from the spectators, and enable the former to vary the amusement, by withdrawing themselves from the scene, and again appearing upon it under a different and new combination. This plan of exhibition, where fine clothes and affected24 attitudes supplied all draughts25 upon fancy or talent, was highly agreeable to most of the ladies present; and even Lady Binks, whose discontent seemed proof against every effort that could be proposed to soothe26 it, acquiesced27 in the project, with perfect indifference28 indeed, but with something less of sullenness29 than usual.
It now only remained to rummage31 the circulating library, for some piece of sufficient celebrity32 to command attention, and which should be at the same time suited to the execution of their project. Bell’s British Theatre, Miller’s Modern and Ancient Drama, and about twenty odd volumes, in which stray tragedies and comedies were associated, like the passengers in a mail-coach, without the least attempt at selection or arrangement, were all examined in the course of their researches. But Lady Penelope declared loftily and decidedly for Shakspeare, as the author whose immortal33 works were fresh in every one’s recollection. Shakspeare was therefore chosen, and from his works the Midsummer Night’s Dream was selected, as the play which afforded the greatest variety of characters, and most scope of course for the intended representation. An active competition presently occurred among the greater part of the company, for such copies of the Midsummer Night’s Dream, or the volume of Shakspeare containing it, as could be got in the neighbourhood; for, notwithstanding Lady Penelope’s declaration, that every one who could read had Shakspeare’s plays by heart, it appeared that such of his dramas as have not kept possession of the stage, were very little known at St. Ronan’s, save among those people who are emphatically called readers.
The adjustment of the parts was the first subject of consideration, so soon as those who intended to assume characters had refreshed their recollection on the subject of the piece. Theseus was unanimously assigned to Mowbray, the giver of the entertainment, and therefore justly entitled to represent the Duke of Athens. The costume of an Amazonian crest34 and plume35, a tucked-up vest, and a tight buskin of sky-blue silk, buckled36 with diamonds, reconciled Lady Binks to the part of Hippolyta. The superior stature37 of Miss Mowbray to Lady Penelope, made it necessary that the former should perform the part of Helena, and her ladyship rest contented38 with the shrewish character of Hermia. It was resolved to compliment the young Earl of Etherington with the part of Lysander, which, however, his lordship declined, and, preferring comedy to tragedy, refused to appear in any other character than that of the magnanimous Bottom; and he gave them such a humorous specimen39 of his quality in that part, that all were delighted at once with his condescension40 in assuming, and his skill in performing, the presenter41 of Pyramus.
The part of Egeus was voted to Captain MacTurk, whose obstinacy42 in refusing to appear in any other than the full Highland43 garb44, had nearly disconcerted the whole affair. At length this obstacle was got over, on the authority of Childe Harold, who remarks the similarity betwixt the Highland and Grecian costume,26 and the company, dispensing45 with the difference of colour, voted the Captain’s variegated46 kilt, of the MacTurk tartan, to be the kirtle of a Grecian mountaineer — Egeus to be an Arnout, and the Captain to be Egeus. Chatterly and the painter, walking gentlemen by profession, agreed to walk through the parts of Demetrius and Lysander, the two Athenian lovers; and Mr. Winterblossom, loath47 and lazy, after many excuses, was bribed48 by Lady Penelope with an antique, or supposed antique cameo, to play the part of Philostratus, master of the revels49, provided his gout would permit him to remain so long upon the turf, which was to be their stage.
Muslin trowsers, adorned50 with spangles, a voluminous turban of silver gauze, and wings of the same, together with an embroidered51 slipper52, converted at once Miss Digges into Oberon, the King of Shadows, whose sovereign gravity, however, was somewhat indifferently represented by the silly gaiety of Miss in her Teens, and the uncontrolled delight which she felt in her fine clothes. A younger sister represented Titania; and two or three subordinate elves were selected, among families attending the salutiferous fountain, who were easily persuaded to let their children figure in fine clothes at so juvenile53 an age, though they shook their head at Miss Digges and her pantaloons, and no less at the liberal display of Lady Binks’s right leg, with which the Amazonian garb gratified the public of St. Ronan’s.
Dr. Quackleben was applied54 to to play Wall, by the assistance of such a wooden horse, or screen, as clothes are usually dried upon; the old Attorney stood for Lion; and the other characters of Bottom’s drama were easily found among the unnamed frequenters of the Spring. Dressed rehearsals55, and so forth56, went merrily on — all voted there was a play fitted.
But even the Doctor’s eloquence57 could not press Mrs. Blower into the scheme, although she was particularly wanted to represent Thisbe.
“Truth is,” she replied, “I dinna greatly like stage-plays. John Blower, honest man, as sailors are aye for some spree or another, wad take me ance to see ane Mrs. Siddons — I thought we should hae been crushed to death before we gat in-a’ my things riven aff my back, forby the four lily-white shillings that it cost us — and then in came three frightsome carlines wi’ besoms, and they wad bewitch a sailor’s wife — I was lang eneugh there — and out I wad be, and out John Blower gat me, but wi’ nae sma’ fight and fend58. — My Lady Penelope Penfitter, and the great folk, may just take it as they like; but in my mind, Dr. Cacklehen, it’s a mere59 blasphemy60 for folk to gar themselves look otherwise than their Maker61 made them; and then the changing the name which was given them at baptism, is, I think, an awful falling away from our vows62; and though Thisby, which I take to be Greek for Tibbie, may be a very good name, yet Margaret was I christened, and Margaret will I die.”
“You mistake the matter entirely, my dear Mrs. Blower,” said the Doctor; “there is nothing serious intended — a mere placebo63 — just a divertisement to cheer the spirits, and assist the effect of the waters — cheerfulness is a great promoter of health.”
“Dinna tell me o’ health, Dr. Kittlepin! — Can it be for the puir body M’Durk’s health to major about in the tartans like a tobacconist’s sign in a frosty morning, wi’ his poor wizzened houghs as blue as a blawort? — weel I wot he is a humbling64 spectacle. Or can it gie ony body health or pleasure either to see your ainsell, Doctor, ganging about wi’ a claise screen tied to your back, covered wi’ paper, and painted like a stane and lime wa’? — I’ll gang to see nane o’ their vanities, Dr. Kittlehen; and if there is nae other decent body to take care o’ me, as I dinna like to sit a haill afternoon by mysell, I’ll e’en gae doun to Mr. Sowerbrowst the maltster’s — he is a pleasant, sensible man, and a sponsible man in the world, and his sister’s a very decent woman.”
“Confound Sowerbrowst,” thought the Doctor; “if I had guessed he was to come across me thus, he should not have got the better of his dyspepsy so early. — My dear Mrs. Blower,” he continued, but aloud, “it is a foolish affair enough, I must confess; but every person of style and fashion at the Well has settled to attend this exhibition; there has been nothing else talked of for this month through the whole country, and it will be a year before it is forgotten. And I would have you consider how ill it will look, my dear Mrs. Blower, to stay away — nobody will believe you had a card — no, not though you were to hang it round your neck like a label round a vial of tincture, Mrs. Blower.”
“If ye thought that, Doctor Kickherben,” said the widow, alarmed at the idea of losing caste, “I wad e’en gang to the show, like other folk; sinful and shameful65 if it be, let them that make the sin bear the shame. But then I will put on nane of their Popish disguises — me that has lived in North Leith, baith wife and lass, for I shanna say how mony years, and has a character to keep up baith with saint and sinner. — And then, wha’s to take care of me, since you are gaun to make a lime-and-stane wa’ of yoursell, Dr. Kickinben?”
“My dear Mrs. Blower, if such is your determination, I will not make a wall of myself. Her ladyship must consider my profession — she must understand it is my function to look after my patients, in preference to all the stage-plays in this world — and to attend on a case like yours, Mrs. Blower, it is my duty to sacrifice, were it called for, the whole drama from Shakspeare to O’Keefe.”
On hearing this magnanimous resolution, the widow’s heart was greatly cheered; for, in fact, she might probably have considered the Doctor’s perseverance66 in the plan, of which she had expressed such high disapprobation, as little less than a symptom of absolute defection from his allegiance. By an accommodation, therefore, which suited both parties, it was settled that the Doctor should attend his loving widow to Shaws-Castle, without mask or mantle68; and that the painted screen should be transferred from Quackleben’s back to the broad shoulders of a briefless barrister, well qualified for the part of Wall, since the composition of his skull69 might have rivalled in solidity the mortar70 and stone of the most approved builder.
We must not pause to dilate71 upon the various labours of body and spirit which preceded the intervening space, betwixt the settlement of this gay scheme, and the time appointed to carry it into execution. We will not attempt to describe how the wealthy, by letter and by commissioners72, urged their researches through the stores of the Gallery of Fashion for specimens73 of Oriental finery — how they that were scant74 of diamonds supplied their place with paste and Bristol stones — how the country dealers75 were driven out of patience by the demand for goods of which they had never before heard the name — and, lastly, how the busy fingers of the more economical damsels twisted handkerchiefs into turbans, and converted petticoats into pantaloons, shaped and sewed, cut and clipped, and spoiled many a decent gown and petticoat, to produce something like a Grecian habit. Who can describe the wonders wrought76 by active needles and scissors, aided by thimbles and thread, upon silver gauze, and sprigged muslin? or who can show how, if the fair nymphs of the Spring did not entirely succeed in attaining77 the desired resemblance to heathen Greeks, they at least contrived78 to get rid of all similitude to sober Christians79?
Neither is it necessary to dwell upon the various schemes of conveyance80 which were resorted to, in order to transfer the beau monde of the Spa to the scene of revelry at Shaws-Castle. These were as various as the fortunes and pretensions82 of the owners; from the lordly curricle, with its outriders, to the humble83 taxed cart, nay84, untaxed cart, which conveyed the personages of lesser85 rank. For the latter, indeed, the two post-chaises at the Inn seemed converted into hourly stages, so often did they come and go between the Hotel and the Castle — a glad day for the postilions, and a day of martyrdom for the poor post-horses; so seldom is it that every department of any society, however constituted, can be injured or benefited by the same occurrence.
Such, indeed, was the penury86 of vehicular conveyance, that applications were made in manner most humble, even to Meg Dods herself, entreating87 she would permit her old whiskey to ply15 (for such might have been the phrase) at St. Ronan’s Well, for that day only, and that upon good cause shown. But not for sordid88 lucre89 would the undaunted spirit of Meg compound her feud90 with her neighbours of the detested91 Well. “Her carriage,” she briefly92 replied, “was engaged for her ain guest and the minister, and deil anither body’s fit should gang intill’t. Let every herring hing by its ain head.” And, accordingly, at the duly appointed hour, creaked forth, the leathern convenience, in which, carefully screened by the curtain from the gaze of the fry of the village, sat Nabob Touchwood, in the costume of an Indian merchant, or Shroff, as they are termed. The clergyman would not, perhaps, have been so punctual, had not a set of notes and messages from his friend at the Cleikum, ever following each other as thick as the papers which decorate the tail of a schoolboy’s kite, kept him so continually on the alert from daybreak till noon, that Mr. Touchwood found him completely dressed; and the whiskey was only delayed for about ten minutes before the door of the manse, a space employed by Mr. Cargill in searching for the spectacles, which at last were happily discovered upon his own nose.
At length, seated by the side of his new friend, Mr. Cargill arrived safe at Shaws-Castle, the gate of which mansion94 was surrounded by a screaming group of children, so extravagantly95 delighted at seeing the strange figures to whom each successive carriage gave birth, that even the stern brow and well-known voice of Johnie Tirlsneck, the beadle, though stationed in the court on express purpose, was not equal to the task of controlling them. These noisy intruders, however, who, it was believed, were somewhat favoured by Clara Mowbray, were excluded from the court which opened before the house, by a couple of grooms96 or helpers armed with their whips, and could only salute97, with their shrill98 and wondering hailing, the various personages, as they passed down a short avenue leading from the exterior99 gate.
The Cleikum nabob and the minister were greeted with shouts not the least clamorous100; which the former merited by the ease with which he wore the white turban, and the latter, by the infrequency of his appearance in public, and both, by the singular association of a decent clergyman of the church of Scotland, in a dress more old-fashioned than could now be produced in the General Assembly, walking arm in arm, and seemingly in the most familiar terms, with a Parsee merchant. They stopped a moment at the gate of the court-yard to admire the front of the old mansion, which had been disturbed with so unusual a scene of gaiety.
Shaws-Castle, though so named, presented no appearance of defence; and the present edifice101 had never been designed for more than the accommodation of a peaceful family, having a low, heavy front, loaded with some of that meretricious102 ornament103, which, uniting, or rather confounding, the Gothic and Grecian architecture, was much used during the reigns104 of James VI. of Scotland, and his unfortunate son. The court formed a small square, two sides of which were occupied by such buildings as were required for the family, and the third by the stables, the only part to which much attention had been paid, the present Mr. Mowbray having put them into excellent order. The fourth side of the square was shut up by a screen wall, through which a door opened to the avenue; the whole being a kind of structure, which may be still found on those old Scottish properties, where a rage to render their place Parkish, as was at one time the prevailing105 phrase, has not induced the owners to pull down the venerable and sheltering appendages106 with which their wiser fathers had screened their mansion, and to lay the whole open to the keen north-east; much after the fashion of a spinster of fifty, who chills herself to gratify the public by an exposure of her thin red elbows, and shrivelled neck and bosom107.
A double door, thrown hospitably108 open on the present occasion, admitted the company into a dark and low hall, where Mowbray himself, wearing the under dress of Theseus, but not having yet assumed his ducal cap and robes, stood to receive his guests with due courtesy, and to indicate to each the road allotted109 to him. Those who were to take a share in the representation of the morning, were conducted to an old saloon, destined110 for a green-room, and which communicated with a series of apartments on the right, hastily fitted with accommodations for arranging and completing their toilet; while others, who took no part in the intended drama, were ushered111 to the left, into a large, unfurnished, and long disused dining parlour, where a sashed door opened into the gardens, crossed with yew112 and holly113 hedges, still trimmed and clipped by the old grey-headed gardener, upon those principles which a Dutchman thought worthy114 of commemorating115 in a didactic poem upon the Ars Topiaria.
A little wilderness116, surrounding a beautiful piece of the smoothest turf, and itself bounded by such high hedges as we have described, had been selected as the stage most proper for the exhibition of the intended dramatic picture. It afforded many facilities; for a rising bank exactly in front was accommodated with seats for the spectators, who had a complete view of the silvan theatre, the bushes and shrubs117 having been cleared away, and the place supplied with a temporary screen, which, being withdrawn118 by the domestics appointed for that purpose, was to serve for the rising of the curtain. A covered trellis, which passed through another part of the garden, and terminated with a private door opening from the right wing of the building, seemed as if it had been planted on purpose for the proposed exhibition, as it served to give the personages of the drama a convenient and secret access from the green-room to the place of representation. Indeed, the dramatis person?, at least those who adopted the management of the matter, were induced, by so much convenience, to extend, in some measure, their original plan; and, instead of one group, as had been at first proposed, they now found themselves able to exhibit to the good company a succession of three or four, selected and arranged from different parts of the drama; thus giving some duration, as well as some variety, to the entertainment, besides the advantage of separating and contrasting the tragic120 and the comic scenes.
After wandering about amongst the gardens, which contained little to interest any one, and endeavouring to recognise some characters, who, accommodating themselves to the humours of the day, had ventured to appear in the various disguises of ballad-singers, pedlars, shepherds, Highlanders, and so forth, the company began to draw together towards the spot where the seats prepared for them, and the screen drawn119 in front of the bosky stage, induced them to assemble, and excited expectation, especially as a scroll121 in front of the esplanade set forth, in the words of the play, “This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn122 brake our tiring-house, and we will do it in action.” A delay of about ten minutes began to excite some suppressed murmurs123 of impatience124 among the audience, when the touch of Gow’s fiddle125 suddenly burst from a neighbouring hedge, behind which he had established his little orchestra. All were of course silent,
“As through his dear strathspeys he bore with Highland rage.”
And when he changed his strain to an adagio126, and suffered his music to die away in the plaintive127 notes of Roslin Castle, the echoes of the old walls were, after a long slumber128, awakened129 by that enthusiastic burst of applause, with which the Scots usually received and rewarded their country’s gifted minstrel.
“He is his father’s own son,” said Touchwood to the clergyman, for both had gotten seats near about the centre of the place of audience. “It is many a long year since I listened to old Neil at Inver, and, to say truth, spent a night with him over pancakes and Athole brose; and I never expected to hear his match again in my lifetime. But stop — the curtain rises.”
The screen was indeed withdrawn, and displayed Hermia, Helena, and their lovers, in attitudes corresponding to the scene of confusion occasioned by the error of Puck.
Messrs. Chatterly and the Painter played their parts neither better nor worse than amateur actors in general; and the best that could be said of them was, that they seemed more than half ashamed of their exotic dresses, and of the public gaze.
But against this untimely weakness Lady Penelope was guarded, by the strong shield of self-conceit. She minced131, ambled132, and, notwithstanding the slight appearance of her person, and the depredations133 which time had made on a countenance134 that had never been very much distinguished for beauty, seemed desirous to top the part of the beautiful daughter of Egeus. The sullenness which was proper to the character of Hermia, was much augmented135 by the discovery that Miss Mowbray was so much better dressed than herself — a discovery which she had but recently made, as that young lady had not attended on the regular rehearsals at the Well, but once, and then without her stage habit. Her ladyship, however, did not permit this painful sense of inferiority, where she had expected triumph, so far to prevail over her desire of shining, as to interrupt materially the manner in which she had settled to represent her portion of the scene. The nature of the exhibition precluded136 much action, but Lady Penelope made amends137 by such a succession of grimaces138, as might rival, in variety at least, the singular display which Garrick used to call “going his rounds.” She twisted her poor features into looks of most desperate love towards Lysander; into those of wonder and offended pride, when she turned them upon Demetrius; and finally settled them on Helena, with the happiest possible imitation of an incensed139 rival, who feels the impossibility of relieving her swollen140 heart by tears alone, and is just about to have recourse to her nails.
No contrast could be stronger in looks, demeanour, and figure, than that between Hermia and Helena. In the latter character, the beautiful form and foreign dress of Miss Mowbray attracted all eyes. She kept her place on the stage, as a sentinel does that which his charge assigns him; for she had previously told her brother, that though she consented, at his importunity141, to make part of the exhibition, it was as a piece of the scene, not as an actor, and accordingly a painted figure could scarce be more immovable. The expression of her countenance seemed to be that of deep sorrow and perplexity, belonging to her part, over which wandered at times an air of irony142 or ridicule143, as if she were secretly scorning the whole exhibition, and even herself for condescending144 to become part of it. Above all, a sense of bashfulness had cast upon her cheek a colour, which, though sufficiently145 slight, was more than her countenance was used to display; and when the spectators beheld146, in the splendour and grace of a rich Oriental dress, her whom they had hitherto been accustomed to see attired147 only in the most careless manner, they felt the additional charms of surprise and contrast; so that the bursts of applause which were vollied towards the stage, might be said to be addressed to her alone, and to vie in sincerity148 with those which have been forced from an audience by the most accomplished performer.
“Oh, that puir Lady Penelope!” said honest Mrs. Blower, who, when her scruples149 against the exhibition were once got over, began to look upon it with particular interest — “I am really sorry for her puir face, for she gars it work like the sails of John Blower’s vesshel in a stiff breeze. — Oh, Doctor Cacklehen, dinna ye think she wad need, if it were possible, to rin ower her face wi’ a gusing iron, just to take the wrunkles out o’t?”
“Hush150, hush! my good dear Mrs. Blower,” said the Doctor; “Lady Penelope is a woman of quality, and my patient, and such people always act charmingly — you must understand there is no hissing151 at a private theatre — Hem12!”
“Ye may say what ye like, Doctor, but there is nae fule like an auld152 fule — To be sure, if she was as young and beautiful as Miss Mowbray — hegh me, and I didna use to think her sae bonny neither — but dress — dress makes an unco difference — That shawl o’ hers — I daur say the like o’t was ne’er seen in braid Scotland — It will be real Indian, I’se warrant.”
“Real Indian!” said Mr. Touchwood, in an accent of disdain153, which rather disturbed Mrs. Blower’s equanimity154 — “why, what do you suppose it should be, madam?”
“I dinna ken130, sir,” said she, edging somewhat nearer the Doctor, not being altogether pleased, as she afterwards allowed, with the outlandish appearance and sharp tone of the traveller; then pulling her own drapery round her shoulders, she added, courageously155, “There are braw shawls made at Paisley, that ye will scarce ken frae foreign.”
“Not know Paisley shawls from Indian, madam?” said Touchwood; “why, a blind man could tell by the slightest touch of his little finger. Yon shawl, now, is the handsomest I have seen in Britain — and at this distance I can tell it to be a real Tozie.”
“Cozie may she weel be that wears it,” said Mrs. Blower. “I declare, now I look on’t again, it’s a perfect beauty.”
“It is called Tozie, ma’am, not cozie,” continued the traveller; “the Shroffs at Surat told me in 1801, that it is made out of the inner coat of a goat.”
“Of a sheep, sir, I am thinking ye mean, for goats has nae woo’.”
“Not much of it, indeed, madam, but you are to understand they use only the inmost coat; and then their dyes — that Tozie now will keep its colour while there is a rag of it left — men bequeath them in legacies156 to their grandchildren.”
“And a very bonny colour it is,” said the dame157; “something like a mouse’s back, only a thought redder — I wonder what they ca’ that colour.”
“The colour is much admired, madam,” said Touchwood, who was now on a favourite topic; “the Mussulmans say the colour is betwixt that of an elephant and the breast of the faughta.”
“In troth, I am as wise as I was,” said Mrs. Blower.
“The faughta, madam, so called by the Moors158, (for the Hindhus call it hollah,) is a sort of pigeon, held sacred among the Moslem159 of India, because they think it dyed its breast in the blood of Ali. — But I see they are closing the scene. — Mr. Cargill, are you composing your sermon, my good friend, or what can you be thinking of?”
Mr. Cargill had, during the whole scene, remained with his eyes fixed, in intent and anxious, although almost unconscious gaze, upon Clara Mowbray; and when the voice of his companion startled him out of his reverie, he exclaimed, “Most lovely — most unhappy — yes — I must and will see her!”
“See her?” replied Touchwood, too much accustomed to his friend’s singularities to look for much reason or connexion in any thing he said or did; “Why, you shall see her and talk to her too, if that will give you pleasure. — They say now,” he continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, “that this Mowbray is ruined. I see nothing like it, since he can dress out his sister like a Begum. Did you ever see such a splendid shawl?”
“Dearly purchased splendour,” said Mr. Cargill, with a deep sigh; “I wish that the price be yet fully93 paid!”
“Very likely not,” said the traveller; “very likely it’s gone to the book; and for the price, I have known a thousand rupees given for such a shawl in the country. — But hush, hush, we are to have another tune81 from Nathaniel — faith, and they are withdrawing the screen — Well, they have some mercy — they do not let us wait long between the acts of their follies160 at least — I love a quick and rattling161 fire in these vanities — Folly162 walking a funeral pace, and clinking her bells to the time of a passing knell163, makes sad work indeed.”
A strain of music, beginning slowly, and terminating in a light and wild allegro164, introduced on the stage those delightful165 creatures of the richest imagination that ever teemed166 with wonders, the Oberon and Titania of Shakspeare. The pigmy majesty167 of the captain of the fairy band had no unapt representative in Miss Digges, whose modesty168 was not so great an intruder as to prevent her desire to present him in all his dignity, and she moved, conscious of the graceful169 turn of a pretty ankle, which, encircled with a string of pearls, and clothed in flesh-coloured silk, of the most cobweb texture170, rose above the crimson171 sandal. Her jewelled tiara, too, gave dignity to the frown with which the offended King of Shadows greeted his consort172, as each entered upon the scene at the head of their several attendants.
The restlessness of the children had been duly considered; and, therefore, their part of the exhibition had been contrived to represent dumb show, rather than a stationary173 picture. The little Queen of Elves was not inferior in action to her moody174 lord, and repaid, with a look of female impatience and scorn, the haughty175 air which seemed to express his sullen30 greeting,
“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.”
The other children were, as usual, some clever and forward, some loutish176 and awkward enough; but the gambols177 of childhood are sure to receive applause, paid, perhaps, with a mixture of pity and envy, by those in advanced life; and besides, there were in the company several fond papas and mammas, whose clamorous approbation67, though given apparently178 to the whole performers, was especially dedicated179 in their hearts to their own little Jackies and Marias — for Mary, though the prettiest and most classical of Scottish names, is now unknown in the land. The elves, therefore, played their frolics, danced a measure, and vanished with good approbation.
The anti-mask, as it may be called, of Bottom, and his company of actors, next appeared on the stage, and a thunder of applause received the young Earl, who had, with infinite taste and dexterity180, transformed himself into the similitude of an Athenian clown; observing the Grecian costume, yet so judiciously181 discriminated182 from the dress of the higher characters, as at once to fix the character of a thick-skinned mechanic on the wearer. Touchwood, in particular, was loud in his approbation, from which the correctness of the costume must be inferred; for that honest gentleman, like many other critics, was indeed not very much distinguished for good taste, but had a capital memory for petty matters of fact; and, while the most impressive look or gesture of an actor might have failed to interest him, would have censured183 most severely184 the fashion of a sleeve, or the colour of a shoe-tie.
But the Earl of Etherington’s merits were not confined to his external appearance; for, had his better fortunes failed him, his deserts, like those of Hamlet, might have got him a fellowship in a cry of players. He presented, though in dumb show, the pragmatic conceit of Bottom, to the infinite amusement of all present, especially of those who were well acquainted with the original; and when he was “translated” by Puck, he bore the ass’s head, his newly-acquired dignity, with an appearance of conscious greatness, which made the metamorphosis, though in itself sufficiently farcical, irresistibly186 comic. He afterwards displayed the same humour in his frolics with the fairies, and the intercourse187 which he held with Messrs. Cobweb, Mustard-seed, Pease-blossom, and the rest of Titania’s cavaliers, who lost all command of their countenances188 at the gravity with which he invited them to afford him the luxury of scratching his hairy snout. Mowbray had also found a fitting representative for Puck in a queer-looking, small-eyed boy of the Aultoun of St. Ronan’s, with large ears projecting from his head like turrets189 from a Gothic building. This exotic animal personified the merry and mocking spirit of Hobgoblin with considerable power, so that the group bore some resemblance to the well-known and exquisite190 delineation191 of Puck by Sir Joshua, in the select collection of the Bard192 of Memory. It was, however, the ruin of the St. Ronan’s Robin193 Goodfellow, who did no good afterwards — “gaed an ill gate,” as Meg Dods said, and “took on” with a party of strolling players.
The entertainment closed with a grand parade of all the characters that had appeared, during which Mowbray concluded that the young lord himself, unremarked, might have time enough to examine the outward form, at least, of his sister Clara, whom, in the pride of his heart, he could not help considering superior in beauty, dressed as she now was, with every advantage of art, even to the brilliant Amazon, Lady Binks. It is true, Mowbray was not a man to give preference to the intellectual expression of poor Clara’s features over the sultana-like beauty of the haughty dame, which promised to an admirer all the vicissitudes194 that can be expressed by a countenance lovely in every change, and changing as often as an ardent and impetuous disposition195, unused to constraint196, and despising admonition, should please to dictate197. Yet, to do him justice, though his preference was perhaps dictated198 more by fraternal partiality than by purity of taste, he certainly, on the present occasion, felt the full extent of Clara’s superiority; and there was a proud smile on his lip, as, at the conclusion of the divertisement, he asked the Earl how he had been pleased. The rest of the performers had separated, and the young lord remained on the stage, employed in disembarrassing himself of his awkward visor, when Mowbray put this question, to which, though general in terms, he naturally gave a particular meaning.
“I could wear my ass’s head for ever,” he said, “on condition my eyes were to be so delightfully199 employed as they have been during the last scene. — Mowbray, your sister is an angel!”
“Have a care that that headpiece of yours has not perverted200 your taste, my lord,” said Mowbray. “But why did you wear that disguise on your last appearance? You should, I think, have been uncovered.”
“I am ashamed to answer you,” said the Earl; “but truth is, first impressions are of consequence, and I thought I might do as wisely not to appear before your sister, for the first time, in the character of Bully201 Bottom.”
“Then you change your dress, my lord, for dinner, if we call our luncheon202 by that name?” said Mowbray.
“I am going to my room this instant for that very purpose,” replied the Earl.
“And I,” said Mowbray, “must step in front, and dismiss the audience; for I see they are sitting gaping203 there, waiting for another scene.”
They parted upon this; and Mowbray, as Duke Theseus, stepped before the screen, and announcing the conclusion of the dramatic pictures which they had had the honour to present before the worshipful company, thanked the spectators for the very favourable reception which they had afforded; and intimated to them, that if they could amuse themselves by strolling for an hour among the gardens, a bell would summon to the house at the expiry of that time, when some refreshments204 would wait their acceptance. This annunciation was received with the applause due to the Amphitryon ou l’on dine; and the guests, arising from before the temporary theatre, dispersed205 through the gardens, which were of some extent, to seek for or create amusement to themselves. The music greatly aided them in this last purpose, and it was not long ere a dozen of couples and upwards206, were “tripping it on the light fantastic toe,” (I love a phrase that is not hackneyed,) to the tune of Monymusk.
Others strolled through the grounds, meeting some quaint185 disguise at the end of every verdant207 alley208, and communicating to others the surprise and amusement which they themselves were receiving. The scene, from the variety of dresses, the freedom which it gave to the display of humour amongst such as possessed209 any, and the general disposition to give and receive pleasure, rendered the little masquerade more entertaining than others of the kind for which more ample and magnificent preparations have been made. There was also a singular and pleasing contrast between the fantastic figures who wandered through the gardens, and the quiet scene itself, to which the old clipt hedges, the formal distribution of the ground, and the antiquated210 appearance of one or two fountains and artificial cascades211, in which the naiads had been for the nonce compelled to resume their ancient frolics, gave an appearance of unusual simplicity212 and seclusion213, and which seemed rather to belong to the last than to the present generation.
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1
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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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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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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extemporaneous
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| adj.即席的，一时的 | |
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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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enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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presenter
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| n.（电视、广播的）主持人，赠与者 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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placebo
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| n.安慰剂；宽慰话 | |
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humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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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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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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lucre
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| n.金钱，财富 | |
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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101
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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102
meretricious
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| adj.华而不实的，俗艳的 | |
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103
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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104
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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105
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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106
appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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107
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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108
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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109
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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111
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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113
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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114
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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115
commemorating
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
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116
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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117
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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118
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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119
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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120
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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121
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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122
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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123
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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124
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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125
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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126
adagio
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| adj.缓慢的；n.柔板；慢板；adv.缓慢地 | |
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127
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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128
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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129
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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130
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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131
minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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132
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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133
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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134
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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135
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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136
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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137
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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138
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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139
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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140
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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141
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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142
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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143
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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144
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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145
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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146
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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147
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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149
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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150
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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151
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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152
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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153
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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154
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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155
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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156
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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157
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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158
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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159
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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160
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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161
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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162
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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163
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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164
allegro
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| adj. 快速而活泼的；n.快板；adv.活泼地 | |
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165
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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166
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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167
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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168
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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169
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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170
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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171
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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172
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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173
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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174
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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175
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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176
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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177
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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178
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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179
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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180
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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181
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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182
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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183
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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184
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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185
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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186
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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187
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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188
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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189
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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190
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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191
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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192
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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193
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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194
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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195
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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196
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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197
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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198
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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199
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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200
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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201
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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202
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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203
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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204
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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205
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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206
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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207
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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208
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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209
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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210
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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211
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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212
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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213
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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