Our friend Pen was not sorry when his Mentor1 took leave of the young gentleman on the second day after the arrival of the pair in Oxbridge, and we may be sure that the Major on his part was very glad to have discharged his duty, and to have the duty over. More than three months of precious time had that martyr2 of a Major given up to his nephew — Was ever selfish man called upon to make a greater sacrifice? Do you know many men or Majors who would do as much? A man will lay down his head, or peril3 his life for his honour, but let us be shy how we ask him to give up his ease or his heart’s desire. Very few of us can bear that trial. Say, worthy4 reader, if thou hast peradventure a beard, wouldst thou do as much? I will not say that a woman will not. They are used to it: we take care to accustom5 them to sacrifices but, my good sir, the amount of self-denial which you have probably exerted through life, when put down to your account elsewhere, will not probably swell6 the balance on the credit side much. Well, well, there is no use in speaking of such ugly matters, and you are too polite to use a vulgar to quoque. But I wish to state once for all that I greatly admire the Major for his conduct during the past quarter, and think that he has quite a right to be pleased at getting a holiday. Foker and Pen saw him off in the coach, and the former young gentleman gave particular orders to the coachman to take care of that gentleman inside. It pleased the elder Pendennis to have his nephew in the company of a young fellow who would introduce him to the best set of the university. The Major rushed off to London and thence to Cheltenham, from which Watering-place he descended7 upon some neighbouring great houses, whereof the families were not gone abroad, and where good shooting and company was to be had.
A quarter of the space which custom has awarded to works styled the Serial8 Nature, has been assigned to the account of one passage in Pen’s career, and it is manifest that the whole of his adventures cannot be treated at a similar length, unless some descendant of the chronicler of Pen’s history should take up the pen at his decease, and continue the narrative9 for the successors of the present generation of readers. We are not about to go through the young fellow’s academical career with, by any means, a similar minuteness. Alas10, the life of such boys does not bear telling altogether. I wish it did. I ask you, does yours? As long as what we call our honour is clear, I suppose your mind is pretty easy. Women are pure, but not men. Women are unselfish, but not men. And I would not wish to say of poor Arthur Pendennis that he was worse than his neighbours, only that his neighbours are bad for the most part. Let us have the candour to own as much at least. Can you point out ten spotless men of your acquaintance? Mine is pretty large, but I can’t find ten saints in the list.
During the first term of Mr. Pen’s academical life, he attended classical and mathematical lectures with tolerable assiduity; but discovering before very long time that he had little taste or genius for the pursuing of the exact sciences, and being perhaps rather annoyed that one or two very vulgar young men, who did not even use straps11 to their trousers so as to cover the abominably13 thick and coarse shoes and stockings which they wore, beat him completely in the lecture-room, he gave up his attendance at that course, and announced to his fond parent that he proposed to devote himself exclusively to the cultivation14 of Greek and Roman Literature.
Mrs. Pendennis was, for her part, quite satisfied that her darling boy should pursue that branch of learning for which he had the greatest inclination15; and only besought16 him not to ruin his health by too much study, for she had heard the most melancholy17 stories of young students who, by over-fatigue, had brought on brain-fevers and perished untimely in the midst of their university career. And Pen’s health, which was always delicate, was to be regarded, as she justly said, beyond all considerations or vain honours. Pen, although not aware of any lurking18 disease which was likely to end his life, yet kindly19 promised his mamma not to sit up reading too late of nights, and stuck to his word in this respect with a great deal more tenacity20 of resolution than he exhibited upon some other occasions, when perhaps he was a little remiss21.
Presently he began too to find that he learned little good in the classical lecture. His fellow-students there were too dull, as in mathematics they were too learned for him. Mr. Buck22, the tutor, was no better a scholar than many a fifth-form boy at Grey Friars; might have some stupid humdrum23 notions about the metre and grammatical construction of a passage of Aeschylus or Aristophanes, but had no more notion of the poetry than Mrs. Binge, his bed-maker; and Pen grew weary of hearing the dull students and tutor blunder through a few lines of a play, which he could read in a tenth part of the time which they gave to it. After all, private reading, as he began to perceive, was the only study which was really profitable to a man; and he announced to his mamma that he should read by himself a great deal more, and in public a great deal less. That excellent woman knew no more about Homer than she did about Algebra25, but she was quite contented26 with Pen’s arrangements regarding his course of studies, and felt perfectly27 confident that her dear boy would get the place which he merited.
Pen did not come home until after Christmas, a little to the fond mother’s disappointment, and Laura’s, who was longing28 for him to make a fine snow fortification, such as he had made three winters before. But he was invited to Logwood, Lady Agnes Foker’s, where there were private theatricals29, and a gay Christmas party of very fine folks, some of them whom Major Pendennis would on no account have his nephew neglect. However, he stayed at home for the last three weeks of the vacation, and Laura had the opportunity of remarking what a quantity of fine new clothes he brought with him, and his mother admired his improved appearance and manly30 and decided31 tone.
He did not come home at Easter; but when he arrived for the long vacation, he brought more smart clothes; appearing in the morning in wonderful shooting jackets, with remarkable33 buttons; and in the evening in gorgeous velvet34 waistcoats, with richly-embroidered cravats35, and curious linen36. And as she pried37 about his room, she saw, oh, such a beautiful dressing-case, with silver mountings, and a quantity of lovely rings and jewellery. And he had a new French watch and gold chain, in place of the big old chronometer38, with its bunch of jingling39 seals, which had hung from the fob of John Pendennis, and by the second-hand40 of which the defunct41 doctor had felt many a patient’s pulse in his time. It was but a few months back Pen had longed for this watch, which he thought the most splendid and august timepiece in the world; and just before he went to college, Helen had taken it out of her trinket-box (where it had remained unwound since the death of her husband) and given it to Pen with a solemn and appropriate little speech respecting his father’s virtues42 and the proper use of time. This portly and valuable chronometer Pen now pronounced to be out of date, and, indeed, made some comparisons between it and a warming-pan, which Laura thought disrespectful, and he left the watch in a drawer, in the company of soiled primrose44 gloves, cravats which had gone out of favour, and of that other school watch which has once before been mentioned in this history. Our old friend, Rebecca, Pen pronounced to be no long up to his weight, and swapped45 her away for another and more powerful horse, for which he had to pay rather a heavy figure. Mr. Pendennis gave the boy the money for the new horse; and Laura cried when Rebecca was fetched away.
Also Pen brought a large box of cigars branded Colorados, Afrancesados, Telescopios, Fudson Oxford46 Street, or by some such strange titles, and began to consume these not only about the stables and green-houses, where they were very good for Helen’s plants, but in his own study, of which practice his mother did not at first approve. But he was at work upon a prize-poem, he said, and could not compose without his cigar, and quoted the late lamented47 it Lord Byron’s lines in favour of the custom of smoking. As he was smoking to such good purpose, his mother could not of course refuse permission: in fact, the good soul coming into the room one day in the midst of Pen’s labours (he was consulting a novel which had recently appeared, for the cultivation of the light literature of his own country as well as of foreign nations became every student)— Helen, we say, coming into the room and finding Pen on the sofa at this work, rather than disturb him went for a light-box and his cigar-case to his bedroom which was adjacent, and actually put the cigar into his mouth and lighted the match at which he kindled49 it. Pen laughed, and kissed his mother’s hand as it hung fondly over the back of the sofa. “Dear old mother,” he said, “if I were to tell you to burn the house down, I think you would do it.” And it is very likely that Mr. Pen was right, and that the foolish woman would have done almost as much for him as he said.
Besides the works of English “light literature” which this diligent50 student devoured51, he brought down boxes of the light literature of the neighbouring country of France: into the leaves of which when Helen dipped, she read such things as caused her to open her eyes with wonder. But Pen showed her that it was not he who made the books, though it was absolutely necessary that he should keep up his French by an acquaintance with the most celebrated52 writers of the day, and that it was as clearly his duty to read the eminent53 Paul de Kock, as to study Swift or Moliere. And Mrs. Pendennis yielded with a sigh of perplexity. But Miss Laura was warned off the books, both by his anxious mother, and that rigid54 moralist Mr. Arthur Pendennis himself, who, however he might be called upon to study every branch of literature in order to form his mind and to perfect his style, would by no means prescribe such a course of reading to a young lady whose business in life was very different.
In the course of this long vacation Mr. Pen drank up the bin24 of claret which his father had laid in, and of which we have heard the son remark that there was not a headache in a hogshead; and this wine being exhausted55, he wrote for a further supply to “his wine merchants,” Messrs. Binney and Latham of Mark Lane, London: from whom, indeed, old Doctor Portman had recommended Pen to get a supply of port and sherry on going to college. “You will have, no doubt, to entertain your young friends at Boniface with wine-parties,” the honest rector had remarked to the lad. “They used to be customary at college in my time, and I would advise you to employ an honest and respectable house in London for your small stock of wine, rather than to have recourse to the Oxbridge tradesmen, whose liquor, if I remember rightly, was both deleterious in quality and exorbitant57 in price.” And the obedient young gentleman took the Doctor’s advice, and patronised Messrs. Binney and Latham at the rector’s suggestion.
So when he wrote orders for a stock of wine to be sent down to the cellars at Fairoaks, he hinted that Messrs. B. and L. might send in his university account for wine at the same time with the Fairoaks bill. The poor widow was frightened at the amount. But Pen laughed at her old-fashioned views, said that the bill was moderate, that everybody drank claret and champagne58 now, and, finally, the widow paid, feeling dimly that the expenses of her household were increasing considerably59, and that her narrow income would scarce suffice to meet them. But they were only occasional. Pen merely came home for a few weeks at the vacation. Laura and she might pinch when he was gone. In the brief time he was with them, ought they not to make him happy?
Arthur’s own allowances were liberal all this time; indeed, much more so than those of the sons of far more wealthy men. Years before, the thrifty60 and affectionate John Pendennis, whose darling project it had ever been to give his son a university education, and those advantages of which his own father’s extravagance had deprived him, had begun laying by a store of money which he called Arthur’s Education Fund. Year after year in his book his executors found entries of sums vested as A. E. F., and during the period subsequent to her husband’s decease, and before Pen’s entry at college, the widow had added sundry61 sums to this fund, so that when Arthur went up to Oxbridge it reached no inconsiderable amount. Let him be liberally allowanced, was Major Pendennis’s maxim62. Let him make his first entree63 into the world as a gentleman, and take his place with men of good rank and station: after giving it to him, it will be his own duty to hold it. There is no such bad policy as stinting64 a boy — or putting him on a lower allowance than his fellows. Arthur will have to face the world and fight for himself presently. Meanwhile we shall have procured65 for him good friends, gentlemanly habits, and have him well backed and well trained against the time when the real struggle comes. And these liberal opinions the Major probably advanced both because they were just, and because he was not dealing66 with his own money.
Thus young Pen, the only son of an estated country gentleman, with a good allowance, and a gentlemanlike bearing and person, looked to be a lad of much more consequence than he was really; and was held by the Oxbridge authorities, tradesmen, and undergraduates, as quite a young buck and member of the aristocracy. His manner was frank, brave, and perhaps a little impertinent, as becomes a high-spirited youth. He was perfectly generous and free-handed with his money, which seemed pretty plentiful67. He loved joviality68, and had a good voice for a song. Boat-racing70 had not risen in Pen’s time to the fureur which, as we are given to understand, it has since attained71 in the university; and riding and tandem-driving were the fashions of the ingenuous72 youth. Pen rode well to hounds, appeared in pink, as became a young buck, and, not particularly extravagant73 in equestrian74 or any other amusement, yet managed to run up a fine bill at Nile’s, the livery-stable keeper, and in a number of other quarters. In fact, this lucky young gentleman had almost every taste to a considerable degree. He was very fond of books of all sorts: Doctor Portman had taught him to like rare editions, and his own taste led him to like beautiful bindings. It was marvellous what tall copies, and gilding75, and marbling, and blind-tooling, the booksellers and binders76 put upon Pen’s bookshelves. He had a very fair taste in matters of art, and a keen relish77 for prints of a high school — none of your French Opera Dancers, or tawdry Racing Prints, such as had delighted the simple eyes of Mr. Spicer, his predecessor78 — but your Stranges, and Rembrandt etchings, and Wilkies before the letter, with which his apartments were furnished presently in the most perfect good taste, as was allowed in the university, where this young fellow got no small reputation. We have mentioned that he exhibited a certain partiality for rings, jewellery, and fine raiment of all sorts; and it must be owned that Mr. Pen, during his time at the university, was rather a dressy man, and loved to array himself in splendour. He and his polite friends would dress themselves out with as much care in order to go and dine at each other’s rooms, as other folks would who were going to enslave a mistress. They said he used to wear rings over his kid gloves, which he always denies; but what follies79 will not youth perpetrate with its own admirable gravity and simplicity80? That he took perfumed baths is a truth; and he used to say that he took them after meeting certain men of a very low set in hall.
In Pen’s second year, when Miss Fotheringay made her chief hit in London, and scores of prints were published of her, Pen had one of these hung in his bedroom, and confided81 to the men of his set how awfully82, how wildly, how madly, how passionately84, he had loved that woman. He showed them in confidence the verses that he had written to her, and his brow would darken, his eyes roll, his chest heave with emotion as he recalled that fatal period of his life, and described the woes85 and agonies which he had suffered. The verses were copied out, handed about, sneered86 at, admired, passed from coterie87 to coterie. There are few things which elevate a lad in the estimation of his brother boys, more than to have a character for a great and romantic passion. Perhaps there is something noble in it at all times — among very young men it is considered heroic — Pen was pronounced a tremendous fellow. They said he had almost committed suicide: that he had fought a duel88 with a baronet about her. Freshmen89 pointed90 him out to each other. As at the promenade91 time at two o’clock he swaggered out of college, surrounded by his cronies, he was famous to behold92. He was elaborately attired93. He would ogle94 the ladies who came to lionise the university, and passed before him on the arms of happy gownsmen, and give his opinion upon their personal charms, or their toilettes, with the gravity of a critic whose experience entitled him to speak with authority. Men used to say that they had been walking with Pendennis, and were as pleased to be seen in his company as some of us would be if we walked with a duke down Pall95 Mall. He and the Proctor capped each other as they met, as if they were rival powers, and the men hardly knew which was the greater.
In fact, in the course of his second year, Arthur Pendennis had become one of the men of fashion in the university. It is curious to watch that facile admiration96, and simple fidelity97 of youth. They hang round a leader; and wonder at him, and love him, and imitate him. No generous boy ever lived, I suppose, that has not had some wonderment of admiration for another boy; and Monsieur Pen at Oxbridge had his school, his faithful band of friends and his rivals. When the young men heard at the haberdashers’ shops that Mr. Pendennis, of Boniface, had just ordered a crimson98 satin-cravat, you would see a couple of dozen crimson satin cravats in Main Street in the course of the week — and Simon, the Jeweller, was known to sell no less than two gross of Pendennis pins, from a pattern which the young gentleman had selected in his shop.
Now if any person with an arithmetical turn of mind will take the trouble to calculate what a sum of money it would cost a young man to indulge freely in all the above propensities99 which we have said Mr. Pen possessed100, it will be seen that a young fellow, with such liberal tastes and amusements, must needs in the course of two or three years spend or owe a very handsome sum of money. We have said our friend Pen had not a calculating turn. No one propensity101 of his was outrageously102 extravagant; and it is certain that Paddington’s tailor’s account; Guttlebury’s cook’s bill for dinners; Dillon Tandy’s bill with Finn, the print seller, for Raphael-Morgheus and Landseer proofs, and Wormall’s dealings with Parkton, the great bookseller, for Aldine editions, black-letter folios, and richly illuminated103 Missals of the XVI. Century; and Snaffle’s or Foker’s score with Nile the horsedealer, were, each and all of them, incomparably greater than any little bills which Mr. Pen might run up with the above-mentioned tradesmen. But Pendennis of Boniface had the advantage over all these young gentlemen, his friends and associates, of a universality of taste: and whereas young Lord Paddington did not care twopence for the most beautiful print, or to look into any gilt104 frame that had not a mirror within it; and Guttlebury did not mind in the least how he was dressed, and had an aversion for horse exercise, nay105 a terror of it; and Snaffle never read any printed works but the ‘Racing Calendar’ or ‘Bell’s Life,’ or cared for any manuscript except his greasy106 little scrawl107 of a betting-book:— our Catholic-minded young friend occupied himself in every one of the branches of science or pleasure above-mentioned, and distinguished108 himself tolerably in each.
Hence young Pen got a prodigious109 reputation in the university, and was hailed as a sort of Crichton; and as for the English verse prize, in competition for which we have seen him busily engaged at Fairoaks, Jones of Jesus carried it that year certainly, but the undergraduates thought Pen’s a much finer poem, and he had his verses printed at his own expense, and distributed in gilt morocco covers amongst his acquaintance. I found a copy of it lately in a dusty corner of Mr. Pen’s bookcases, and have it before me this minute, bound up in a collection of old Oxbridge tracts110, university statutes111, prize-poems by successful and unsuccessful candidates, declamations recited in the college chapel113, speeches delivered at the Union Debating Society, and inscribed114 by Arthur with his name and college, Pendennis — Boniface; or presented to him by his affectionate friend Thompson or Jackson, the author. How strange the epigraphs look in those half-boyish hands, and what a thrill the sight of the documents gives one after the lapse115 of a few lustres! How fate, since that time, has removed some, estranged116 others, dealt awfully with all! Many a hand is cold that wrote those kindly memorials, and that we pressed in the confident and generous grasp of youthful friendship. What passions our friendships were in those old days, how artless and void of doubt! How the arm you were never tired of having linked in yours under the fair college avenues or by the river side, where it washes Magdalen Gardens, or Christ Church Meadows, or winds by Trinity and King’s, was withdrawn117 of necessity, when you entered presently the world, and each parted to push and struggle for himself through the great mob on the way through life! Are we the same men now that wrote those inscriptions118 — that read those poems? that delivered or heard those essays and speeches so simple, so pompous119, so ludicrously solemn; parodied120 so artlessly from books, and spoken with smug chubby121 faces, and such an admirable aping of wisdom and gravity? Here is the book before me: it is scarcely fifteen years old. Here is Jack32 moaning with despair and Byronic misanthropy, whose career at the university was one of unmixed milk-punch. Here is Tom’s daring Essay in defence of suicide and of republicanism in general, apropos122 of the death of Roland and the Girondins — Tom’s, who wears the starchest tie in all the diocese, and would go to Smithfield rather than eat a beefsteak on a Friday in Lent. Here is Bob of the —— Circuit, who has made a fortune in Railroad Committees, and whose dinners are so good — bellowing123 out with Tancred and Godfrey, “On to the breach124, ye soldiers of the cross, Scale the red wall and swim the choking foss. Ye dauntless archers125, twang your cross-bows well; On, bill and battle-axe and mangonel! Ply56 battering-ram and hurtling catapult, Jerusalem is ours — id Deus vult.” After which comes a mellifluous126 description of the gardens of Sharon and the maids of Salem, and a prophecy that roses shall deck the entire country of Syria, and a speedy reign48 of peace be established — all in undeniably decasyllabic lines, and the queerest aping of sense and sentiment and poetry. And there are Essays and Poems along with these grave parodies127, and boyish exercises (which are at once so frank and false and mirthful, yet, somehow, so mournful) by youthful hands, that shall never write more. Fate has interposed darkly, and the young voices are silent, and the eager brains have ceased to work. This one had genius and a great descent, and seemed to be destined128 for honours which now are of little worth to him: that had virtue43, learning, genius — every faculty129 and endowment which might secure love, admiration, and worldly fame: an obscure and solitary130 churchyard contains the grave of many fond hopes, and the pathetic stone which bids them farewell — I saw the sun shining on it in the fall of last year, and heard the sweet village choir131 raising anthems132 round about. What boots whether it be Westminster or a little country spire133 which covers your ashes, or if, a few days sooner or later, the world forgets you?
Amidst these friends, then, and a host more, Pen passed more than two brilliant and happy years of his life. He had his fill of pleasure and popularity. No dinner — or supper-party was complete without him; and Pen’s jovial69 wit, and Pen’s songs, and dashing courage and frank and manly bearing, charmed all the undergraduates, and even disarmed134 the tutors who cried out at his idleness, and murmured about his extravagant way of life. Though he became the favourite and leader of young men who were much his superiors in wealth and station, he was much too generous to endeavour to propitiate135 them by any meanness or cringing136 on his own part, and would not neglect the humblest man of his acquaintance in order to curry137 favour with the richest young grandee138 in the university. His name is still remembered at the Union Debating Club, as one of the brilliant orators139 of his day. By the way, from having been an ardent140 Tory in his freshman141’s year, his principles took a sudden turn afterwards, and he became a liberal of the most violent order. He avowed142 himself a Dantonist, and asserted that Louis the Sixteenth was served right. And as for Charles the First, he vowed143 that he would chop off that monarch’s head with his own right hand were he then in the room at the Union Debating Club, and had Cromwell no other executioner for the traitor144. He and Lord Magnus Charters, the Marquis of Runnymede’s son, before-mentioned, were the most truculent145 republicans of their day.
There are reputations of this sort made, quite independent of the collegiate hierarchy146, in the republic of gownsmen. A man may be famous in the Honour-lists and entirely147 unknown to the undergraduates: who elect kings and chieftains of their own, whom they admire and obey, as negro-gangs have private black sovereigns in their own body, to whom they pay an occult obedience148, besides that which they publicly profess149 for their owners and drivers. Among the young ones Pen became famous and popular: not that he did much, but there was a general determination that he could do a great deal if he chose. “Ah, if Pendennis of Boniface would but try,” the men said, “he might do anything.” He was backed for the Greek Ode won by Smith of Trinity; everybody was sure he would have the Latin hexameter prize which Brown of St. John’s, however, carried off, and in this way one university honour after another was lost by him, until, after two or three failures, Mr. Pen ceased to compete. But he got a declamation112 prize in his own college, and brought home to his mother and Laura at Fairoaks a set of prize-books begilt with the college arms, and so big, well-bound, and magnificent, that these ladies thought there had been no such prize ever given in a college before as this of Pen’s, and that he had won the very largest honour which Oxbridge was capable of awarding.
As vacation after vacation and term after term passed away without the desired news that Pen had sate150 for any scholarship or won any honour, Doctor Portman grew mightily151 gloomy in his behaviour towards Arthur, and adopted a sulky grandeur152 of deportment towards him, which the lad returned by a similar haughtiness153. One vacation he did not call upon the Doctor at all, much to his mother’s annoyance154, who thought that it was a privilege to enter the Rectory-house at Clavering, and listened to Dr. Portman’s antique jokes and stories, though ever so often repeated, with unfailing veneration155. “I cannot stand the Doctor’s patronising air”, Pen said. “He’s too kind to me, a great deal fatherly. I have seen in the world better men than him, and am not going to bore myself by listening to his dull old stories and drinking his stupid old port wine.” The tacit feud156 between Pen and the Doctor made the widow nervous, so that she too avoided Portman, and was afraid to go to the Rectory when Arthur was at home.
One Sunday in the last long vacation, the wretched boy pushed his rebellious157 spirit so far as not to go to church, and he was seen at the gate of the Clavering Arms smoking a cigar, in the face of the congregation as it issued from St. Mary’s. There was an awful sensation in the village society, Portman prophesied158 Pen’s ruin after that, and groaned159 in spirit over the rebellious young prodigal160.
So did Helen tremble in her heart, and little Laura — Laura had grown to be a fine young stripling by this time, graceful161 and fair, clinging round Helen and worshipping her, with a passionate83 affection. Both of these women felt that their boy was changed. He was no longer the artless Pen of old days, so brave, so artless, so impetuous, and tender. His face looked careworn162 and haggard, his voice had a deeper sound, and tones more sarcastic163. Care seemed to be pursuing him; but he only laughed when his mother questioned him, and parried her anxious queries164 with some scornful jest. Nor did he spend much of his vacations at home; he went on visits to one great friend or another, and scared the quiet pair at Fairoaks by stories of great houses whither he had been invited; and by talking of lords without their titles.
Honest Harry165 Foker, who had been the means of introducing Arthur Pendennis to that set of young men at the university, from whose society and connexions Arthur’s uncle expected that the lad would get so much benefit; who had called for Arthur’s first song at his first supper-party; and who had presented him at the Barmecide Club, where none but the very best men of Oxbridge were admitted (it consisted in Pen’s time of six noblemen, eight gentlemen-pensioners, and twelve of the most select commoners of the university), soon found himself left far behind by the young freshman in the fashionable world of Oxbridge, and being a generous and worthy fellow, without a spark of envy in his composition, was exceedingly pleased at the success of his young protege, and admired Pen quite as much as any of the other youth did. I was he who followed Pen now, and quoted his sayings; learned his songs, and retailed166 them at minor167 supper-parties, and was never weary of hearing them from the gifted young poet’s own mouth — for a good deal of the time which Mr. Pen might have employed much more advantageously in the pursuit of the regular scholastic168 studies, was given up to the composition of secular169 ballads170, which he sang about at parties according to university wont171.
It had been as well for Arthur if the honest Foker had remained for some time at college, for, with all his vivacity172, he was a prudent173 young man, and often curbed174 Pen’s propensity to extravagance: but Foker’s collegiate career did not last very long after Arthur’s entrance at Boniface. Repeated differences with the university authorities caused Mr. Foker to quit Oxbridge in an untimely manner. He would persist in attending races on the neighbouring Hungerford Heath, in spite of the injunctions of his academic superiors. He never could be got to frequent the chapel of the college with that regularity175 of piety176 which Alma Mater demands from her children; tandems177, which are abominations in the eyes of the heads and tutors, were Foker’s greatest delight, and so reckless was his driving and frequent the accidents and upsets out of his drag, that Pen called taking a drive with him taking the “Diversions of Purley;” finally, having a dinner-party at his rooms to entertain some friends from London, nothing would satisfy Mr. Foker but painting Mr. Buck’s door vermilion, in which freak he was caught by the proctors; and although young Black Strap12, the celebrated negro fighter, who was one of Mr. Foker’s distinguished guests, and was holding the can of paint while the young artist operated on the door, knocked down two of the proctor’s attendants and performed prodigies178 of valour, yet these feats179 rather injured than served Foker, whom the proctor knew very well and who was taken with the brush in his hand, and who was summarily convened180 and sent down from the university.
The tutor wrote a very kind and feeling letter to Lady Agnes on the subject, stating that everybody was fond of the youth; that he never meant harm to any mortal creature; that he for his own part would have been delighted to pardon the harmless little boyish frolic, had not its unhappy publicity181 rendered it impossible to look the freak over, and breathing the most fervent182 wishes for the young fellow’s welfare — wishes no doubt sincere, for Foker, as we know, came of a noble family on his mother’s side, and on the other was heir to a great number of thousand pounds a year.
“It don’t matter,” said Foker, talking over the matter with Pen,—“a little sooner or a little later, what is the odds183? I should have been plucked for my little-go again, I know I should — that Latin I cannot screw into my head, and my mamma’s anguish184 would have broke out next term. The Governor will blow like an old grampus, I know he will,— well, we must stop till he gets his wind again. I shall probably go abroad and improve my mind with foreign travel. Yes, parly-voo’s the ticket. It’ly, and that sort of thing. I’ll go to Paris and learn to dance and complete my education. But it’s not me I’m anxious about, Pen. As long as people drink beer I don’t care,— it’s about you I’m doubtful, my boy. You’re going too fast, and can’t keep up the pace, I tell you. It’s not the fifty you owe me,— pay it or not when you like,— but it’s the every-day pace, and I tell you it will kill you. You’re livin’ as if there was no end to the money in the stockin’ at home. You oughtn’t to give dinners, you ought to eat ’em. Fellows are glad to have you. You oughtn’t to owe horse bills, you ought to ride other chaps’ nags185. You know no more about betting than I do about Algebra: the chaps will win your money as sure as you sport it. Hang me if you are not trying everything. I saw you sit down to ecarte last week at Trumpington’s, and taking your turn with the bones after Ringwood’s supper. They’ll beat you at it, Pen, my boy, even if they play on the square, which. I don’t say they don’t, nor which I don’t say they do, mind. But I won’t play with ’em. You’re no match for ’em. You ain’t up to their weight. It’s like little Black Strap standing186 up to Tom Spring,— the Black’s a pretty fighter but, Law bless you, his arm ain’t long enough to touch Tom,— and I tell you, you’re going it with fellers beyond your weight. Look here — If you’ll promise me never to bet nor touch a box nor a card, I’ll let you off the two ponies187.”
But Pen, laughingly, said, “that though it wasn’t convenient to him to pay the two ponies at that moment, he by no means wished to be let off any just debts he owed;” and he and Foker parted, not without many dark forebodings on the latter’s part with regard to his friend, who Harry thought was travelling speedily on the road to ruin.
“One must do at Rome as Rome does,” Pen said, in a dandified manner, jingling some sovereigns in his waistcoat-pocket. “A little quiet play at ecarte can’t hurt a man who plays pretty well — I came away fourteen sovereigns richer from Ringwood’s supper, and, gad188! I wanted the money.” — And he walked off, after having taken leave of poor Foker, who went away without any beat of drum, or offer to drive the coach out of Oxbridge, to superintend a little dinner which he was going to give at his own rooms in Boniface, about which dinners, the cook of the college, who had a great respect for Mr. Pendennis, always took especial pains for his young favourite.
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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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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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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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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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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chronometer
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| n.精密的计时器 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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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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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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55
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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57
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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58
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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entree
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| n.入场权，进入权 | |
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stinting
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| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
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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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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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68
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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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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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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binders
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| n.（司机行话）刹车器；（书籍的）装订机( binder的名词复数 )；（购买不动产时包括预付订金在内的）保证书；割捆机；活页封面 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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freshmen
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| n.（中学或大学的）一年级学生( freshman的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ogle
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| v.看；送秋波；n.秋波，媚眼 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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107
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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108
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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109
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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110
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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111
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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112
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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113
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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114
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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115
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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116
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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117
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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118
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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119
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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120
parodied
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| v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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122
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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123
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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124
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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125
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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126
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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127
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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129
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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130
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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131
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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132
anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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133
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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134
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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135
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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136
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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137
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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138
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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139
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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140
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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141
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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142
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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143
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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144
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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145
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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146
hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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147
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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148
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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149
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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150
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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151
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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152
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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153
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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154
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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155
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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156
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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157
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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158
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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160
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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161
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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162
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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163
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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164
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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165
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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166
retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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167
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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168
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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169
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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170
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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171
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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172
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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173
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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174
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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176
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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177
tandems
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| n.串联式自行车( tandem的名词复数 ) | |
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178
prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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179
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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180
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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181
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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182
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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183
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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184
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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185
nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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186
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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187
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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188
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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