We are ending our history, and yet poor Clive is but beginning the world. He has to earn the bread which he eats henceforth; and, as I saw his labours, his trials, and his disappointments, I could not but compare his calling with my own.
The drawbacks and penalties attendant upon our profession are taken into full account, as we well know, by literary men, and their friends. Our poverty, hardships, and disappointments are set forth1 with great emphasis, and often with too great truth by those who speak of us; but there are advantages belonging to our trade which are passed over, I think, by some of those who exercise it and describe it, and for which, in striking the balance of our accounts, we are not always duly thankful. We have no patron, so to speak — we sit in ante-chambers4 no more, waiting the present of a few guineas from my lord, in return for a fulsome5 dedication6. We sell our wares7 to the book-purveyor, between whom and us there is no greater obligation than between him and his paper-maker or printer. In the great towns in our country immense stores of books are provided for us, with librarians to class them, kind attendants to wait upon us, and comfortable appliances for study. We require scarce any capital wherewith to exercise our trade. What other so-called learned profession is equally fortunate? A doctor, for example, after carefully and expensively educating himself, must invest in house and furniture, horses, carriage, and menservants, before the public patient will think of calling him in. I am told that such gentlemen have to coax8 and wheedle9 dowagers, to humour hypochondriacs, to practise a score of little subsidiary arts in order to make that of healing profitable. How many many hundreds of pounds has a barrister to sink upon his stock-intrade before his returns are available? There are the costly10 charges of university education — the costly chambers in the Inn of Court — the clerk and his maintenance — the inevitable11 travels on circuit — certain expenses all to be defrayed before the possible client makes his appearance, and the chance of fame or competency arrives. The prizes are great, to be sure, in the law, but what a prodigious12 sum the lottery-ticket costs! If a man of letters cannot win, neither does he risk so much. Let us speak of our trade as we find it, and not be too eager in calling out for public compassion13.
The artists, for the most part, do not cry out their woes14 as loudly as some gentlemen of the literary fraternity, and yet I think the life of many of them is harder; their chances even more precarious15, and the conditions of their profession less independent and agreeable than ours. I have watched Smee, Esq., R.A., flattering and fawning16, and at the same time boasting and swaggering, poor fellow, in order to secure a sitter. I have listened to a Manchester magnate talking about fine arts before one of J. J.‘s pictures, assuming the airs of a painter, and laying down the most absurd laws respecting the art. I have seen poor Tomkins bowing a rich amateur through a private view, and noted17 the eager smiles on Tomkins’ face at the amateur’s slightest joke, the sickly twinkle of hope in his eyes as Amateur stopped before his own picture. I have been ushered18 by Chipstone’s black servant through hall after hall peopled with plaster gods and heroes, into Chipstone’s own magnificent studio, where he sat longing2 vainly for an order, and justly dreading19 his landlord’s call for the rent. And, seeing how severely20 these gentlemen were taxed in their profession, I have been grateful for my own more fortunate one, which necessitates21 cringing22 to no patron; which calls for no keeping up of appearances; and which requires no stock-intrade save the workman’s industry, his best ability, and a dozen sheets of paper.
Having to turn with all his might to his new profession, Clive Newcome, one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be restive23 at almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius for his art, and had acquired in his desultory24 way a very considerable skill. His drawing was better than his painting (an opinion which, were my friend present, he of course would utterly25 contradict); his designs and sketches26 were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends, presuming to judge of this artist’s qualifications, ventured to counsel him accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in the usual manner. We had in the first place to bully27 and browbeat28 Clive most fiercely, before he would take fitting lodgings29 for the execution of those designs which we had in view for him. “Why should I take expensive lodgings?” says Clive, slapping his fist on the table. “I am a pauper30, and can scarcely afford to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for drawing your portrait and Laura’s and the children? What the deuce does Warrington want with the effigy31 of his old mug? You don’t want them a bit — you only want to give me money. — It would be much more honest of me to take the money at once and own that I am a beggar; and I tell you what, Pen, the only money which I feel I come honestly by, is that which is paid me by a little printseller in Long Acre who buys my drawings, one with another, at fourteen shillings apiece, and out of whom I can earn pretty nearly two hundred a year. I am doing Coaches for him, sir, and Charges of Cavalry32; the public like the Mail Coaches best — on a dark paper — the horses and miles picked out white — yellow dust — cobalt distance, and the guard and coachman of course in vermilion. That’s what a gentleman can get his bread by — portraits, pooh! it’s disguised beggary, Crackthorpe, and a half-dozen men of his regiment33 came, like good fellows as they are, and sent me five pounds apiece for their heads, but I tell you I am ashamed to take the money.” Such used to be the tenor34 of Clive Newcome’s conversation as he strode up and down our room after dinner, pulling his moustache, and dashing his long yellow hair off his gaunt face.
When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which his friends counselled him to hang up his ensign, the dear old Colonel accompanied his son, parting with a sincere regret from our little ones at home, to whom he became greatly endeared during his visit to us, and who always hailed him when he came to see us with smiles and caresses35 and sweet infantile welcome. On that day when he went away, Laura went up and kissed him with tears in her eyes. “You know how long I have been wanting to do it,” this lady said to her husband. Indeed I cannot describe the behaviour of the old man during his stay with us, his gentle gratitude36, his sweet simplicity37 and kindness, his thoughtful courtesy. There was not a servant in our little household but was eager to wait upon him. Laura’s maid was as tender-hearted at his departure as her mistress. He was ailing38 for a short time, when our cook performed prodigies39 of puddings and jellies to suit his palate. The youth who held the offices of butler and valet in our establishment — a lazy and greedy youth whom Martha scolded in vain — would jump up and leave his supper to carry a message to our Colonel. My heart is full as I remember the kind words which he said to me at parting, and as I think that we were the means of giving a little comfort to that stricken and gentle soul.
Whilst the Colonel and his son stayed with us, letters of course passed between Clive and his family at Boulogne, but my wife remarked that the receipt of those letters appeared to give our friend but little pleasure. They were read in a minute, and he would toss them over to his father, or thrust them into his pocket with a gloomy face. “Don’t you see,” groans40 out Clive to me one evening, “that Rosa scarcely writes the letters, or if she does, that her mother is standing41 over her? That woman is the Nemesis42 of our life, Pen. How can I pay her off? Great God! how can I pay her off?” And so having spoken, his head fell between his hands, and as I watched him I saw a ghastly domestic picture before me of helpless pain, humiliating discord44, stupid tyranny.
What, I say again, are the so-called great ills of life compared to these small ones?
The Colonel accompanied Clive to the lodgings which we had found for the young artist, in a quarter not far removed from the old house in Fitzroy Square, where some happy years of his youth had been spent. When sitters came to Clive — as at first they did in some numbers, many of his early friends being anxious to do him a service — the old gentleman was extraordinarily45 cheered and comforted. We could see by his face that affairs were going on well at the studio. He showed us the rooms which Rosey and the boy were to occupy. He prattled46 to our children and their mother, who was never tired of hearing him, about his grandson. He filled up the future nursery with a hundred little knick-knacks of his own contriving47; and with wonderful cheap bargains, which he bought in his walks about Tottenham Court Road. He pasted a most elaborate book of prints and sketches for Boy. It was astonishing what notice Boy already took of pictures. He would have all the genius of his father. Would he had had a better grandfather than the foolish old man who had ruined all belonging to him!
However much they like each other, men in the London world see their friends but seldom. The place is so vast that even next door is distant; the calls of business, society, pleasure, so multifarious that mere48 friendship can get or give but an occasional shake of the hand in the hurried moments of passage. Men must live their lives; and are perforce selfish, but not unfriendly. At a great need you know where to look for your friend, and he that he is secure of you. So I went very little to Howland Street, where Clive now lived; very seldom to Lamb Court, where my dear old friend Warrington still sate49 in his old chambers, though our meetings were none the less cordial when they occurred, and our trust in one another always the same. Some folks say the world is heartless: he who says so either prates50 commonplaces (the most likely and charitable suggestion), or is heartless himself, or is most singular and unfortunate in having made no friends. Many such a reasonable mortal cannot have: our nature, I think, not sufficing for that sort of polygamy. How many persons would you have to deplore51 your death; or whose death would you wish to deplore? Could our hearts let in such a harem of dear friendships, the mere changes and recurrences52 of grief and mourning would be intolerable, and tax our lives beyond their value. In a word, we carry our own burthen in the world; push and struggle along on our own affairs; are pinched by our own shoes — though Heaven forbid we should not stop and forget ourselves sometimes, when a friend cries out in his distress53, or we can help a poor stricken wanderer in his way. As for good women — these, my worthy54 reader, are different from us — the nature of these is to love, and to do kind offices, and devise untiring charities:— so I would have you to know, that, though Mr. Pendennis was parcus suorum cultor et infrequens, Mrs. Laura found plenty of time to go from Westminster to Bloomsbury; and to pay visits to her Colonel and her Clive, both of whom she had got to love with all her heart again, now misfortune was on them; and both of whom returned her kindness with an affection blessing55 the bestower and the receiver; and making the husband proud and thankful whose wife had earned such a noble regard. What is the dearest praise of all to a man? his own — or that you should love those whom he loves? I see Laura Pendennis ever constant and tender and pure, ever ministering in her sacred office of kindness — bestowing56 love and followed by blessings57. Which would I have, think you; that priceless crown hymeneal, or the glory of a Tenth Edition?
Clive and his father had found not only a model friend in the lady above mentioned, but a perfect prize landlady58 in their happy lodgings. In her house, besides those apartments which Mr. Newcome had originally engaged, were rooms just sufficient to accommodate his wife, child, and servant, when they should come to him, with a very snug59 little upper chamber3 for the Colonel, close by Boy’s nursery, where he liked best to be. “And if there is not room for the Campaigner, as you call her,” says Mrs. Laura, with a shrug60 of her shoulders, “why, I am very sorry, but Clive must try and bear her absence as well as possible. After all, my dear Pen, you know he is married to Rosa and not to her mamma; and so, and so I think it will be quite best that they shall have their menage as before.”
The cheapness of the lodgings which the prize landlady let, the quantity of neat new furniture which she put in, the consultations61 which she had with my wife regarding these supplies, were quite singular to me. “Have you pawned62 your diamonds, you reckless little person, in order to supply all this upholstery?” “No, sir, I have not pawned my diamonds,” Mrs. Laura answers; and I was left to think (if I thought on the matter at all) that the landlady’s own benevolence64 had provided these good things for Clive. For the wife of Laura’s husband was perforce poor; and she asked me for no more money at this time than at any other.
At first, in spite of his grumbling65, Clive’s affairs looked so prosperous, and so many sitters came to him from amongst his old friends, that I was half inclined to believe with the Colonel and my wife, that he was a prodigious genius, and that his good fortune would go on increasing. Laura was for having Rosey return to her husband. Every wife ought to be with her husband. J. J. shook his head about the prosperity. “Let us see whether the Academy will have his pictures this year, and what a place they will give him,” said Ridley. To do him justice, Clive thought far more humbly66 of his compositions than Ridley did. Not a little touching67 was it to us, who had known the young men in former days, to see them in their changed positions. It was Ridley, whose genius and industry had put him in the rank of a patron — Ridley, the good industrious68 apprentice69, who had won the prize of his art — and not one of his many admirers saluted70 his talent and success with such a hearty71 recognition as Clive, whose generous soul knew no envy, and who always fired and kindled72 at the success of his friends.
When Mr. Clive used to go over to Boulogne from time to time to pay his dutiful visits to his wife, the Colonel did not accompany his son, but, during the latter’s absence, would dine with Mrs. Pendennis.
Though the preparations were complete in Howland Street, and Clive dutifully went over to Boulogne, Mrs. Pendennis remarked that he seemed still to hesitate about bringing his wife to London.
Upon this Mr. Pendennis observed that some gentlemen were not particularly anxious about the society of their wives, and that this pair were perhaps better apart. Upon which Mrs. Pendennis, drubbing on the ground with a little foot, said, “Nonsense, for shame, Arthur! How can you speak so flippantly? Did he not swear before Heaven to love and cherish her, never to leave her, sir? Is not his duty his duty, sir?” (a most emphatic73 stamp of the foot). “Is she not his for better, or for worse?”
“Including the Campaigner, my dear?” says Mr. P.
“Don’t laugh, sir! She must come to him. There is no room in Howland Street for Mrs. Mackenzie.”
“You artful scheming creature! We have some spare rooms. Suppose we ask Mrs. Mackenzie to come and live with us, my dear? and we could then have the benefit of the garrison74 anecdotes75, and mess jocularities of your favourite, Captain Goby.”
“I could never bear the horrid76 man!” cried Mrs. Pendennis. And how can I tell why she disliked him?
Everything being now ready for the reception of Clive’s little family, we counselled our friend to go over to Boulogne, and bring back his wife and child, and then to make some final stipulation77 with the Campaigner. He saw, as well as we, that the presence and tyranny of that fatal woman destroyed his father’s health and spirits — that the old man knew no peace or comfort in her neighbourhood, and was actually hastening to his grave under that dreadful and unremitting persecution78. Mrs. Mackenzie made Clive scarcely less wretched than his father — she governed his household — took away his weak wife’s allegiance and affection from him — and caused the wretchedness of every single person round about her. They ought to live apart. If she was too poor to subsist79 upon her widow’s pension, which, in truth, was but a very small pittance80, let Clive give up to her, say, the half of his wife’s income of one hundred pounds a year. His prospects81 and present means of earning money were such that he might afford to do without that portion of his income; at any rate, he and his father would be cheaply ransomed82 at that price from their imprisonment83 to this intolerable person. “Go, Clive,” said his counsellors, “and bring back your wife and child, and let us all be happy together.” For, you see, those advisers84 opined that if we had written over to Mrs. Newcome —“Come”— she would have come with the Campaigner in her suite85.
Vowing86 that he would behave like a man of courage — and we knew that Clive had shown himself to be such in two or three previous battles — Clive crossed the water to bring back his little Rosey. Our good Colonel agreed to dine at our house during the days of his son’s absence. I have said how beloved he was by young and old there — and he was kind enough to say afterwards, that no woman had made him so happy as Laura. We did not tell him — I know not from what reticence87 — that we had advised Clive to offer a bribe88 of fifty pounds a year to Mrs. Mackenzie; until about a fortnight after Clive’s absence, and a week after his return, when news came that poor old Mrs. Mason was dead at Newcome, whereupon we informed the Colonel that he had another pensioner89 now in the Campaigner.
Colonel Newcome was thankful that his dear old friend had gone out of the world in comfort and without pain. She had made a will long since, leaving all her goods and chattels90 to Thomas Newcome — but having no money to give, the Colonel handed over these to the old lady’s faithful attendant, Keziah.
Although many of the Colonel’s old friends had parted from him or quarrelled with him in consequence of the ill success of the B. B. C., there were two old ladies who yet remained faithful to him — Miss Cann, namely, and honest little Miss Honeyman of Brighton, who, when she heard of the return to London of her nephew and brother-inlaw, made a railway journey to the metropolis91 (being the first time she ever engaged in that kind of travelling), rustled92 into Clive’s apartments in Howland Street in her neatest silks, and looking not a day older than on that when we last beheld93 her; and after briskly scolding the young man for permitting his father to enter into money affairs — of which the poor dear Colonel was as ignorant as a baby — she gave them both to understand that she had a little sum at her banker’s at their disposal — and besought94 the Colonel to remember that her house was his, and that she should be proud and happy to receive him as soon and as often and for as long a time as he would honour her with his company. “Is not my house full of your presents”— cried the stout95 little old lady —“have I not reason to be grateful to all the Newcomes — yes, to all the Newcomes; — for Miss Ethel and her family have come to me every year for months, and I don’t quarrel with them, and I won’t, although you do, sir? Is not this shawl — are not these jewels that I wear,” she continued, pointing to those well-known ornaments96, “my dear Colonel’s gift? Did you not relieve my brother Charles in this country and procure97 for him his place in India? Yes, my dear friend — and though you have been imprudent in money matters, my obligations towards you, and my gratitude, and my affection are always the same.” Thus Miss Honeyman spoke43, with somewhat of a quivering voice at the end of her little oration98, but with exceeding state and dignity — for she believed that her investment of two hundred pounds in that unlucky B. B. C., which failed for half a million, was a sum of considerable importance, and gave her a right to express her opinion to the Managers.
Clive came back from Boulogne in a week, as we have said — but he came back without his wife, much to our alarm, and looked so exceedingly fierce and glum99 when we demanded the reason of his return without his family, that we saw wars and battles had taken place, and thought that in this last continental100 campaign the Campaigner had been too much for her friend.
The Colonel, to whom Clive communicated, though with us the poor lad held his tongue, told my wife what had happened:— not all the battles; which no doubt raged at breakfast, dinner, supper, during the week of Clive’s visit to Boulogne — but the upshot of these engagements. Rosey, not unwilling101 in her first private talk with her husband to come to England with him and the boy, showed herself irresolute102 on the second day at breakfast, when the fire was opened on both sides; cried at dinner when fierce assaults took place, in which Clive had the advantage; slept soundly, but besought him to be very firm, and met the enemy at breakfast with a quaking heart; cried all that day during which, pretty well without cease, the engagement lasted; and when Clive might have conquered and brought her off, but the weather was windy and the sea was rough, and he was pronounced a brute103 to venture on it with a wife in Rosey’s situation.
Behind that “situation” the widow shielded herself. She clung to her adored child, and from that bulwark104 discharged abuse and satire105 at Clive and his father. He could not rout106 her out of her position. Having had the advantage on the first two or three days, on the four last he was beaten, and lost ground in each action. Rosey found that in her situation she could not part from her darling mamma. The Campaigner for her part averred107 that she might be reduced to beggary; that she might be robbed of her last farthing and swindled and cheated; that she might see her daughter’s fortune flung away by unprincipled adventurers, and her blessed child left without even the comforts of life; but desert her in such a situation, she never would — no, never! Was not dear Rosa’s health already impaired108 by the various shocks which she had undergone? Did she not require every comfort, every attendance? Monster! ask the doctor! She would stay with her darling child in spite of insult and rudeness and vulgarity. (Rosey’s father was a King’s officer, not a Company’s officer, thank God!) She would stay as long at least as Rosey’s situation continued, at Boulogne, if not in London, but with her child. They might refuse to send her money, having robbed her of all her own, but she would pawn63 her gown off her back for her child. Whimpers from Rosey — cries of “Mamma, mamma, compose yourself,”— convulsive sobs109 — clenched110 knuckles111 — flashing eyes — embraces rapidly clutched — laughs — stamps — snorts — from the dishevelled Campaigner; grinding teeth — livid fury and repeated breakages of the third commandment by Clive — I can fancy the whole scene. He returned to London without his wife, and when she came she brought Mrs. Mackenzie with her.
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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noted
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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necessitates
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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desultory
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utterly
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sketches
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bully
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browbeat
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lodgings
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pauper
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effigy
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cavalry
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regiment
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tenor
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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simplicity
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ailing
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prodigies
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groans
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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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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44
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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45
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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46
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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47
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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50
prates
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| v.（古时用语）唠叨，啰唆( prate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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52
recurrences
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| n.复发，反复，重现( recurrence的名词复数 ) | |
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53
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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55
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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56
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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57
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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58
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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59
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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60
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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61
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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62
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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63
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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74
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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78
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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79
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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81
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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82
ransomed
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| 付赎金救人，赎金( ransom的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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84
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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85
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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86
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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87
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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88
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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89
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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90
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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92
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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94
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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96
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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98
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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99
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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100
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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101
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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102
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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103
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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104
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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105
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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106
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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107
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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108
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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110
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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