I had no more conversation with Miss Newcome that night, who had forgotten her curiosity about the habits of authors. When she had ended her talk with Miss Mackenzie, she devoted1 the rest of the evening to her uncle, Colonel Newcome; and concluded by saying, “And now you will come and ride with me tomorrow, uncle, won’t you?” which the Colonel faithfully promised to do. And she shook hands with Clive very kindly2: and with Rosey very frankly3, but as I thought with rather a patronising air: and she made a very stately bow to Mrs. Mackenzie, and so departed with her father and mother. Lady Kew had gone away earlier. Mrs. Mackenzie informed us afterwards that the Countess had gone to sleep after her dinner. If it was at Mrs. Mack’s story about the Governor’s ball at Tobago, and the quarrel for precedence between the Lord Bishop6’s lady, Mrs. Rotchet, and the Chief Justice’s wife, Lady Barwise, I should not be at all surprised.
A handsome fly carried off the ladies to Fitzroy Square, and the two worthy7 Indian gentlemen in their company; Clive and I walking, with the usual Havannah to light us home. And Clive remarked that he supposed there had been some difference between his father and the bankers: for they had not met for ever so many months before, and the Colonel always had looked very gloomy when his brothers were mentioned. “And I can’t help thinking,” says the astute8 youth, “that they fancied I was in love with Ethel (I know the Colonel would have liked me to make up to her), and that may have occasioned the row. Now, I suppose, they think I am engaged to Rosey. What the deuce are they in such a hurry to marry me for?”
Clive’s companion remarked, “that marriage was a laudable institution: and an honest attachment9 an excellent conservator of youthful morals.” On which Clive replied, “Why don’t you marry yourself?”
This it was justly suggested was no argument, but a merely personal allusion10 foreign to the question, which was, that marriage was laudable, etc.
Mr. Clive laughed. “Rosey is as good a little creature as can be,” he said. “She is never out of temper, though I fancy Mrs. Mackenzie tries her. I don’t think she is very wise: but she is uncommonly12 pretty, and her beauty grows on you. As for Ethel, anything so high and mighty13 I have never seen since I saw the French giantess. Going to Court, and about to parties every night where a parcel of young fools flatter her, has perfectly14 spoiled her. By Jove, how handsome she is! How she turns with her long neck, and looks at you from under those black eyebrows15! If I painted her hair, I think I should paint it almost blue, and then glaze16 over with lake. It is blue. And how finely her head is joined on to her shoulders!”— And he waves in the air an imaginary line with his cigar. “She would do for Judith, wouldn’t she? Or how grand she would look as Herodias’s daughter sweeping17 down a stair — in a great dress of cloth-of-gold like Paul Veronese — holding a charger before her with white arms, you know — with the muscles accented like that glorious Diana at Paris — a savage18 smile on her face and a ghastly solemn gory19 head on the dish. I see the picture, sir, I see the picture!” and he fell to curling his mustachios just like his brave old father.
I could not help laughing at the resemblance, and mentioning it to my friend. He broke, as was his wont20, into a fond eulogium of his sire, wished he could be like him — worked himself up into another state of excitement, in which he averred21 “that if his father wanted him to marry, he would marry that instant. And why not Rosey? She is a dear little thing. Or why not that splendid Miss Sherrick? What ahead! — a regular Titian! I was looking at the difference of their colour at Uncle Honeyman’s that day of the dejeuner. The shadows in Rosey’s face, sir, are all pearly-tinted. You ought to paint her in milk, sir!” cries the enthusiast22. “Have you ever remarked the grey round her eyes, and the sort of purple bloom of her cheek? Rubens could have done the colour: but I don’t somehow like to think of a young lady and that sensuous23 old Peter Paul in company. I look at her like a little wild-flower in a field — like a little child at play, sir. Pretty little tender nursling! If I see her passing in the street, I feel as if I would like some fellow to be rude to her, that I might have the pleasure of knocking him down. She is like a little songbird, sir — a tremulous, fluttering little linnet that you would take into your hand, pavidam quaerentem matrem, and smooth its little plumes24, and let it perch25 on your finger and sing. The Sherrick creates quite a different sentiment — the Sherrick is splendid, stately, sleepy ——”
“Stupid,” hints Clive’s companion.
“Stupid! Why not? Some women ought to be stupid. What you call dulness I call repose26. Give me a calm woman, a slow woman — a lazy, majestic27 woman. Show me a gracious virgin28 bearing a lily: not a leering giggler29 frisking a rattle30. A lively woman would be the death of me. Look at Mrs. Mack, perpetually nodding, winking31, grinning, throwing out signals which you are to be at the trouble to answer! I thought her delightful32 for three days; I declare I was in love with her — that is, as much as I can be after — but never mind that, I feel I shall never be really in love again. Why shouldn’t the Sherrick be stupid, I say? About great beauty there should always reign11 a silence. As you look at the great stars, the great ocean, any great scene of nature: you hush33, sir. You laugh at a pantomime, but you are still in a temple. When I saw the great Venus of the Louvre, I thought — Wert thou alive, O goddess, thou shouldst never open those lovely lips but to speak lowly, slowly: thou shouldst never descend34 from that pedestal but to walk stately to some near couch, and assume another attitude of beautiful calm. To be beautiful is enough. If a woman can do that well: who shall demand more from her? You don’t want a rose to sing. And I think wit is out of place where there’s great beauty; as I wouldn’t have a Queen to cut jokes on her throne. I say, Pendennis,”— here broke off the enthusiastic youth — “have you got another cigar? Shall we go into Finch’s, and have a game at billiards35? Just one — it’s quite early yet. Or shall we go in the Haunt? It’s Wednesday night, you know, when all the boys go.” We tap at a door in an old, old street in Soho: an old maid with a kind, comical face opens the door, and nods friendly, and says, “How do, sir? ain’t seen you this ever so long. How do, Mr. Noocom?” “Who’s here?” “Most everybody’s here.” We pass by a little snug36 bar, in which a trim elderly lady is seated by a great fire, on which boils an enormous kettle; while two gentlemen are attacking a cold saddle of mutton and West India pickles37: hard by Mrs. Nokes the landlady’s elbow — with mutual39 bows — we recognise Hickson, the sculptor40, and Morgan, the intrepid41 Irish chieftain, chief of the reporters of the Morning Press newspaper. We pass through a passage into a back room, and are received with a roar of welcome from a crowd of men, almost invisible in the smoke.
“I am right glad to see thee, boy!” cries a cheery voice (that will never troll a chorus more). “We spake anon of thy misfortune, gentle youth! and that thy warriors42 of Assaye have charged the Academy in vain. Mayhap thou frightenedst the courtly school with barbarous visages of grisly war. — Pendennis, thou dost wear a thirsty look! Resplendent swell43! untwine thy choker white, and I will either stand a glass of grog, or thou shalt pay the like for me, my lad, and tell us of the fashionable world.” Thus spake the brave old Tom Sarjent — also one of the Press, one of the old boys: a good old scholar with a good old library of books, who had taken his seat any time these forty years by the chimney-fire in this old Haunt: where painters, sculptors44, men of letters, actors, used to congregate45, passing pleasant hours in rough kindly communion, and many a day seeing the sunrise lighting46 the rosy47 street ere they parted, and Betsy put the useless lamp out and closed the hospitable48 gates of the Haunt.
The time is not very long since, though today is so changed. As we think of it, the kind familiar faces rise up, and we hear the pleasant voices and singing. There are they met, the honest hearty49 companions. In the days when the Haunt was a haunt, stage-coaches were not yet quite over. Casinos were not invented: clubs were rather rare luxuries: there were sanded floors, triangular50 sawdust-boxes, pipes, and tavern51 parlours. Young Smith and Brown, from the Temple, did not go from chambers52 to dine at the Polyanthus, or the Megatherium, off potage a la Bisque, turbot au gratin, cotelettes a la What-do-you-call-’em, and a pint53 of St. Emilion; but ordered their beefsteak and pint of port from the “plump head-waiter at the Cock;” did not disdain54 the pit of the theatre; and for a supper a homely55 refection at the tavern. How delightful are the suppers in Charles Lamb to read of even now! — the cards — the punch — the candles to be snuffed — the social oysters56 — the modest cheer! Whoever snuffs a candle now? What man has a domestic supper whose dinner-hour is eight o’clock? Those little meetings, in the memory of many of us yet, are gone quite away into the past. Five-and-twenty years ago is a hundred years off — so much has our social life changed in those five lustres. James Boswell himself, were he to revisit London, would scarce venture to enter a tavern. He would find scarce a respectable companion to enter its doors with him. It is an institution as extinct as a hackney-coach. Many a grown man who peruses57 this historic page has never seen such a vehicle, and only heard of rum-punch as a drink which his ancestors used to tipple58.
Cheery old Tom Sarjent is surrounded at the Haunt by a dozen of kind boon59 companions. They toil60 all day at their avocations61 of art, or letters, or law, and here meet for a harmless night’s recreation and converse62. They talk of literature, or politics, or pictures, or plays; socially banter63 one another over their cheap cups: sing brave old songs sometimes when they are especially jolly kindly ballads64 in praise of love and wine; famous maritime65 ditties in honour of Old England. I fancy I hear Jack66 Brent’s noble voice rolling out the sad, generous refrain of “The Deserter,” “Then for that reason and for a season we will be merry before we go,” or Michael Percy’s clear tenor67 carolling the Irish chorus of “What’s that to any one, whether or no!” or Mark Wilder shouting his bottle-song of “Garryowen na gloria.” These songs were regarded with affection by the brave old frequenters of the Haunt. A gentleman’s property in a song was considered sacred. It was respectfully asked for: it was heard with the more pleasure for being old. Honest Tom Sarjent! how the times have changed since we saw thee! I believe the present chief of the reporters of the newspaper (which responsible office Tom filled) goes to Parliament in his brougham, and dines with the Ministers of the Crown.
Around Tom are seated grave Royal Academicians, rising gay Associates; writers of other journals besides the Pall68 Mall Gazette; a barrister maybe, whose name will be famous some day: a hewer of marble perhaps: a surgeon whose patients have not come yet; and one or two men about town who like this queer assembly better than haunts much more splendid. Captain Shandon has been here, and his jokes are preserved in the tradition of the place. Owlet, the philosopher, came once and tried, as his wont is, to lecture; but his metaphysics were beaten down by a storm of banter. Slatter, who gave himself such airs because he wrote in the ——— Review, tried to air himself at the Haunt, but was choked by the smoke, and silenced by the unanimous pooh-poohing of the assembly. Dick Walker, who rebelled secretly at Sarjent’s authority, once thought to give himself consequence by bringing a young lord from the Blue Posts, but he was so unmercifully “chaffed” by Tom, that even the young lord laughed at him. His lordship has been heard to say he had been taken to a monsus queeah place, queeah set of folks, in a tap somewhere, though he went away quite delighted with Tom’s affability, but he never came again. He could not find the place, probably. You might pass the Haunt in the daytime, and not know it in the least. “I believe,” said Charley Ormond (A.R.A. he was then)—“I believe in the day there’s no such place at all: and when Betsy turns the gas off at the door-lamp as we go away, the whole thing vanishes: the door, the house, the bar, the Haunt, Betsy, the beer-boy, Mrs. Nokes and all.” It has vanished: it is to be found no more: neither by night nor by day — unless the ghosts of good fellows still haunt it.
As the genial69 talk and glass go round, and after Clive and his friend have modestly answered the various queries70 put to them by good old Tom Sarjent, the acknowledged Praeses of the assembly and Sachem of this venerable wigwam, the door opens and another well-known figure is recognised with shouts as it emerges through the smoke. “Bayham, all hail!” says Tom. “Frederick, I am right glad to see thee!”
Bayham says he is disturbed in spirit, and calls for a pint of beer to console him.
“Hast thou flown far, thou restless bird of night?” asks Father Tom, who loves speaking in blank verses.
“I have come from Cursitor Street,” says Bayham, in a low groan72. “I have just been to see a poor devil in quod there. Is that you, Pendennis? You know the man — Charles Honeyman.”
“What!” cries Clive, starting up.
“O my prophetic soul, my uncle!” growls73 Bayham. “I did not see the young one; but ’tis true.”
The reader is aware that more than the three years have elapsed, of which time the preceding pages contain the harmless chronicle; and while Thomas Newcome’s leave has been running out and Clive’s mustachios growing, the fate of other persons connected with our story has also had its development, and their fortune has experienced its natural progress, its increase or decay. Our tale, such as it has hitherto been arranged, has passed leisurely74 in scenes wherein the present tense is perforce adopted; the writer acting75 as chorus to the drama, and occasionally explaining, by hints or more open statements, what has occurred during the intervals76 of the acts; and how it happens that the performers are in such or such a posture77. In the modern theatre, as the play-going critic knows, the explanatory personage is usually of quite a third-rate order. He is the two walking-gentlemen friends of Sir Harry78 Courtly, who welcome the young baronet to London, and discourse79 about the niggardliness80 of Harry’s old uncle, the Nabob; and the depth of Courtly’s passion for Lady Annabel the premiere amoureuse. He is the confidant in white linen81 to the heroine in white satin. He is “Tom, you rascal,” the valet or tiger, more or less impudent82 and acute — that well-known menial in top-boots and a livery frock with red cuffs83 and collar, whom Sir Harry always retains in his service, addresses with scurrilous84 familiarity, and pays so irregularly: or he is Lucetta, Lady Annabel’s waiting-maid, who carries the billets-doux and peeps into them; knows all about the family affairs; pops the lover under the sofa; and sings a comic song between the scenes. Our business now is to enter into Charles Honeyman’s privacy, to peer into the secrets of that reverend gentleman, and to tell what has happened to him during the past months, in which he has made fitful though graceful85 appearances on our scene.
While his nephew’s whiskers have been budding, and his brother-inlaw has been spending his money and leave, Mr. Honeyman’s hopes have been withering86, his sermons growing stale, his once blooming popularity drooping87 and running to seed. Many causes have contributed to bring him to his present melancholy88 strait. When you go to Lady Whittlesea’s Chapel89 now, it is by no means crowded. Gaps are in the pews: there is not the least difficulty in getting a snug place near the pulpit, whence the preacher can look over his pocket-handkerchief and see Lord Dozeley no more: his lordship has long gone to sleep elsewhere and a host of the fashionable faithful have migrated too. The incumbent90 can no more cast his fine eyes upon the French bonnets92 of the female aristocracy and see some of the loveliest faces in Mayfair regarding his with expressions of admiration93. Actual dowdy94 tradesmen of the neighbourhood are seated with their families in the aisles95: Ridley and his wife and son have one of the very best seats. To be sure Ridley looks like a nobleman, with his large waistcoat, bald head, and gilt96 book: J. J. has a fine head; but Mrs. Ridley! cook and housekeeper97 is written on her round face. The music is by no means of its former good quality. That rebellious98 and ill-conditioned basso Bellew has seceded99, and seduced100 the four best singing boys, who now perform glees at the Cave of Harmony. Honeyman has a right to speak of persecution101, and to compare himself to a hermit102 in so far that he preaches in a desert. Once, like another hermit, St. Hierome, he used to be visited by lions. None such come to him now. Such lions as frequent the clergy103 are gone off to lick the feet of other ecclesiastics104. They are weary of poor Honeyman’s old sermons.
Rivals have sprung up in the course of these three years — have sprung up round about Honeyman and carried his flock into their folds. We know how such simple animals will leap one after another, and that it is the sheepish way. Perhaps a new pastor105 has come to the church of St. Jacob’s hard by — bold, resolute106, bright, clear, a scholar and no pedant107: his manly108 voice is thrilling in their ears, he speaks of life and conduct, of practice as well as faith; and crowds of the most polite and most intelligent, and best informed, and best dressed, and most selfish people in the world come and hear him twice at least. There are so many well-informed and well-dressed etc. etc. people in the world that the succession of them keeps St. Jacob’s full for a year or more. Then, it may be, a bawling109 quack110, who has neither knowledge, nor scholarship, nor charity, but who frightens the public with denunciations and rouses them with the energy of his wrath111, succeeds in bringing them together for a while till they tire of his din4 and curses. Meanwhile the good quiet old churches round about ring their accustomed bell: open their Sabbath gates: receive their tranquil112 congregations and sober priest, who has been busy all the week, at schools and sick-beds, with watchful113 teaching, gentle counsel, and silent alms.
Though we saw Honeyman but seldom, for his company was not altogether amusing, and his affectation, when one became acquainted with it, very tiresome114 to witness, Fred Bayham, from his garret at Mrs. Ridley’s, kept constant watch over the curate, and told us of his proceedings115 from time to time. When we heard the melancholy news first announced, of course the intelligence damped the gaiety of Clive and his companion; and F. B., conducted all the affairs of life with great gravity, telling Tom Sarjent that he had news of importance for our private ear, Tom with still more gravity than F. B.‘s, said, “Go, my children, you had best discuss this topic in a separate room, apart from the din and fun of a convivial116 assembly;” and ringing the bell he bade Betsy bring him another glass of rum-and-water, and one for Mr. Desborough, to be charged to him.
We adjourned117 to another parlour then, where gas was lighted up: and F. B. over a pint of beer narrated118 poor Honeyman’s mishap119. “Saving your presence, Clive,” said Bayham, “and with every regard for the youthful bloom of your young heart’s affections, your uncle Charles Honeyman, sir, is a bad lot. I have known him these twenty years, when I was at his father’s as a private tutor. Old Miss Honeyman is one of those cards which we call trumps120 — so was old Honeyman a trump121; but Charles and his sister ——”
I stamped on F. B.‘s foot under the table. He seemed to have forgotten that he was about to speak of Clive’s mother.
“Hem71! of your poor mother, I— hem — I may say vidi tantum. I scarcely knew her. She married very young: as I was when she left Borhambury. But Charles exhibited his character at a very early age — and it was not a charming one — no, by no means a model of virtue122. He always had a genius for running into debt. He borrowed from every one of the pupils — I don’t know how he spent it except in hardbake and alycompaine — and even from old Nosey’s groom123 — pardon me, we used to call your grandfather by that playful epithet124 (boys will be boys, you know) — even from the doctor’s groom he took money, and I recollect125 thrashing Charles Honeyman for that disgraceful action.
“At college, without any particular show, he was always in debt and difficulties. Take warning by him, dear youth! By him and by me, if you like. See me — me, F. Bayham, descended126 from the ancient kings that long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, dodge127 down a street to get out of sight of a boot-shop, and my colossal128 frame tremble if a chap puts his hand on my shoulder, as you did, Pendennis, the other day in the Strand129, when I thought a straw might have knocked me down! I have had my errors, Clive. I know ’em. I’ll take another pint of beer, if you please. Betsy, has Mrs. Nokes any cold meat in the bar? and an accustomed pickle38? Ha! Give her my compliments, and say F. B. is hungry. I resume my tale. Faults F. B. has, and knows it. Humbug130 he may have been sometimes; but I’m not such a complete humbug as Honeyman.”
Clive did not know how to look at this character of his relative, but Clive’s companion burst into a fit of laughter, at which F. B. nodded gravely, and resumed his narrative131. “I don’t know how much money he has had from your governor, but this I can say, the half of it would make F. B. a happy man. I don’t know out of how much the reverend party has nobbled his poor old sister at Brighton. He has mortgaged his chapel to Sherrick, I suppose you know, who is master of it, and could turn him out any day. I don’t think Sherrick is a bad fellow. I think he’s a good fellow; I have known him do many a good turn to a chap in misfortune. He wants to get into society: what more natural? That was why you were asked to meet him the other day, and why he asked you to dinner. I hope you had a good one. I wish he’d ask me.
“Then Moss132 has got his bills, and Moss’s brother-inlaw in Cursitor Street has taken possession of his revered133 person. He’s very welcome. One Jew has the chapel, another Hebrew has the clergyman. It’s singular, ain’t it? Sherrick might turn Lady Whittlesea into a synagogue and have the Chief Rabbi into the pulpit, where my uncle the Bishop has given out the text.
“The shares of that concern ain’t at a premium134. I have had immense fun with Sherrick about it. I like the Hebrew, sir. He maddens with rage when F. B. goes and asks him whether any more pews are let overhead. Honeyman begged and borrowed in order to buy out the last man. I remember when the speculation135 was famous, when all the boxes (I mean the pews) were taken for the season, and you couldn’t get a place, come ever so early. Then Honeyman was spoilt, and gave his sermons over and over again. People got sick of seeing the old humbug cry, the old crocodile! Then we tried the musical dodge. F. B. came forward, sir, there. That was a coup136: I did it, sir. Bellew wouldn’t have sung for any man but me — and for two-and-twenty months I kept him as sober as Father Mathew. Then Honeyman didn’t pay him: there was a row in the sacred building, and Bellew retired137. Then Sherrick must meddle138 in it. And having heard a chap out Hampstead way who Sherrick thought would do, Honeyman was forced to engage him, regardless of expense. You recollect the fellow, sir? The Reverend Simeon Rawkins, the lowest of the Low Church, sir — a red-haired dumpy man, who gasped139 at his h’s and spoke140 with a Lancashire twang — he’d no more do for Mayfair than Grimaldi for Macbeth. He and Honeyman used to fight like cat and dog in the vestry: and he drove away a third part of the congregation. He was an honest man and an able man too, though not a sound Churchman” (F. B. said this with a very edifying141 gravity): “I told Sherrick this the very day I heard him. And if he had spoken to me on the subject I might have saved him a pretty penny — a precious deal more than the paltry142 sum which he and I had a quarrel about at that time — a matter of business, sir — a pecuniary143 difference about a small three months’ thing which caused a temporary estrangement144 between us. As for Honeyman, he used to cry about it. Your uncle is great in the lachrymatory line, Clive Newcome. He used to go with tears in his eyes to Sherrick, and implore145 him not to have Rawkins, but he would. And I must say for poor Charles that the failure of Lady Whittlesea’s has not been altogether Charles’s fault; and that Sherrick has kicked down that property.
“Well, then, sir, poor Charles thought to make it all right by marrying Mrs. Brumby; — and she was very fond of him and the thing was all but done, in spite of her sons, who were in a rage as you may fancy. But Charley, sir, has such a propensity146 for humbug that he will tell lies when there is no earthly good in lying. He represented his chapel at twelve hundred a year, his private means as so-and-so; and when he came to book up with Briggs the lawyer, Mrs. Brumby’s brother, it was found that he lied and prevaricated147 so, that the widow in actual disgust would have nothing more to do with him. She was a good woman of business, and managed the hat-shop for nine years, whilst poor Brumby was at Dr. Tokelys. A first-rate shop it was, too. I introduced Charles to it. My uncle the Bishop had his shovels148 there: and they used for a considerable period to cover this humble149 roof with tiles,” said F. B., tapping his capacious forehead; “I am sure he might have had Brumby,” he added, in his melancholy tones, “but for those unlucky lies. She didn’t want money. She had plenty. She longed to get into society, and was bent91 on marrying a gentleman.
“But what I can’t pardon in Honeyman is the way in which he has done poor old Ridley and his wife. I took him there, you know, thinking they would send their bills in once a month: that he was doing a good business: in fact, that I had put ’em into a good thing. And the fellow has told me a score of times that he and the Ridleys were all right. But he has not only not paid his lodgings150, but he has had money of them: he has given dinners: he has made Ridley pay for wine. He has kept paying lodgers151 out of the house, and he tells me all this with a burst of tears, when he sent for me to Lazarus’s to-night, and I went to him, sir, because he was in distress152 — went into the lion’s den5, sir!” says F. B., looking round nobly. “I don’t know how much he owes them: because of course you know the sum he mentions ain’t the right one. He never does tell the truth — does Charles. But think of the pluck of those good Ridleys never saying a single word to F. B. about the debt! ‘We are poor, but we have saved some money and can lie out of it. And we think Mr. Honeyman will pay us,’ says Mrs. Ridley to me this very evening. And she thrilled my heart-strings, sir; and I took her in my arms, and kissed the old woman,” says Bayham; “and I rather astonished little Miss Cann, and young J. J., who came in with a picture under his arm. But she said she had kissed Master Frederick long before J. J. was born — and so she had: that good and faithful servant — and my emotion in embracing her was manly, sir, manly.”
Here old Betsy came in to say that the supper was a-waitin’ for Mr. Bayham and it was a-getting’ very late; and we left F. B. to his meal; and bidding adieu to Mrs. Nokes, Clive and I went each to our habitation.
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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7
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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15
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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18
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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19
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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20
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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21
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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22
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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23
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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24
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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25
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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26
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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27
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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28
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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29
giggler
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30
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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31
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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32
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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33
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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34
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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35
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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36
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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37
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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38
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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39
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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40
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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41
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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42
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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43
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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44
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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45
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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46
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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47
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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48
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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49
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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50
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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51
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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52
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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53
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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54
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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55
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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56
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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57
peruses
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的第三人称单数 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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58
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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59
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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60
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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61
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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62
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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63
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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64
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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65
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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66
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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67
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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68
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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69
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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70
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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71
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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72
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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73
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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74
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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75
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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76
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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77
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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78
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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79
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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80
niggardliness
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81
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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82
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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83
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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85
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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86
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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87
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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88
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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89
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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90
incumbent
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|
| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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91
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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92
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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93
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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94
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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95
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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96
gilt
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|
| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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97
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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98
rebellious
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|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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99
seceded
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| v.脱离，退出( secede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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101
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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102
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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103
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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104
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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105
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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106
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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107
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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108
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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109
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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110
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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111
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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112
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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113
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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114
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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115
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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116
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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117
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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120
trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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121
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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122
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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123
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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124
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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125
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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126
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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127
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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128
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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129
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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130
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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131
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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132
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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133
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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135
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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136
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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137
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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138
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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139
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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140
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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141
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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142
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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143
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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144
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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145
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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146
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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147
prevaricated
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| v.支吾( prevaricate的过去式和过去分词 )；搪塞；说谎 | |
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148
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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149
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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150
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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151
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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152
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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