A night of quiet and repose2 in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and an hour’s breathing of its fresh and fragrant3 air on the ensuing morning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue4 of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and fol lowers for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual6; for who could ever gaze on Mr. Pickwick’s beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.
‘And how,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers7 by the hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome —‘how is Tupman?’
Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy9 reflection.
‘Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, ‘how is our friend — he is not ill?’
‘No,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental10 eyelid11, like a rain-drop on a window-frame–‘no; he is not ill.’
Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.
‘Winkle — Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘what does this mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak — I conjure12, I entreat13 — nay14, I command you, speak.’
There was a solemnity — a dignity — in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be withstood.
‘He is gone,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Gone!’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Gone!’
‘Gone,’ repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
‘Where!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
‘We can only guess, from that communication,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass, taking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend’s hand. ‘Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered until night.’
Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend’s hand-writing, and these were its contents:—
‘MY DEAR PICKWICK — YOU, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties15 and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted16 by a lovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices17 of a villain18, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may.
‘Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be forwarded — supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that world, which has become odious19 to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity — forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter’s knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink beneath it. You may tell Rachael — Ah, that name! —
‘Tracy Tupman.’
‘We must leave this place directly,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded the note. ‘It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under any circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to follow in search of our friend.’ And so saying, he led the way to the house.
His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties20 to remain were pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible21. Business, he said, required his immediate22 attendance.
The old clergyman was present.
‘You are not really going?’ said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.
Mr. Pickwick reiterated23 his former determination.
‘Then here,’ said the old gentleman, ‘is a little manuscript, which I had hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on the death of a friend of mine — a medical man, engaged in our county lunatic asylum24 — among a variety of papers, which I had the option of destroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe that the manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend’s hand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac25, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more probable), read it, and judge for yourself.’
Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent27 old gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem28.
It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates29 of Manor30 Farm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed the young ladies — we were going to say, as if they were his own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite appropriate — hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted the rosy31 cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr. Trundle was even more hearty32 and prolonged; and it was not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the farm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft34 in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady’s handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a turn of the lane hid the old house from their sight.
At Muggleton they procured35 a conveyance36 to Rochester. By the time they reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently37 abated38 to admit of their making a very excellent early dinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to Cobham.
A delightful39 walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently rustled41 the thick foliage42, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs43. The ivy44 and the moss45 crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint46 and picturesque47 architecture of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas48 of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on every side; large herds49 of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and occasionally a startled hare scoured50 along the ground, with the speed of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of summer.
‘If this,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him —‘if this were the place to which all who are troubled with our friend’s complaint came, I fancy their old attachment51 to this world would very soon return.’
‘I think so too,’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘And really,’ added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour’s walking had brought them to the village, ‘really, for a misanthrope’s choice, this is one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever met with.’
In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their concurrence52; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean and commodious53 village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once inquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.
‘Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,’ said the landlady54.
A stout55 country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the three friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large number of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and embellished56 with a great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity57. At the upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl58, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world, as possible.
On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and fork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.
‘I did not expect to see you here,’ he said, as he grasped Mr. Pickwick’s hand. ‘It’s very kind.’
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the perspiration59 which the walk had engendered60. ‘Finish your dinner, and walk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.’
Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed himself with a copious61 draught62 of ale, waited his friend’s leisure. The dinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.
For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard to and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion’s resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for what language could convey to them that energy and force which their great originator’s manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired of retirement63, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent64 appeal which was made to him, matters not, he did NOT resist it at last.
‘It mattered little to him,’ he said, ‘where he dragged out the miserable65 remainder of his days; and since his friend laid so much stress upon his humble66 companionship, he was willing to share his adventures.’
Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands, and walked back to rejoin their companions.
It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal67 discovery, which has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every antiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the door of their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before they recollected69 the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick’s eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially70 buried in the ground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.
‘This is very strange,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘What is strange?’ inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object near him, but the right one. ‘God bless me, what’s the matter?’
This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment71, occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his knees before the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with his pocket-handkerchief.
‘There is an inscription72 here,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Is it possible?’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘I can discern,‘continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might, and gazing intently through his spectacles —‘I can discern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. ‘This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.’
He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.
‘Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?’ inquired the benevolent Mr. Pickwick.
‘No, I doan’t, Sir,’ replied the man civilly. ‘It was here long afore I was born, or any on us.’
Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly73 at his companion.
‘You — you — are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t mind selling it, now?’
‘Ah! but who’d buy it?’ inquired the man, with an expression of face which he probably meant to be very cunning.
‘I’ll give you ten shillings for it, at once,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you would take it up for me.’
The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little stone having been raised with one wrench74 of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by dint75 of great personal exertion76, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.
The exultation77 and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned with success. The stone was uneven78 and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:—
[cross] B I L S T
u m
P S H I
S. M.
ARK
Mr. Pickwick’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the treasure he had discovered. He had attained79 one of the greatest objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound80 in the remains81 of the early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he — he, the chairman of the Pickwick Club — had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses.
‘This — this,’ said he, ‘determines me. We return to town to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow!’ exclaimed his admiring followers.
‘To-morrow,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘This treasure must be at once deposited where it can be thoroughly82 investigated and properly understood. I have another reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take place for the borough83 of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We will behold84, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to every Englishman.’
‘We will,’ was the animated85 cry of three voices.
Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his followers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it.
‘Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial86 glass,’ said he. This proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause. Having himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair, at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted87 to festivity and conversation.
It was past eleven o’clock — a late hour for the little village of Cobham — when Mr. Pickwick retired88 to the bedroom which had been prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation89 on the hurried events of the two preceding days.
The hour and the place were both favourable90 to contemplation; Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable — he almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.
Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. Pickwick’s condition at this moment: he tossed first on one side and then on the other; and perseveringly91 closed his eyes as if to coax92 himself to slumber93. It was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the brandy-and-water, or the strange bed — whatever it was, his thoughts kept reverting94 very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an hour’s tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window — it was very dark. He walked about the room — it was very lonely.
He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window to the door, when the clergyman’s manuscript for the first time entered his head. It was a good thought. if it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting, and the paper was much soiled and blotted95. The title gave him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity96 of giving way to such feelings, however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:—
A MADMAN’S MANUSCRIPT
‘Yes! — a madman’s! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes, sending the blood hissing97 and tingling98 through my veins99, till the cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like it now though. It’s a fine name. Show me the monarch100 whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of a madman’s eye — whose cord and axe101 were ever half so sure as a madman’s gripe. Ho! ho! It’s a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild lion through the iron bars — to gnash one’s teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll and twine102 among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah103 for the madhouse! Oh, it’s a rare place!
‘I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start from my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from the curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the marrow104 of my bones! that one generation had passed away without the pestilence105 appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever would be: and when I cowered106 in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling each other of the doomed107 madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude108.
‘I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are long sometimes — very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering109 faces crouched110 in the corners of the room, and bent111 over my bed at night, tempting112 me to madness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house in which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation before him the madness slumbered113, but that his grandfather had lived for years with his hands fettered114 to the ground, to prevent his tearing himself to pieces. I knew they told the truth — I knew it well. I had found it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.
‘At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading115 that I might one day become so! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy116 when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madman with all the power, and half the will, to plunge117 it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!
‘Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I inherited an estate. The law — the eagle-eyed law itself — had been deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman’s hands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity118 of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman’s cunning had overreached them all.
‘I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely119. How I was praised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled120 themselves before me! The old, white-headed father, too — such deference121 — such respect — such devoted friendship — he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy122 relatives, as they thought of their well-planned scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh outright123, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks124 of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.
‘Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister’s happiness against her husband’s gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against the gay chain that ornaments126 my body!
‘In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad — for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes — I should have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin127, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the poverty of the old, white-headed man and the haughty128 brothers.
‘I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing129 still and motionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink5 or close. Hush130! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down — that form is HERS; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even than the spirits that tempted131 me many years ago — it comes fresh from the grave; and is so very death-like.
‘For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied — yes, I pitied — the wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not live long; but the thought that before her death she might give birth to some ill-fated being, destined132 to hand down madness to its offspring, determined133 me. I resolved to kill her.
‘For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away to cinders134. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane135 man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash136 one stroke of its thin, bright edge would make! ‘At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom137. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. Her face was calm and placid138; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil139 smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started — it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward again. She screamed, and woke.
‘One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed140 on mine. I knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed141 beneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly142 and steadily143 on me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek125 upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.
‘Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.
‘They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft144 of animation145 for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had deserted her, and she raved146 wildly and furiously.
‘Doctors were called in — great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, with fine horses and gaudy147 servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and solemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated148 among them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me — me, the madman! — that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could have hurled149 him into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded150 with my shouts!
‘She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse151 of her whose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till the tears Came into my eyes.
‘But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld152 the people dancing, I felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and no one knew I was a madman yet.
‘I remember — though it’s one of the last things I can remember: for now I mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in which they get involved — I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched153 fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when I think of it. There — see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig154, only there are long galleries here with many doors — I don’t think I could find my way along them; and even if I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show.
‘Let me see: yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me — urgent business he said: I recollect68 it well. I hated that man with all a madman’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together — for the first time.
‘I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought — and I gloried in the knowledge — that the light of madness gleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke155 at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to demand this explanation.
‘This man had a commission in the army — a commission, purchased with my money, and his sister’s misery156! This was the man who had been foremost in the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed33 me; well knowing that her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his degradation157! I turned my eyes upon him — I could not help it — but I spoke not a word.
‘I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and I laughed — I was very merry then — I saw him shudder158. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.
‘“You were very fond of your sister when she was alive,” I said. —“Very.”
‘He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his chair; but he said nothing.
‘“You villain,” said I, “I found you out: I discovered your hellish plots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her to marry me. I know it — I know it.”
‘He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished159 it aloft, and bid me stand back — for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.
‘I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying160 through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting161 me to tear his heart out.
‘“Damn you,” said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; “I killed her. I am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!”
‘I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together. ‘It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall, strong man, fighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny162 throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded163 tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter. ‘The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.
‘My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet164 in my hand, and hewed165 them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.
‘Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of the feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether; but on I bounded, through marsh166 and rivulet167, over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled168 the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons169 who swept along upon the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun170 me round and round with a rustle40 and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I woke I found myself here — here in this gray cell, where the sunlight seldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the first shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and watching my gambols171 on my straw bed.’
At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:—
[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy instance of the baneful172 results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days produced fever and delirium173. The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion174, founded upon a well-known medical theory, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly contested by others, that an hereditary175 madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom, which in time developed a morbid176 insanity177, and finally terminated in raving26 madness. There is every reason to believe that the events he detailed178, though distorted in the description by his diseased imagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with the vices179 of his early career, that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful180 deeds.]
Mr. Pickwick’s candle was just expiring in the socket181, as he concluded the perusal182 of the old clergyman’s manuscript; and when the light went suddenly out, without any previous flicker183 by way of warning, it communicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once more scrambled184 hastily between the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.
The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber185, when he awoke, and the morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the previous night had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded186 the landscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth187 to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the stone in its deal box. They reached the town about one o’clock (their luggage they had directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester), and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.
The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations which were necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As any references to that most important undertaking188 demands a separate chapter, we may devote the few lines which remain at the close of this, to narrate189, with great brevity, the history of the antiquarian discovery.
It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwick lectured upon the discovery at a General Club Meeting, convened190 on the night succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious and erudite speculations191 on the meaning of the inscription. It also appears that a skilful192 artist executed a faithful delineation193 of the curiosity, which was engraven on stone, and presented to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies: that heart-burnings and jealousies194 without number were created by rival controversies195 which were penned upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and twenty-seven different readings of the inscription: that three old gentlemen cut off their eldest196 sons with a shilling a-piece for presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment; and that one enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely197, in despair at being unable to fathom198 its meaning: that Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for making the discovery: that none of the seventeen could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary.
Mr. Blotton, indeed — and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime199 — Mr. Blotton, we say, with the doubt and cavilling200 peculiar8 to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with a mean desire to tarnish201 the lustre202 of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on his return, sarcastically203 observed in an oration204 at the club, that he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the man presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the inscription — inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved by himself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended to bear neither more or less than the simple construction of —‘BILL STUMPS205, HIS MARK’; and that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition, and more accustomed to be guided by the sound of words than by the strict rules of orthography206, had omitted the concluding ‘L’ of his Christian207 name.
The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an institution) received this statement with the contempt it deserved, expelled the presumptuous208 and ill-conditioned Blotton from the society, and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles, in token of their confidence and approbation209: in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club room.
Mr. Blotton was ejected but not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet, addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, containing a repetition of the statement he had already made, and rather more than half intimating his opinion that the seventeen learned societies were so many ‘humbugs.’ Hereupon, the virtuous210 indignation of the seventeen learned societies being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared; the foreign learned societies corresponded with the native learned societies; the native learned societies translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies into English; the foreign learned societies translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies into all sorts of languages; and thus commenced that celebrated scientific discussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick controversy211.
But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled212 upon the head of its calumnious213 author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously voted the presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler214, and forthwith set to work upon more treatises215 than ever. And to this day the stone remains, an illegible216 monument of Mr. Pickwick’s greatness, and a lasting217 trophy218 to the littleness of his enemies.
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1
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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2
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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6
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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11
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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12
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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13
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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15
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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17
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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18
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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20
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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21
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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22
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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23
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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25
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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26
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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27
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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28
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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29
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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30
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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32
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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33
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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34
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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35
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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36
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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37
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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38
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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39
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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40
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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41
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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42
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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43
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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44
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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45
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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48
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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52
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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53
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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54
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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56
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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57
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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58
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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59
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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60
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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62
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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65
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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66
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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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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68
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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69
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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71
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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72
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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73
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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74
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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75
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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76
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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78
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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79
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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80
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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81
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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82
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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83
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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84
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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85
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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86
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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87
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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88
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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89
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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90
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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91
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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92
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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93
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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94
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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95
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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96
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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97
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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98
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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99
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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100
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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101
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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102
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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103
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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104
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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105
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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106
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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107
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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108
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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109
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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110
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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112
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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113
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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116
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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117
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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118
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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119
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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120
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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121
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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122
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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123
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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124
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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126
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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127
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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128
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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129
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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130
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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131
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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132
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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133
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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134
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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135
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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136
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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137
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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138
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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139
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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140
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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141
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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143
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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144
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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145
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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146
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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147
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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148
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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149
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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150
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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151
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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152
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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153
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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154
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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155
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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156
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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157
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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158
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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159
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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160
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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161
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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162
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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163
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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165
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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166
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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167
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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168
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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169
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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170
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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171
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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172
baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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173
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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174
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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175
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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176
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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177
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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178
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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179
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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180
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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181
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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182
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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183
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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184
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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185
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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186
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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187
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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188
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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189
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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190
convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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191
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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192
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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193
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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194
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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195
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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196
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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197
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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198
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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199
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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200
cavilling
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| n.（矿工的）工作地点抽签法v.挑剔，吹毛求疵( cavil的现在分词 ) | |
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201
tarnish
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| n.晦暗，污点；vt.使失去光泽；玷污 | |
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202
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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203
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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204
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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205
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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206
orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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207
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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208
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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209
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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210
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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211
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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212
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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213
calumnious
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| adj.毁谤的，中伤的 | |
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214
meddler
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| n.爱管闲事的人，干涉者 | |
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215
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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216
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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217
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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218
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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