Early in the Regency of George the Magnificent, there lived in a small town in the west of England, called Clavering, a gentleman whose name was Pendennis. There were those alive who remembered having seen his name painted on a board, which was surmounted1 by a gilt2 pestle3 and mortar4 over the door of a very humble5 little shop in the city of Bath, where Mr. Pendennis exercised the profession of apothecary6 and surgeon; and where he not only attended gentlemen in their sick-rooms, and ladies at the most interesting periods of their lives, but would condescend7 to sell a brown-paper plaster to a farmer’s wife across the counter,— or to vend8 tooth-brushes, hair-powder, and London perfumery. For these facts a few folks at Clavering could vouch9, where people’s memories were more tenacious10, perhaps, than they are in a great bustling11 metropolis12.
And yet that little apothecary who sold a stray customer a pennyworth of salts, or a more fragrant13 cake of Windsor soap, was a gentleman of good education, and of as old a family as any in the whole county of Somerset. He had a Cornish pedigree which carried the Pendennises up to the time of the Druids, and who knows how much farther back? They had intermarried with the Normans at a very late period of their family existence, and they were related to all the great families of Wales and Brittany. Pendennis had had a piece of University education too, and might have pursued that career with great honour, but that in his second year at Cambridge his father died insolvent14, and poor Pen was obliged to betake himself to the pestle and apron15. He always detested16 the trade, and it was only necessity, and the offer of his mother’s brother, a London apothecary of low family, into which Pendennis’s father had demeaned himself by marrying, that forced John Pendennis into so odious17 a calling.
He quickly after his apprenticeship18 parted from the coarse-minded practitioner19 his relative, and set up for himself at Bath with his modest medical ensign. He had for some time a hard struggle with poverty; and it was all he could do to keep the shop and its gilt ornaments20 in decent repair, and his bed-ridden mother in comfort: but Lady Ribstone happening to be passing to the Rooms with an intoxicated21 Irish chairman who bumped her ladyship up against Pen’s very door-post, and drove his chair-pole through the handsomest pink bottle in the surgeon’s window, alighted screaming from her vehicle, and was accommodated with a chair in Mr. Pendennis’s shop, where she was brought round with cinnamon and sal-volatile.
Mr. Pendennis’s manners were so uncommonly22 gentlemanlike and soothing23, that her ladyship, the wife of Sir Pepin Ribstone, of Codlingbury, in the county of Somerset, Bart., appointed her preserver, as she called him, apothecary to her person and family, which was very large. Master Ribstone coming home for the Christmas holidays from Eton, over-ate himself and had a fever, in which Mr. Pendennis treated him with the greatest skill and tenderness. In a word, he got the good graces of the Codlingbury family, and from that day began to prosper25. The good company of Bath patronised him, and amongst the ladies especially he was beloved and admired. First his humble little shop became a smart one: then he discarded the selling of tooth-brushes and perfumery, as unworthy of a gentleman of an ancient lineage: then he shut up the shop altogether, and only had a little surgery attended by a genteel young man: then he had a gig with a man to drive him; and, before her exit from this world, his poor old mother had the happiness of seeing from her bedroom window to which her chair was rolled, her beloved John step into a close carriage of his own, a one-horse carriage it is true, but with the arms of the family of Pendennis handsomely emblazoned on the panels. “What would Arthur say now?” she asked, speaking of a younger son of hers —“who never so much as once came to see my dearest Johnny through all the time of his poverty and struggles!”
“Captain Pendennis is with his regiment27 in India, mother,” Mr. Pendennis remarked, “and, if you please, I wish you would not call me Johnny before the young man — before Mr. Parkins.”
Presently the day came when she ceased to call her son by the name of Johnny, or by any other title of endearment28 or affection; and his house was very lonely without that kind though querulous voice. He had his night-bell altered and placed in the room in which the good old lady had grumbled29 for many a long year, and he slept in the great large bed there. He was upwards30 of forty years old when these events befell; before the war was over; before George the Magnificent came to the throne; before this history indeed: but what is a gentleman without his pedigree? Pendennis, by this time, had his handsomely framed and glazed31, and hanging up in his drawing-room between the pictures of Codlingbury House in Somersetshire, and St. Boniface’s College, Cambridge, where he had passed the brief and happy days of his early manhood. As for the pedigree he had taken it out of a trunk, as Sterne’s officer called for his sword, now that he was a gentleman and could show it.
About the time of Mrs. Pendennis’s demise32, another of her son’s patients likewise died at Bath; that virtuous33 woman, old Lady Pontypool, daughter of Reginald twelfth Earl of Bareacres, and by consequence great-grand-aunt to the present Earl, and widow of John second Lord Pontypool, and likewise of the Reverend Jonas Wales, of the Armageddon Chapel34, Clifton. For the last five years of her life her ladyship had been attended by Miss Helen Thistlewood, a very distant relative of the noble house of Bareacres, before mentioned, and daughter of Lieutenant35 R. Thistlewood, R.N., killed at the battle of Copenhagen. Under Lady Pontypool’s roof Miss Thistlewood found a comfortable shelter, as far as boarding and lodging36 went, but suffered under such an infernal tyranny as only women can inflict37 on, or bear from, one another: the Doctor, who paid his visits to my Lady Pontypool at least twice a day, could not but remark the angelical sweetness and kindness with which the young lady bore her elderly relative’s insults; and it was, as they were going in the fourth mourning coach to attend her ladyship’s venerated38 remains39 to Bath Abbey, where they now repose40, that he looked at her sweet pale face and resolved upon putting a certain question to her, the very nature of which made his pulse beat ninety, at least.
He was older than she by more than twenty years, and at no time the most ardent41 of men. Perhaps he had had a love affair in early life which he had to strangle — perhaps all early love affairs ought to be strangled or drowned, like so many blind kittens: well, at three-and-forty he was a collected quiet little gentleman in black stockings with a bald head, and a few days after the ceremony he called to see her, and, as he felt her pulse, he kept hold of her hand in his, and asked her where she was going to live now that the Pontypool family had come down upon the property, which was being nailed into boxes, and packed into hampers42, and swaddled up with haybands, and buried in straw, and locked under three keys in green baize plate-chests, and carted away under the eyes of poor Miss Helen,— he asked her where she was going to live finally.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she said she did not know. She had a little money. The old lady had left her a thousand pounds, indeed; and she would go into a boarding-house or into a school: in fine, she did not know where.
Then Pendennis, looking into her pale face, and keeping hold of her cold little hand, asked her if she would come and live with him? He was old compared to — to so blooming a young lady as Miss Thistlewood (Pendennis was of the grave old complimentary43 school of gentlemen and apothecaries), but he was of good birth, and, he flattered himself, of good principles and temper. His prospects44 were good, and daily mending. He was alone in the world, and had need of a kind and constant companion, whom it would be the study of his life to make happy; in a word, he recited to her a little speech, which he had composed that morning in bed, and rehearsed and perfected in his carriage, as he was coming to wait upon the young lady.
Perhaps if he had had an early love-passage, she too had one day hoped for a different lot than to be wedded45 to a little gentleman who rapped his teeth and smiled artificially, who was laboriously46 polite to the butler as he slid upstairs into the drawing-room, and profusely47 civil to the lady’s-maid, who waited at the bed-room door; for whom her old patroness used to ring as for a servant, and who came with even more eagerness; who got up stories, as he sent in draughts48, for his patient’s amusement and his own profit: perhaps she would have chosen a different man — but she knew, on the other hand, how worthy26 Pendennis was, how prudent49, how honourable50; how good he had been to his mother, and constant in his care of her; and the upshot of this interview was, that she, blushing very much, made Pendennis an extremely low curtsey, and asked leave to — to consider his very kind proposal.
They were married in the dull Bath season, which was the height of the season in London. And Pendennis having previously51, through a professional friend, M.R.C.S., secured lodgings52 in Holles Street, Cavendish Square, took his wife thither53 in a chaise and pair; conducted her to the theatres, the Parks, and the Chapel Royal; showed her the folks going to a drawing-room, and, in a word, gave her all the pleasures of the town. He likewise left cards upon Lord Pontypool, upon the Right Honourable the Earl of Bareacres, and upon Sir Pepin and Lady Ribstone, his earliest and kindest patrons. Bareacres took no notice of the cards. Pontypool called, admired Mrs. Pendennis, and said Lady Pontypool would come and see her, which her ladyship did, per proxy54 of John her footman, who brought her card, and an invitation to a concert five weeks off. Pendennis was back in his little one-horse carriage, dispensing55 draughts and pills at that time: but the Ribstones asked him and Mrs. Pendennis to an entertainment, of which Mr. Pendennis bragged56 to the last day of his life.
The secret ambition of Mr. Pendennis had always been to be a gentleman. It takes much time and careful saving for a provincial57 doctor, whose gains are not very large, to lay by enough money wherewith to purchase a house and land: but besides our friend’s own frugality58 and prudence59, fortune aided him considerably60 in his endeavour, and brought him to the point which he so panted to attain61. He laid out some money very advantageously in the purchase of a house and small estate close upon the village of Clavering before mentioned. Words cannot describe, nor did he himself ever care to confess to any one, his pride when he found himself a real landed proprietor63, and could walk over acres of which he was the master. A lucky purchase which he had made of shares in a copper-mine added very considerably to his wealth, and he realised with great prudence while this mine was still at its full vogue64. Finally, he sold his business at Bath, to Mr. Parkins, for a handsome sum of ready money, and for an annuity65 to be paid to him during a certain number of years after he had for ever retired66 from the handling of the mortar and pestle.
Arthur Pendennis, his son, was eight years old at the time of this event, so that it is no wonder that the latter, who left Bath and the surgery so young, should forget the existence of such a place almost entirely67, and that his father’s hands had ever been dirtied by the compounding of odious pills, or the preparation of filthy68 plasters. The old man never spoke69 about the shop himself, never alluded70 to it; called in the medical practitioner of Clavering to attend his family when occasion arrived; sunk the black breeches and stockings altogether; attended market and sessions, and wore a bottle-green coat and brass71 buttons with drab gaiters, just as if he had been an English gentleman all his life. He used to stand at his lodge-gate, and see the coaches come in, and bow gravely to the guards and coachmen as they touched their hats and drove by. It was he who founded the Clavering Book Club: and set up the Samaritan Soup and Blanket Society. It was he who brought the mail, which used to run through Cacklefield before, away from that village and through Clavering. At church he was equally active as a vestryman and a worshipper. At market every Thursday, he went from pen to stall, looked at samples of oats, and munched72 corn, felt beasts, punched geese in the breast, and weighed them with a knowing air, and did business with the farmers at the Clavering Arms, as well as the oldest frequenter of that house of call. It was now his shame, as it formerly73 was his pride, to be called Doctor, and those who wished to please him always gave him the title of Squire74.
Heaven knows where they came from, but a whole range of Pendennis portraits presently hung round the Doctor’s oak dining-room; Lelys and Vandykes he vowed75 all the portraits to be, and when questioned as to the history of the originals, would vaguely76 say they were ‘ancestors of his.’ You could see by his wife’s looks that she disbelieved in these genealogical legends, for she generally endeavoured to turn the conversation when he commenced them. But his little boy believed them to their fullest extent, and Roger Pendennis of Agincourt, Arthur Pendennis of Crecy, General Pendennis of Blenheim and Oudenarde, were as real and actual beings for this young gentleman as — whom shall we say?— as Robinson Crusoe, or Peter Wilkins, or the Seven Champions of Christendom, whose histories were in his library.
Pendennis’s fortune, which, at the best, was not above eight hundred pounds a year, did not, with the best economy and management, permit of his living with the great folks of the county; but he had a decent comfortable society of the second-best sort. If they were not the roses, they lived near the roses, as it were, and had a good deal of the odour of genteel life. They had out their plate, and dined each other round in the moonlight nights twice a year, coming a dozen miles to these festivals; and besides the county, the Pendennises had the society of the town of Clavering, as much as, nay77, more than they liked: for Mrs. Pybus was always poking78 about Helen’s conservatories79, and intercepting80 the operation of her soup-tickets and coal-clubs Captain Glanders (H. P., 50th Dragoon Guards) was for ever swaggering about the Squire’s stables and gardens, and endeavouring to enlist81 him in his quarrels with the Vicar, with the Postmaster, with the Reverend F. Wapshot of Clavering Grammar School, for overflogging his son, Anglesea Glanders,— with all the village in fine. And Pendennis and his wife often blessed themselves, that their house of Fairoaks was nearly a mile out of Clavering, or their premises82 would never have been free from the prying83 eyes and prattle84 of one or other of the male and female inhabitants there.
Fairoaks lawn comes down to the little river Brawl85, and on the other side were the plantations86 and woods (as much as were left of them) of Clavering Park, Sir Francis Clavering, Bart. The park was let out in pasture and fed down by sheep and cattle, when the Pendennises came first to live at Fairoaks. Shutters87 were up in the house; a splendid freestone palace, with great stairs, statues, and porticos, whereof you may see a picture in the ‘Beauties of England and Wales.’ Sir Richard Clavering, Sir Francis’s-grandfather, had commenced the ruin of the family by the building of this palace: his successor had achieved the ruin by living in it. The present Sir Francis was abroad somewhere; nor could anybody be found rich enough to rent that enormous mansion88, through the deserted89 rooms, mouldy clanking halls, and dismal90 galleries of which, Arthur Pendennis many a time walked trembling when he was a boy. At sunset, from the lawn of Fairoaks, there was a pretty sight: it and the opposite park of Clavering were in the habit of putting on a rich golden tinge91, which became them both wonderfully. The upper windows of the great house flamed so as to make your eyes wink92; the little river ran off noisily westward93, and was lost in a sombre wood, behind which the towers of the old abbey church of Clavering (whereby that town is called Clavering St. Mary’s to the present day) rose up in purple splendour. Little Arthur’s figure and his mother’s, cast long blue shadows over the grass; and he would repeat in a low voice (for a scene of great natural beauty always moved the boy, who inherited this sensibility from his mother) certain lines beginning, “These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good; Almighty94! thine this universal frame,” greatly to Mrs. Pendennis’s delight. Such walks and conversation generally ended in a profusion95 of filial and maternal96 embraces; for to love and to pray were the main occupations of this dear woman’s life; and I have often heard Pendennis say in his wild way, that he felt that he was sure of going to heaven, for his mother never could be happy there without him.
As for John Pendennis, as the father of the family, and that sort of thing, everybody had the greatest respect for him: and his orders were obeyed like those of the Medes and Persians. His hat was as well brushed, perhaps, as that of any man in this empire. His meals were served at the same minute every day, and woe97 to those who came late, as little Pen, a disorderly little rascal98, sometimes did. Prayers were recited, his letters were read, his business dispatched, his stables and garden inspected, his hen-houses and kennel99, his barn and pigstye visited, always at regular hours. After dinner he always had a nap with the Globe newspaper on his knee, and his yellow bandanna100 handkerchief on his face (Major Pendennis sent the yellow handkerchiefs from India, and his brother had helped in the purchase of his majority, so that they were good friends now). And so, as his dinner took place at six o’clock to a minute, and the sunset business alluded to may be supposed to have occurred at about half-past seven, it is probable that he did not much care for the view in front of his lawn windows or take any share in the poetry and caresses101 which were taking place there.
They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky102 they were before, mother and child were hushed and quiet when Mr. Pendennis walked into the drawing-room, his newspaper under his arm. And here, while little Pen, buried in a great chair, read all the books of which he could lay hold, the Squire perused103 his own articles in the ‘Gardener’s Gazette,’ or took a solemn hand at picquet with Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend from the village.
Pendennis usually took care that at least one of his grand dinners should take place when his brother, the Major, who, on the return of his regiment from India and New South Wales, had sold out and gone upon half-pay, came to pay his biennial104 visit to Fairoaks. “My brother, Major Pendennis,” was a constant theme of the retired Doctor’s conversation. All the family delighted in my brother the Major. He was the link which bound them to the great world of London, and the fashion. He always brought down the last news of the nobility, and was in the constant habit of dining with lords and great folks. He spoke of such with soldierlike respect and decorum. He would say, “My Lord Bareacres has been good enough to invite me to Bareacres for the pheasant shooting,” or, “My Lord Steyne is so kind as to wish for my presence at Stillbrook for the Easter holidays;” and you may be sure the whereabouts of my brother the Major was carefully made known by worthy Mr. Pendennis to his friends at the Clavering Reading room, at Justice-meetings, or at the County-town. Their carriages would come from ten miles round to call upon Major Pendennis in his visits to Fairoaks; the fame of his fashion as a man about town was established throughout the county. There was a talk of his marrying Miss Hunkle, of Lilybank, old Hunkle the Attorney’s daughter, with at least fifteen hundred a-year to her fortune: but my brother the Major refused this negotiation105, advantageous62 as it might seem to most persons. “As a bachelor,” he said, “nobody cares how poor I am. I have the happiness to live with people who are so highly placed in the world, that a few hundreds or thousands a year more or less can make no difference in the estimation in which they are pleased to hold me. Miss Hunkle, though a most respectable lady, is not in possession of either the birth or the manners, which would entitle her to be received into the sphere in which I have the honour to move. I shall live and die an old bachelor, John: and your worthy friend, Miss Hunkle, I have no doubt, will find some more worthy object of her affection, than a worn-out old soldier on half-pay.” Time showed the correctness of the surmise106 of the old man of the world; Miss Hunkle married a young French nobleman, and is now at this moment living at Lilybank, under the title of Baroness107 de Carambole, having been separated from her wild young scapegrace of a Baron108 very shortly after their union.
The Major was a great favourite with almost all the little establishment of Fairoaks. He was as good-natured as he was well bred, and had a sincere liking109 and regard for his sister-inlaw, whom he pronounced, and with perfect truth, to be as fine a lady as any in England, and an honour to the family. Indeed, Mrs. Pendennis’s tranquil110 beauty, her natural sweetness and kindness, and that simplicity111 and dignity which a perfect purity and innocence112 are sure to bestow113 upon a handsome woman, rendered her quite worthy of her brother’s praises. I think it is not national prejudice which makes me believe that a high-bred English lady is the most complete of all Heaven’s subjects in this world. In whom else do you see so much grace, and so much virtue114; so much faith, and so much tenderness; with such a perfect refinement115 and chastity? And by high-bred ladies I don’t mean duchesses and countesses. Be they ever so high in station, they can be but ladies, and no more. But almost every man who lives in the world has the happiness, let us hope, of counting a few such persons amongst his circle of acquaintance — women, in whose angelical natures, there is something awful, as well as beautiful, to contemplate116; at whose feet the wildest and fiercest of us must fall down and humble ourselves;— in admiration117 of that adorable purity which never seems to do or to think wrong.
Arthur Pendennis had the good fortune to have a mother endowed with these happy qualities. During his childhood and youth, the boy thought of her as little less than an angel,— as a supernatural being, all wisdom, love, and beauty. When her husband drove her into the county town, or to the assize balls or concerts there, he would step into the assembly with his wife on his arm, and look the great folks in the face, as much as to say, “Look at that, my lord; can any of you show me a woman like that?” She enraged118 some country ladies with three times her money, by a sort of desperate perfection which they found in her. Miss Pybus said she was cold and haughty119; Miss Pierce, that she was too proud for her station; Mrs. Wapshot, as a doctor of divinity’s lady, would have the pas of her, who was only the wife of a medical practitioner. In the meanwhile, this lady moved through the world quite regardless of all the comments that were made in her praise or disfavour. She did not seem to know that she was admired or hated for being so perfect: but carried on calmly through life, saying her prayers, loving her family, helping120 her neighbours, and doing her duty.
That even a woman should be faultless, however, is an arrangement not permitted by nature, which assigns to us mental defects, as it awards to us headaches, illnesses, or death; without which the scheme of the world could not be carried on,— nay, some of the best qualities of mankind could not be brought into exercise. As pain produces or elicits121 fortitude122 and endurance; difficulty, perseverance123; poverty, industry and ingenuity124; danger, courage and what not; so the very virtues125, on the other hand, will generate some vices127: and, in fine, Mrs. Pendennis had that vice126 which Miss Pybus and Miss Pierce discovered in her, namely, that of pride; which did not vest itself so much in her own person, as in that of her family. She spoke about Mr. Pendennis (a worthy little gentleman enough, but there are others as good as he) with an awful reverence128, as if he had been the Pope of Rome on his throne, and she a cardinal129 kneeling at his feet, and giving him incense130. The Major she held to be a sort of Bayard among Majors: and as for her son Arthur she worshipped that youth with an ardour which the young scapegrace accepted almost as coolly as the statue of the Saint in Saint Peter’s receives the rapturous osculations which the faithful deliver on his toe.
This unfortunate superstition131 and idol-worship of this good woman was the cause of a great deal of the misfortune which befell the young gentleman who is the hero of this history, and deserves therefore to be mentioned at the outset of his story.
Arthur Pendennis’s schoolfellows at the Greyfriars School state that, as a boy, he was in no ways remarkable132 either as a dunce or as a scholar. He did, in fact, just as much as was required of him, and no more. If he was distinguished133 for anything it was for verse-writing: but was his enthusiasm ever so great, it stopped when he had composed the number of lines demanded by the regulations (unlike young Swettenham, for instance, who, with no more of poetry in his composition than Mr. Wakley, yet would bring up a hundred dreary134 hexameters to the master after a half-holiday; or young Fluxmore, who not only did his own verses, but all the fifth form’s besides). He never read to improve himself out of school-hours, but, on the contrary, devoured135 all the novels, plays, and poetry, on which he could lay his hands. He never was flogged, but it was a wonder how he escaped the whipping-post. When he had money he spent it royally in tarts136 for himself and his friends; he has been known to disburse137 nine and sixpence out of ten shillings awarded to him in a single day. When he had no funds he went on tick. When he could get no credit he went without, and was almost as happy. He has been known to take a thrashing for a crony without saying a word; but a blow, ever so slight from a friend, would make him roar. To fighting he was averse138 from his earliest youth, as indeed to physic, the Greek Grammar, or any other exertion139, and would engage in none of them, except at the last extremity140. He seldom if ever told lies, and never bullied141 little boys. Those masters or seniors who were kind to him, he loved with boyish ardour. And though the Doctor, when he did not know his Horace, or could not construe142 his Greek play, said that that boy Pendennis was a disgrace to the school, a candidate for ruin in this world, and perdition in the next; a profligate143 who would most likely bring his venerable father to ruin and his mother to a dishonoured144 grave, and the like — yet as the Doctor made use of these compliments to most of the boys in the place (which has not turned out an unusual number of felons145 and pickpockets), little Pen, at first uneasy and terrified by these charges, became gradually accustomed to hear them; and he has not, in fact, either murdered his parents, or committed any act worthy of transportation or hanging up to the present day.
There were many of the upper boys, among the Cistercians with whom Pendennis was educated, who assumed all the privileges of men long before they quitted that seminary. Many of them, for example, smoked cigars — and some had already begun the practice of inebriation146. One had fought a duel147 with an Ensign in a marching, in consequence of a row at the theatre — another actually kept a buggy and horse at a livery stable in Covent Garden, and might be seen driving any Sunday in Hyde Park with a groom148 with squared arms and armorial buttons by his side. Many of the seniors were in love, and showed each other in confidence poems addressed to, or letters and locks of hair received from, young ladies — but Pen, a modest and timid youth, rather envied these than imitated them as yet. He had not got beyond the theory as yet — the practice of life was all to come. And by the way, ye tender mothers and sober fathers of Christian149 families, a prodigious150 thing that theory of life is as orally learned at a great public school. Why, if you could hear those boys of fourteen who blush before mothers and sneak151 off in silence in the presence of their daughters, talking among each other — it would be the women’s turn to blush then. Before he was twelve years old and if while his mother fancied him an angel of candour, little Pen had heard talk enough to make him quite awfully152 wise upon certain points — and so, Madam, has your pretty little rosy-cheeked son, who is coming home from school for the ensuing Christmas holidays. I don’t say that the boy is lost, or that the innocence has left him which he had from ‘Heaven, which is our home,’ but that the shades of the prison-house are closing very fast over him, and that we are helping as much as possible to corrupt153 him.
Well — Pen had just made his public appearance in a coat with a tail, or cauda virilis, and was looking most anxiously in his little study-glass to see if his whiskers were growing, like those of more fortunate youths his companions; and, instead of the treble voice with which he used to speak and sing (for his singing voice was a very sweet one, and he used when little to be made to perform ‘Home, sweet Home,’ ‘My pretty Page,’ and a French song or two which his mother had taught him, and other ballads154 for the delectation of the senior boys), had suddenly plunged155 into a deep bass156 diversified157 by a squeak158, which when he was called upon to construe in school set the master and scholars laughing he was about sixteen years old, in a word, when he was suddenly called away from his academic studies.
It was at the close of the forenoon school, and Pen had been unnoticed all the previous part of the morning till now, when the Doctor put him on to construe in a Greek play. He did not know a word of it, though little Timmins, his form-fellow, was prompting him with all his might. Pen had made a sad blunder or two when the awful Chief broke out upon him.
“Pendennis, sir,” he said, “your idleness is incorrigible159 and your stupidity beyond example. You are a disgrace to your school, and to your family, and I have no doubt will prove so in after-life to your country. If that vice, sir, which is described to us as the root of all evil, be really what moralists have represented (and I have no doubt of the correctness of their opinion), for what a prodigious quantity of future crime and wickedness are you, unhappy boy, laying the seed! Miserable160 trifler! A boy who construes161 de and, instead of de but, at sixteen years of age is guilty not merely of folly162, and ignorance, and dulness inconceivable, but of crime, of deadly crime, of filial ingratitude163, which I tremble to contemplate. A boy, sir, who does not learn his Greek play cheats the parent who spends money for his education. A boy who cheats his parent is not very far from robbing or forging upon his neighbour. A man who forges on his neighbour pays the penalty of his crime at the gallows164. And it is not such a one that I pity (for he will be deservedly cut off), but his maddened and heart-broken parents, who are driven to a premature165 grave by his crimes, or, if they live, drag on a wretched and dishonoured old age. Go on, sir, and I warn you that the very next mistake that you make shall subject you to the punishment of the rod. Who’s that laughing? What ill-conditioned boy is there that dares to laugh?” shouted the Doctor.
Indeed, while the master was making this oration166, there was a general titter behind him in the schoolroom. The orator167 had his back to the door of this ancient apartment, which was open, and a gentleman who was quite familiar with the place, for both Major Arthur and Mr. John Pendennis had been at the school, was asking the fifth-form boy who sate168 by the door for Pendennis. The lad grinning pointed24 to the culprit against whom the Doctor was pouring out the thunders of his just wrath169 — Major Pendennis could not help laughing. He remembered having stood under that very pillar where Pen the younger now stood, and having been assaulted by the Doctor’s predecessor170 years and years ago. The intelligence was ‘passed round’ that it was Pendennis’s uncle in an instant, and a hundred young faces wondering and giggling171, between terror and laughter, turned now to the new-comer and then to the awful Doctor.
The Major asked the fifth-form boy to carry his card up to the Doctor, which the lad did with an arch look. Major Pendennis had written on the card, “I must take A. P. home; his father is very ill.”
As the Doctor received the card, and stopped his harangue172 with rather a seared look, the laughter of the boys, half constrained173 until then, burst out in a general shout. “Silence!” roared out the Doctor stamping with his foot. Pen looked up and saw who was his deliverer; the Major beckoned174 to him gravely with one of his white gloves, and tumbling down his books, Pen went across.
The Doctor took out his watch. It was two minutes to one. “We will take the Juvenal at afternoon school,” he said, nodding to the Captain, and all the boys understanding the signal gathered up their books and poured out of the hall.
Young Pen saw by his uncle’s face that something had happened at home. “Is there anything the matter with my mother?” he said. He could hardly speak, though, for emotion, and the tears which were ready to start.
“No,” said the Major, “but your father’s very ill. Go and pack your trunk directly; I have got a postchaise at the gate.”
Pen went off quickly to his boarding-house to do as his uncle bade him; and the Doctor, now left alone in the schoolroom, came out to shake hands with his old schoolfellow. You would not have thought it was the same man. As Cinderella at a particular hour became, from a blazing and magnificent Princess, quite an ordinary little maid in a grey petticoat, so, as the clock struck one, all the thundering majesty176 and awful wrath of the schoolmaster disappeared.
“There is nothing serious, I hope,” said the Doctor. “It is a pity to take the boy away unless there is. He is a very good boy, rather idle and unenergetic, but he is a very honest gentlemanlike little fellow, though I can’t get him to construe as I wish. Won’t you come in and have some luncheon177? My wife will be very happy to see you.”
But Major Pendennis declined the luncheon. He said his brother was very ill, had had a fit the day before, and it was a great question if they should see him alive.
“There’s no other son, is there?” said the Doctor. The Major answered “No.”
“And there’s a good eh — a good eh — property I believe?” asked the other in an off-hand way.
“H’m — so so,” said the Major. Whereupon this colloquy178 came to an end. And Arthur Pendennis got into the postchaise with his uncle never to come back to school any more.
As the chaise drove through Clavering, the hostler standing175 whistling under the archway of the Clavering Arms, winked179 the postilion ominously180, as much as to say all was over. The gardener’s wife came and opened the lodge-gates, and let the travellers through with a silent shake of the head. All the blinds were down at Fairoaks — the face of the old footman was as blank when he let them in. Arthur’s face was white too, with terror more than with grief. Whatever of warmth and love the deceased man might have had, and he adored his wife and loved and admired his son with all his heart, he had shut them up within himself; nor had the boy been ever able to penetrate181 that frigid182 outward barrier. But Arthur had been his father’s pride and glory through life, and his name the last which John Pendennis had tried to articulate whilst he lay with his wife’s hand clasping his own cold and clammy palm, as the flickering183 spirit went out into the darkness of death, and life and the world passed away from him.
The little girl, whose face had peered for a moment under the blinds as the chaise came up, opened the door from the stairs into the hall, and taking Arthur’s hand silently as he stooped down to kiss her, led him upstairs to his mother. Old John opened the dining-room door for the Major. The room was darkened with the blinds down, and surrounded by all the gloomy pictures of the Pendennises. He drank a glass of wine. The bottle had been opened for the Squire four days before. His hat was brushed, and laid on the hall table: his newspapers, and his letter-bag, with John Pendennis, Esquire, Fairoaks, engraved184 upon the brass plate, were there in waiting. The doctor and the lawyer from Clavering, who had seen the chaise pass through, came up in a gig half an hour after the Major’s arrival, and entered by the back door. The former gave a detailed185 account of the seizure186 and demise of Mr. Pendennis, enlarged on his virtues and the estimation in which the neighbourhood held him; on what a loss he would be to the magistrates’ bench, the County Hospital, etc. Mrs. Pendennis bore up wonderfully, he said, especially since Master Arthur’s arrival. The lawyer stayed and dined with Major Pendennis, and they talked business all the evening. The Major was his brother’s executor, and joint188 guardian189 to the boy with Mrs. Pendennis. Everything was left unreservedly to her, except in case of a second marriage,— an occasion which might offer itself in the case of so young and handsome a woman, Mr. Tatham gallantly190 said, when different provisions were enacted191 by the deceased. The Major would of course take entire superintendence of everything under this most impressive and melancholy192 occasion. Aware of this authority, old John the footman, when he brought Major Pendennis the candle to go to bed, followed afterwards with the plate-basket; and the next morning brought him the key of the hall clock — the Squire always used to wind it up of a Thursday, John said. Mrs. Pendennis’s maid brought him messages from her mistress. She confirmed the doctor’s report, of the comfort which Master Arthur’s arrival had caused to his mother.
What passed between that lady and the boy is not of import. A veil should be thrown over those sacred emotions of love and grief. The maternal passion is a sacred mystery to me. What one sees symbolised in the Roman churches in the image of the Virgin193 Mother with a bosom194 bleeding with love, I think one may witness (and admire the Almighty bounty195 for) every day. I saw a Jewish lady, only yesterday, with a child at her knee, and from whose face towards the child there shone a sweetness so angelical, that it seemed to form a sort of glory round both. I protest I could have knelt before her too, and adored in her the Divine beneficence in endowing us with the maternal storge, which began with our race and sanctifies the history of mankind.
So it was with this, in a word, that Mrs. Pendennis comforted herself on the death of her husband, whom, however, she always reverenced196 as the best, the most upright, wise, high-minded, accomplished197, and awful of men. If the women did not make idols198 of us, and if they saw us as we see each other, would life be bearable, or could society go on? Let a man pray that none of his womankind should form a just estimation of him. If your wife knew you as you are, neighbour, she would not grieve much about being your widow, and would let your grave-lamp go out very soon, or perhaps not even take the trouble to light it. Whereas Helen Pendennis put up the handsomest of memorials to her husband, and constantly renewed it with the most precious oil.
As for Arthur Pendennis, after that awful shock which the sight of his dead father must have produced on him, and the pity and feeling which such an event no doubt occasioned, I am not sure that in the very moment of the grief, and as he embraced his mother and tenderly consoled her, and promised to love her for ever, there was not springing up in his breast a feeling of secret triumph and exultation199. He was the chief now and lord. He was Pendennis; and all round about him were his servants and handmaids. “You’ll never send me away,” little Laura said, tripping by him, and holding his hand. “You won’t send me to school, will you, Arthur?”
Arthur kissed her and patted her head. No, she shouldn’t go to school. As for going himself, that was quite out of the question. He had determined200 that that part of his life should not be renewed. In the midst of the general grief, and the corpse201 still lying above, he had leisure to conclude that he would have it all holidays for the future, that he wouldn’t get up till he liked, or stand the bullying202 of the Doctor any more, and had made a hundred of such day-dreams and resolves for the future. How one’s thoughts will travel! and how quickly our wishes beget203 them! When he with Laura in his hand went into the kitchen on his way to the dog-kennel, the fowl-houses, and other his favourite haunts, all the servants there assembled in great silence with their friends, and the labouring men and their wives, and Sally Potter who went with the post-bag to Clavering, and the baker’s man from Clavering — all there assembled and drinking beer on the melancholy occasion — rose up on his entrance and bowed or curtseyed to him. They never used to do so last holidays, he felt at once and with indescribable pleasure. The cook cried out, “O Lord,” and whispered, “How Master Arthur do grow!” Thomas, the groom, in the act of drinking, put down the jug204 alarmed before his master. Thomas’s master felt the honour keenly. He went through and looked at the pointers. As Flora205 put her nose up to his waistcoat, and Ponto, yelling with pleasure, hurtled at his chain, Pen patronised the dogs, and said, “Poo Ponto, poo Flora,” in his most condescending206 manner. And then he went and looked at Laura’s hens, and at the pigs, and at the orchard207, and at the dairy; perhaps he blushed to think that it was only last holidays he had in a manner robbed the great apple-tree, and been scolded by the dairymaid for taking cream.
They buried John Pendennis, Esquire, “formerly an eminent208 medical practitioner at Bath, and subsequently an able magistrate187, a benevolent209 landlord, and a benefactor210 to many charities and public institutions in this neighbourhood and county,” with one of the most handsome funerals that had been seen since Sir Roger Clavering was buried here, the clerk said, in the abbey church of Clavering St. Mary’s. A fair marble slab211, from which the above inscription212 is copied, was erected213 over the Fairoaks’ pew in the church. On it you may see the Pendennis coat of arms, and crest214, an eagle looking towards the sun, with the motto ‘nec tenui penna,’ to the present day. Doctor Portman alluded to the deceased most handsomely and affectingly, as “our dear departed friend,” in his sermon next Sunday; and Arthur Pendennis reigned215 in his stead.
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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pestle
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| n.杵 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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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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apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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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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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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48
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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49
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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50
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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51
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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52
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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53
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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54
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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55
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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56
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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58
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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59
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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60
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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61
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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69
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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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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72
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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intercepting
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| 截取（技术），截接 | |
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81
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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84
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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85
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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87
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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88
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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89
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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91
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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92
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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93
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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94
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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95
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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96
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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97
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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98
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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99
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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100
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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101
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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102
frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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103
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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104
biennial
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| adj.两年一次的 | |
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105
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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106
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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107
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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108
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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109
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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110
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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111
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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112
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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113
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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114
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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115
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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116
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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117
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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118
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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119
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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120
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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121
elicits
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| 引出，探出( elicit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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123
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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124
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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125
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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126
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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127
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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128
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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129
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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130
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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131
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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132
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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133
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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134
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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135
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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136
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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137
disburse
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| v.支出，拨款 | |
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138
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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139
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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140
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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141
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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143
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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144
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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145
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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146
inebriation
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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147
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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148
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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149
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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150
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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151
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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152
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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153
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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154
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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155
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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156
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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157
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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158
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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159
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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160
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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161
construes
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的第三人称单数 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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162
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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163
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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164
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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165
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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166
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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167
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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168
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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169
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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170
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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171
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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172
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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173
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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174
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
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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176
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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177
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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178
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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179
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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180
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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181
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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182
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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183
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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184
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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185
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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186
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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187
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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188
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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189
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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190
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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191
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
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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193
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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194
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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195
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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196
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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197
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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198
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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199
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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200
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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201
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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202
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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203
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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204
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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205
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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206
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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207
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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208
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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209
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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210
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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211
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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212
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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213
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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214
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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215
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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