These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond abhorrence4 of all useful and industrious5 employment; and they have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals7, and make hackneyed theatrical8 jokes on all passers-by.
Nothing is more traditional and legitimate9 than the stage. Old scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting11, and old jokes, are handed down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.
While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one in particular who appeared to be the oracle12. He was a weather-beaten veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals13, Roman senators, and walking noblemen.
“There’s something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me,” said Buckthorne. He looked a little closer. “I cannot be mistaken,” added he, “that must be my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic14 hero of the strolling company.”
It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from long intimacy15, had acquired the symmetry and robustness16 of a beer-barrel. He wore a pair of dingy17 white stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado to reach his waistcoat; a great quantity of dirty cravat18; and a pair of old russet-colored tragedy boots.
When his companions had dispersed19, Buckthorne drew him aside and made Himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam associate “little gentleman Jack20.” Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk over old times; and in the course of a little while we were put in possession of his history in brief.
He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven from it so abruptly21. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown into confusion. Every one aspired22 to the crown; every one was for taking the lead; and the manager’s widow, although a tragedy queen, and a brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly23 impossible to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous24 rascallions.
Upon this hint I spoke25, said Flimsey—I stepped forward, and offered my services in the most effectual way. They were accepted. In a week’s time I married the widow and succeeded to the throne. “The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth26 the marriage table,” as Hamlet says. But the ghost of my predecessor27 never haunted me; and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers29, and all the stage trappings and trumpery30, not omitting the widow, without the least molestation31.
I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was pretty strong And attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury32. We carried off the palm from all the rival shows at country fairs; and I assure you we have even drawn33 full houses, and being applauded by the critics at Bartlemy fair itself, though we had Astley’s troupe34, the Irish giant, and “the death of Nelson” in wax-work to contend against.
I soon began to experience, however, the cares of command. I discovered that there were cabals35 breaking out in the company, headed by the clown, who you may recollect36 was a terribly peevish38, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do without him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. His very shape was comic, for he had to turn his back upon the audience and all the ladies were ready to die with laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. He would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then come behind the scenes and fret39 and fume40 and play the very devil. I excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that comic actors are a little prone41 to this infirmity of temper.
I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle with; which was, the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have it, she took it into her head to be very fond of me, and became intolerably jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the company, and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even when my part required it. I have known her to reduce a fine lady to tatters, “to very rags,” as Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses in the wardrobe; merely because she saw me kiss her at the side scenes;—though I give you my honor it was done merely by way of rehearsal6.
This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking43 to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they are indispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres. But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head there’s no use in talking of interest or anything else. Egad, sirs, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger28 on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest.
I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering the weakness of my flesh and the violence of my rib37. I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse44 was continually ferreting out some new intrigue45 and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him.
At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled46 in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get on a par3 with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here was an opportunity not to be neglected. I concluded an agreement with the proprietors47, and in a few days opened the theatre with great eclát.
Behold48 me now at the summit of my ambition, “the high top-gallant of my joy,” as Thomas says. No longer a chieftain of a wandering tribe, but the monarch49 of a legitimate throne—and entitled to call even the great potentates50 of Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousin.
You no doubt think my happiness complete. Alas51, sir! I was one of the Most uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not tried, the miseries52 of a manager; but above all, of a country management—no one can conceive the contentions53 and quarrels within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without.
I was pestered54 with the bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested55 my green-room, and played the mischief56 among my actresses. But there was no shaking them off. It would have been ruin to affront57 them; for, though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerous enemies. Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, who were continually tormenting58 me with advice, and getting into a passion if I would not take it:—especially the village doctor and the village attorney; who had both been to London occasionally, and knew what acting59 should be.
I had also to manage as arrant60 a crew of scapegraces as were ever collected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been obliged to combine my original troupe with some of the former troupe of the theatre, who were favorites with the public. Here was a mixture that produced perpetual ferment61. They were all the time either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I scarcely knew which mood was least troublesome. If they quarrelled, everything went wrong; and if they were friends, they were continually playing off some confounded prank62 upon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among them the character of an easy, good natured fellow, the worst character that a manager can possess.
Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is nothing so Vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes63 and pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished64 them well enough, it is true, while I was merely one of the company, but as manager I found them detestable. They were incessantly65 bringing some disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern66 frolics, and their pranks67 about the country town. All my lectures upon the importance of keeping up the dignity of the profession, and the respectability of the company were in vain. The villains68 could not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man in station. They even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. I have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors had hid away the breeches of Rosalind, and have known Hamlet stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful consequences of a manager’s getting a character for good nature.
I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down starring, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful69 influences, keep me from that of a London star. A first-rate actress going the rounds of the country theatres, is as bad as a blazing comet, whisking about the heavens, and shaking fire, and plagues, and discords70 from its tail.
The moment one of these “heavenly bodies” appeared on my horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by provincial71 dandies, copper-washed counterfeits72 of Bond street loungers; who are always proud to be in the train of an actress from town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to me when some random73 young nobleman would come in pursuit of the bait, and awe74 all this small fry to a distance. I have always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman than with the dandy of a country town.
And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and my managerial authority from the visits of these great London actors. Sir, I was no longer master of myself or my throne. I was hectored and lectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on my own stage. There is no tyrant75 so absolute and capricious as a London star at a country theatre.
I dreaded77 the sight of all of them; and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of having the public clamorous78 against me. They drew full houses, and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They were absolute tape-worms to my little theatre; the more it took in, the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an exhausted79 public, empty benches, and a score or two of affronts80 to settle among the townsfolk, in consequence of misunderstandings about the taking of places.
But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career was patronage81. Oh, sir, of all things deliver me from the patronage of the great people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must know that this town, though small, was filled with feuds82, and parties, and great folks; being a busy little trading and manufacturing town. The mischief was that their greatness was of a kind not to be settled by reference to the court calendar, or college of heraldry. It was therefore the most quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, sir, but let me tell you there are no feuds more furious than the frontier feuds, which take place on these “debatable lands” of gentility. The most violent dispute that I ever knew in high life, was one that occurred at a country town, on a question of precedence between the ladies of a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer of needles.
At the town where I was situated83 there were perpetual altercations84 of the kind. The head manufacturer’s lady, for instance, was at daggers drawings with the head shopkeeper’s, and both were too rich and had too many friends to be treated lightly. The doctor’s and lawyer’s ladies held their heads still higher; but they in their turn were kept in check by the wife of a country banker, who kept her own carriage; while a masculine widow of cracked character, and second-hand85 fashion, who lived in a large house, and was in some way related to nobility, looked down upon them all. She had been exiled from the great world, but here she ruled absolute. To be sure her manners were not over-elegant, nor her fortune over-large; but then, sir, her blood—oh, her blood carried it all hollow, there was no withstanding a woman with such blood in her veins86.
After all, she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and assemblies, with some of the sturdy dames87 of the neighborhood, who stood upon their wealth and their reputations; but then she had two dashing daughters, who dressed as fine as dragons, and had as high blood as their mother, and seconded her in everything. So they carried their point with high heads, and every body hated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fantadlins.
Such was the state of the fashionable world in this self-important little town. Unluckily I was not as well acquainted with its politics as I should have been. I had found myself a stranger and in great perplexities during my first season; I determined88, therefore, to put myself under the patronage of some powerful name, and thus to take the field with the prejudices of the public in my favor. I cast round my thoughts for the purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs. Fantadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute sway in the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party slammed the box door the loudest at the theatre; had most beaux attending on them; and talked and laughed loudest during the performance; and then the Miss Fantadlins wore always more feathers and flowers than any other ladies; and used quizzing glasses incessantly. The first evening of my theatre’s reopening, therefore, was announced in flaring89 capitals on the play bills, “under the patronage of the Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin,”
Sir, the whole community flew to arms! The banker’s wife felt her Dignity grievously insulted at not having the preference; her husband being high bailiff, and the richest man in the place. She immediately issued invitations for a large party, for the night of the performance, and asked many a lady to it whom she never had noticed before. The fashionable world had long groaned90 under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a common cause against this new instance of assumption.—Presume to patronize the theatre! insufferable! Those, too, who had never before been noticed by the banker’s lady, were ready to enlist91 in any quarrel, for the honor of her acquaintance. All minor92 feuds were therefore forgotten. The doctor’s lady and the lawyer’s lady met together; and the manufacturer’s lady and the shopkeeper’s lady kissed each other, and all, headed by the banker’s lady, voted the theatre a bore, and determined to encourage nothing but the Indian Jugglers, and Mr. Walker’s Eidonianeon.
Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I little knew the mischief that was brewing93 against me. My box book remained blank. The evening arrived, but no audience. The music struck up to a tolerable pit and gallery, but no fashionables! I peeped anxiously from behind the curtain, but the time passed away; the play was retarded94 until pit and gallery became furious; and I had to raise the curtain, and play my greatest part in tragedy to “a beggarly account of empty boxes.”
It is true the Fantadlins came late, as was their custom, and entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red shawls; but they were evidently disconcerted at finding they had no one to admire and envy them, and were enraged95 at this glaring defection of their fashionable followers96. All the beau-monde were engaged at the banker’s lady’s rout97. They remained for some time in solitary98 and uncomfortable state, and though they had the theatre almost to themselves, yet, for the first time, they talked in whispers. They left the house at the end of the first piece, and I never saw them afterwards.
Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the patronage of the Fantadlin family. It became the vogue99 to abuse the theatre and declare the performers shocking. An equestrian100 troupe opened a circus in the town about the same time, and rose on my ruins. My house was deserted101; my actors grew discontented because they were ill paid; my door became a hammering-place for every bailiff in the county; and my wife became more and more shrewish and tormenting, the more I wanted comfort.
The establishment now became a scene of confusion and peculation102. I Was considered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every one to pluck at, as every one plunders103 a sinking ship. Day after day some of the troupe deserted, and like deserting soldiers, carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. In this manner my wardrobe took legs and walked away; my finery strolled all over the country; my swords and daggers glittered in every barn; until at last my tailor made “one fell swoop,” and carried off three dress coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-colored pantaloons.
This was the “be all and the end all” of my fortune. I no longer hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the order of the day, I’ll steal too. So I secretly gathered together the jewels of my wardrobe; packed up a hero’s dress in a handkerchief, slung104 it on the end of a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at dead of night—“the bell then beating one,”—leaving my queen and kingdom to the mercy of my rebellious105 subjects, and my merciless foes106, the bum-bailiffs.
Such, sir, was the “end of all my greatness.” I was heartily107 cured of All passion for governing, and returned once more into the ranks. I had for some time the usual run of an actor’s life. I played in various country theatres, at fairs, and in barns; sometimes hard pushed; sometimes flush, until on one occasion I came within an ace42 of making my fortune, and becoming one of the wonders of the age.
I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country barn, and Absolutely “out-Heroding Herod.” An agent of one of the great London theatres was present. He was on the lookout108 for something that might be got up as a prodigy109. The theatre, it seems, was in desperate condition—nothing but a miracle could save it. He pitched upon me for that miracle. I had a remarkable110 bluster111 in my style, and swagger in my gait, and having taken to drink a little during my troubles, my voice was somewhat cracked; so that it seemed like two voices run into one. The thought struck the agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder; as the restorer of natural and legitimate acting; as the only one who could understand and act Shakespeare rightly. He waited upon me the next morning, and opened his plan. I shrunk from it with becoming modesty112; for well as I thought of myself, I felt myself unworthy of such praise.
“‘Sblood, man!” said he, “no praise at all. You don’t imagine that I think you all this. I only want the public to think so. Nothing so easy as gulling113 the public if you only set up a prodigy. You need not try to act well, you must only act furiously. No matter what you do, or how you act, so that it be but odd and strange. We will have all the pit packed, and the newspapers hired. Whatever you do different from famous actors, it shall be insisted that you are right and they were wrong. If you rant10, it shall be pure passion; if you are vulgar, it shall be a touch of nature. Every one shall be prepared to fall into raptures114, and shout and yell, at certain points which you shall make. If you do but escape pelting115 the first night, your fortune and the fortune of the theatre is made.”
I set off for London, therefore, full of new hopes. I was to be the restorer of Shakespeare and nature, and the legitimate drama; my very swagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the standard of elocution. Alas, sir! my usual luck attended me. Before I arrived in the metropolis116, a rival wonder had appeared. A woman who could dance the slack rope, and run up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fire-works all round her. She was seized on by the management with avidity; she was the saving of the great national theatre for the season. Nothing was talked of but Madame Saqui’s fire-works and flame-colored pantaloons; and nature, Shakespeare, the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick were completely left in the lurch117.
However, as the manager was in honor bound to provide for me, he kept his word. It had been a turn-up of a die whether I should be Alexander the Great or Alexander the copper-smith; the latter carried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so I was put at the tail. In other words, I was enrolled among the number of what are called useful men; who, let me tell you, are the only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe from hisses118 and below the hope of applause. We fear not the success of rivals, nor dread76 the critic’s pen. So long as we get the words of our parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for. We have our own merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers; for every actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fashionable table with scraps119 and songs and theatrical slip-slop. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and admirers, with whom they likewise spout120 tragedy and talk slip-slop; and so down even to us; who have our friends and admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring121 apprentices122, who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the great.
I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devils who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and pampered123, and the next moment thumped124 over the head with the spoon. I smile, too, to see our leading actors, fretting125 themselves with envy and jealousy126 about a trumpery renown127, questionable128 in its quality and uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the bustle129 and importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who is harassing130 himself to death in the hopeless effort to please every body.
I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam managers, who, like myself, have wielded131 the sceptres of country theatres; and we have many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and the public. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed132 and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective reigns133; moralize over a tankard of ale, and laugh at the humbug134 of the great and little world; which, I take it, is the very essence of practical philosophy.
Thus end the anecdotes135 of Buckthorne and his friends. A few mornings after our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he bounced into my room before I was out of bed.
“Give me joy! give me joy!” said he, rubbing his hands with the utmost glee, “my great expectations are realized!”
I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry136. “My booby cousin is dead!” cried he, “may he rest in peace! He nearly broke his neck in a fall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck he lived long enough to make his will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling of retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of his own family or friends know how to enjoy such an estate. I’m off to the country to take possession. I’ve done with authorship.—That for the critics!” said he, snapping his fingers. “Come down to Doubting Castle when I get settled, and egad! I’ll give you a rouse.” So saying he shook me heartily by the hand and bounded off in high spirits.
A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was but a short time since that I received a letter written in the happiest of moods. He was getting the estate into fine order, everything went to his wishes, and what was more, he was married to Sacharissa: who, it seems, had always entertained an ardent137 though secret attachment138 for him, which he fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate.
“I find,” said he, “you are a little given to the sin of authorship which I renounce139. If the anecdotes I have given you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of them; but come down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll give you my whole London life over a social glass; and a rattling140 history it shall be about authors and reviewers.”
If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises, the Public shall be sure to hear of it.
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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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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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterly
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tempestuous
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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34
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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35
cabals
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| n.（政治）阴谋小集团，（尤指政治上的）阴谋( cabal的名词复数 ) | |
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36
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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37
rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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38
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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39
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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40
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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41
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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42
ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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43
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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44
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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45
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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46
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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47
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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48
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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49
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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50
potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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51
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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52
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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53
contentions
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| n.竞争( contention的名词复数 )；争夺；争论；论点 | |
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54
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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56
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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57
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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58
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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59
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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60
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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61
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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62
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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63
hoaxes
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| n.恶作剧，戏弄( hoax的名词复数 )v.开玩笑骗某人，戏弄某人( hoax的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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65
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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66
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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67
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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68
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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69
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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70
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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71
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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72
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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74
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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75
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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76
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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77
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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78
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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79
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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80
affronts
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| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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81
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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82
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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83
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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84
altercations
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| n.争辩，争吵( altercation的名词复数 ) | |
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85
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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86
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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87
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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88
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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89
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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90
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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91
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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92
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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93
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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94
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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95
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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96
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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97
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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98
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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99
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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100
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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101
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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102
peculation
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| n.侵吞公款[公物] | |
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103
plunders
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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105
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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106
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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107
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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108
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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109
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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110
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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111
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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112
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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113
gulling
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| v.欺骗某人( gull的现在分词 ) | |
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114
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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115
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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116
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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117
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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118
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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119
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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120
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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121
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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122
apprentices
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的名词复数 ) | |
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123
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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126
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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127
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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128
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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129
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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130
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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131
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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132
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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133
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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134
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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135
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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136
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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137
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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138
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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139
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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140
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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