Our imprisoned1 Captain announced, in smart and emphatic2 language in his prospectus3, that the time had come at last when it was necessary for the gentlemen of England to band together in defence of their common rights and their glorious order, menaced on all sides by foreign revolutions, by intestine4 radicalism6, by the artful calumnies7 of mill-owners and cotton-lords, and the stupid hostility8 of the masses whom they gulled9 and led. “The ancient monarchy10 was insulted,” the Captain said, “by a ferocious11 republican rabble12. The Church was deserted13 by envious14 dissent15, and undermined by stealthy infidelity. The good institutions, which had made our country glorious, and the name of English Gentleman the proudest in the world, were left without defence, and exposed to assault and contumely from men to whom no sanctuary16 was sacred, for they believed in nothing holy; no history venerable, for they were too ignorant to have heard of the past; and no law was binding17 which they were strong enough to break, when their leaders gave the signal for plunder18. It was because the kings of France mistrusted their gentlemen,” Mr. Shandon remarked, “that the monarchy of Saint Louis went down: it was because the people of England still believed in their gentlemen, that this country encountered and overcame the greatest enemy a nation ever met: it was because we were headed by gentlemen, that the Eagles retreated before us from the Donro to the Garonne: it was a gentleman who broke the line at Trafalgar, and swept the plain of Waterloo.”
Bungay nodded his head in a knowing manner, and winked19 his eyes when the Captain came to the Waterloo passage: and Warrington burst out laughing.
“You see how our venerable friend Bungay is affected20,” Shandon said, slily looking up from his papers —“that’s your true sort of test. I have used the Duke of Wellington and the battle of Waterloo a hundred times, and I never knew the Duke to fail.”
The Captain then went on to confess, with much candour, that up to the present time the gentlemen of England, confident of their right, and careless of those who questioned it, had left the political interest of their order as they did the management of their estates, or the settlement of their legal affairs, to persons affected to each peculiar21 service, and had permitted their interests to be represented in the press by professional proctors and advocates. That time Shandon professed22 to consider was now gone by: the gentlemen of England must be their own champions: the declared enemies of their order were brave, strong, numerous, and uncompromising. They must meet their foes23 in the field: they must not be belied24 and misrepresented by hireling advocates: they must not have Grub Street publishing Gazettes from Whitehall; “that’s a dig at Bacon’s people, Mr. Bungay,” said Shandon, turning round to the publisher. Bungay clapped his stick on the floor. “Hang him, pitch into him, Capting,” he said with exultation26: and turning to Warrington, wagged his dull head more vehemently27 than ever, and said, “For a slashing28 article, sir, there’s nobody like the Capting — no-obody like him.”
The prospectus-writer went on to say that some gentlemen, whose names were, for obvious reasons, not brought before the public (at which Mr. Warrington began to laugh again), had determined29 to bring forward a journal, of which the principles were so-and-so. “These men are proud of their order, and anxious to uphold it,” cried out Captain Shandon, flourishing his paper with a grin. “They are loyal to their Sovereign, by faithful conviction and ancestral allegiance; they love their Church, where they would have their children worship, and for which their forefathers30 bled; they love their country, and would keep it what the gentlemen of England — yes, the gentlemen of England (we’ll have that in large caps, Bungay, my boy) have made it — the greatest and freest in the world: and as the names of some of them are appended to the deed which secured our liberties at Runnymede —”
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Bungay.
“An ancestor of mine sealed it with his sword-hilt,” Pen said, with great gravity.
“It’s the Habeas Corpus, Mr. Bungay,” Warrington said, on which the publisher answered, “All right, I dare say,” and yawned, though he said, “Go on, Capting.”
“— at Runnymede; they are ready to defend that freedom today with sword and pen, and now, as then, to rally round the old laws and liberties of England.”
“Bravo!” cried Warrington. The little child stood wondering; the lady was working silently, and looking with fond admiration31. “Come here, little Mary,” said Warrington, and patted the child’s fair curls with his large hand. But she shrank back from his rough caress32, and preferred to go and take refuge at Pen’s knee, and play with his fine watch-chain: and Pen was very much pleased that she came to him; for he was very soft-hearted and simple, though he concealed33 his gentleness under a shy and pompous34 demeanour. So she clambered up on his lap, whilst her father continued to read his programme.
“You were laughing,” the Captain said to Warrington, “about ‘the obvious reasons’ which I mentioned. Now, I’ll show ye what they are, ye unbelieving heathen. ‘We have said,’” he went on, “‘that we cannot give the names of the parties engaged in this undertaking35, and that there were obvious reasons for that concealment36. We number influential37 friends in both Houses of the Senate, and have secured allies in every diplomatic circle in Europe. Our sources of intelligence are such as cannot, by any possibility, be made public — and, indeed, such as no other London or European journal could, by any chance, acquire. But this we are free to say, that the very earliest information connected with the movement of English and Continental38 politics will be found only in the columns of the Pall39 Mall Gazette, The Statesman and the Capitalist, the Country Gentleman and the Divine, will be amongst our readers, because our writers are amongst them. We address ourselves to the higher circles of society: we care not to disown it — the Pall Mall Gazette is written by gentlemen for gentlemen; its conductors speak to the classes in which they live and were born. The field-preacher has his journal, the radical5 free-thinker has his journal: why should the Gentlemen of England be unrepresented in the Press?’”
Mr. Shandon then went on with much modesty40 to descant41 upon the literary and fashionable departments of the Pall Mall Gazette, which were to be conducted by gentlemen of acknowledged reputation; men famous at the Universities (at which Mr Pendennis could scarcely help laughing and blushing), known at the Clubs, and of the Society which they described. He pointed43 out delicately to advertisers that there would be no such medium as the Pall Mall Gazette for giving publicity44 to their sales; and he eloquently45 called upon the nobility of England, the baronetage of England, the revered46 clergy47 of England, the bar of England, the matrons, the daughters, the homes and hearths48 of England, to rally round the good old cause; and Bungay at the conclusion of the reading woke up from a second snooze in which he had indulged himself, and again said it was all right.
The reading of the prospectus concluded, the gentlemen present entered into some details regarding the political and literary management of the paper, and Mr. Bungay sate49 by listening and nodding his head, as if he understood what was the subject of their conversation, and approved of their opinions. Bungay’s opinions, in truth, were pretty simple. He thought the Captain could write the best smashing article in England. He wanted the opposition50 house of Bacon smashed, and it was his opinion that the Captain could do that business. If the Captain had written a letter of Junius on a sheet of paper, or copied a part of the Church Catechism, Mr. Bungay would have been perfectly51 contented52, and have considered that the article was a smashing article. And he pocketed the papers with the greatest satisfaction: and he not only paid for the MS., as we have seen, but he called little Mary to him, and gave her a penny as he went away.
The reading of the manuscript over, the party engaged in general conversation, Shandon leading with a jaunty53 fashionable air in compliment to the two guests who sate with him and, and who, by their appearance and manner, he presumed to be persons of the beau monde. He knew very little indeed of the great world, but he had seen it, and made the most of what he had seen. He spoke54 of the characters of the day, and great personages of the fashion, with easy familiarity and jocular allusions55, as if it had been his habit to live amongst them. He told anecdotes56 of their private life, and of conversations he had had, and entertainments at which he had been present, and at which such and such a thing occurred. Pen was amused to hear the shabby prisoner in a tattered57 dressing-gown talking glibly58 about the great of the land. Mrs. Shandon was always delighted when her husband told these tales, and believed in them fondly every one. She did not want to mingle59 in the fashionable world herself, she was not clever enough; but the great Society was the very place for her Charles: he shone in it: he was respected in it. Indeed, Shandon had once been asked to dinner by the Earl of X; his wife treasured the invitation-card in her workbox at that very day.
Mr. Bungay presently had enough of this talk and got up to take leave, whereupon Warrington and Pen rose to depart with the publisher, though the latter would have liked to stay to make a further acquaintance with this family, who interested him and touched him. He said something about hoping for permission to repeat his visit, upon which Shandon, with a rueful grin, said he was always to be found at home, and should be delighted to see Mr. Pennington.
“I’ll see you to my park-gate, gentlemen,” said Captain Shandon, seizing his hat, in spite of a deprecatory look and a faint cry of “Charles” from Mrs. Shandon. And the Captain, in shabby slippers60, shuffled61 out before his guests, leading the way through the dismal62 passages of the prison. His hand was already fiddling63 with his waistcoat pocket, where Bungay’s five-pound note was, as he took leave of the three gentlemen at the wicket; one of them, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, being greatly relieved when he was out of the horrid64 place, and again freely treading the flags of Farringdon Street.
Mrs. Shandon sadly went on with her work at the window looking into the court. She saw Shandon with a couple of men at his heels run rapidly in the direction of the prison tavern65. She had hoped to have had him to dinner herself that day: there was a piece of meat, and some salad in a basin, on the ledge42 outside of the window of their room which she had expected that she and little Mary were to share with the child’s father. But there was no chance of that now. He would be in that tavern until the hours for closing it; then he would go and play at cards or drink in some other man’s room and come back silent, with glazed66 eyes, reeling a little on his walk, that his wife might nurse him. Oh, what varieties of pain do we not make our women suffer!
So Mrs. Shandon went to the cupboard, and, in lieu of a dinner, made herself some tea. And in those varieties of pain of which we spoke anon, what a part of confidante has that poor tea-pot played ever since the kindly67 plant was introduced among us! What myriads68 of women have cried over it, to be sure! What sick-beds it has smoked by! What fevered lips have received refreshment69 from out of it! Nature meant very gently by women when she made that tea-plant; and with a little thought what a series of pictures and groups the fancy may conjure70 up and assemble round the tea-pot and cup! Melissa and Sacharissa are talking love-secrets over it. Poor Polly has it and her lover’s letters upon the table; his letters who was her lover yesterday, and when it was with pleasure, not despair, she wept over them. Mary tripping noiselessly comes into her mother’s bedroom, bearing a cup of the consoler to the widow who will take no other food, Ruth is busy concocting71 it for her husband, who is coming home from the harvest-field — one could fill a page with hints for such pictures;— finally, Mrs. Shandon and little Mary sit down and drink their tea together, while the Captain goes out and takes his pleasure. She cares for nothing else but that, when her husband is away.
A gentleman with whom we are already slightly acquainted, Mr. Jack72 Finucane, a townsman of Captain Shandon’s, found the Captain’s wife and little Mary (for whom Jack always brought a sweetmeat in his pocket) over this meal. Jack thought Shandon the greatest of created geniuses, had had one or two helps from the good-natured prodigal73, who had always a kind word, and sometimes a guinea for any friend in need; and never missed a day in seeing his patron. He was ready to run Shandon’s errands and transact74 his money-business with publishers and newspaper editors, duns, creditors75, holders76 of Shandon’s acceptances, gentlemen disposed to speculate in those securities, and to transact the thousand little affairs of an embarrassed Irish gentleman. I never knew an embarrassed Irish gentleman yet, but he had an aide-de-camp of his own nation, likewise in circumstances of pecuniary77 discomfort78. That aide-de-camp has subordinates of his own, who again may have other insolvent79 dependents — all through his life our Captain marched at the head of a ragged80 staff, who shared in the rough fortunes of their chieftain.
“He won’t have that five-pound note very long, I bet a guinea,” Mr. Bungay said of the Captain, as he and his two companions walked away from the prison; and the publisher judged rightly, for when Mrs. Shandon came to empty her husband’s pockets, she found but a couple of shillings, and a few halfpence out of the morning’s remittance81. Shandon had given a pound to one follower82; had sent a leg of mutton and potatoes and beer to an acquaintance in the poor side of the prison; had paid an outstanding bill at the tavern where he had changed his five-pound note; had had a dinner with two friends there, to whom he lost sundry83 half-crowns at cards afterwards; so that the night left him as poor as the morning had found him.
The publisher and the two gentlemen had had some talk together after quitting Shandon, and Warrington reiterated84 to Bungay what he had said to his rival, Bacon, viz., that Pen was a high fellow, of great genius, and what was more, well with the great world, and related to “no end” of the peerage. Bungay replied that he should be happy to have dealings with Mr. Pendennis, and hoped to have the pleasure of seeing both gents to cut mutton with him before long, and so, with mutual85 politeness and protestations, they parted.
“It is hard to see such a man as Shandon,” Pen said, musing86, and talking that night over the sight which he had witnessed, “of accomplishments87 so multifarious, and of such an undoubted talent and humour, an inmate88 of a gaol89 for half his time, and a bookseller’s hanger-on when out of prison.”
“I am a bookseller’s hanger-on — you are going to try your paces as a hack90,” Warrington said with a laugh. “We are all hacks91 upon some road or other. I would rather be myself, than Paley our neighbour in chambers92: who has as much enjoyment93 of his life as a mole94. A deuced deal of undeserved compassion95 has been thrown away upon what you call your bookseller’s drudge96.”
“Much solitary97 pipes and ale make a cynic of you,” said Pen “You are a Diogenes by a beer-barrel, Warrington. No man shall tell me that a man of genius, as Shandon is, ought to be driven by such a vulgar slave-driver, as yonder Mr. Bungay, whom we have just left, who fattens98 on the profits of the other’s brains, and enriches himself out of his journeyman’s labour. It makes me indignant to see a gentleman the serf of such a creature as that, of a man who can’t speak the language that he lives by, who is not fit to black Shandon’s boots.”
“So you have begun already to gird at the publishers, and to take your side amongst our order. Bravo, Pen, my be boy!” Warrington answered, laughing still. “What have you got to say against Bungay’s relations with Shandon? Was it the publisher, think you, who sent the author to prison? Is it Bungay who is tippling away the five-pound note which we saw just now, or Shandon?”
“Misfortune drives a man into bad company,” Pen said. “It is easy to cry ‘Fie!’ against a poor fellow who has no society but such as he finds in a prison; and no resource except forgetfulness and the bottle. We must deal kindly with the eccentricities99 of genius, and remember that the very ardour and enthusiasm of temperament100 which makes the author delightful101 often leads the man astray.”
“A fiddlestick about men of genius!” Warrington cried out, who was a very severe moralist upon some points, though possibly a very had practitioner102. “I deny that there are so many geniuses as people who whimper about the fate of men of letters assert there are. There are thousands of clever fellows in the world who could, if they would, turn verses, write articles, read books, and deliver a judgment103 upon them; the talk of professional critics and writers is not a whit25 more brilliant, or profound, or amusing, than that of any other society of educated people. If a lawyer, or a soldier, or a parson, outruns his income, and does not pay his bills, he must go to gaol; and an author must go, too. If an author fuddles himself, I don’t know why he should be let off a headache the next morning,— if he orders a coat from the tailor’s, why he shouldn’t pay for it.”
“I would give him more money to buy coats,” said Pen, smiling. I suppose I should like to belong to a well-dressed profession. I protest against that wretch104 of a middle-man whom I see between Genius and his great landlord, the Public, and who stops more than half of the labourer’s earnings105 and fame.”
“I am a prose labourer,” Warrington said; “you, my boy, are a poet in a small way, and so, I suppose, consider you are authorised to be flighty. What is it you want? Do you want a body of capitalists that shall be forced to purchase the works of all authors, who may present themselves, manuscript in hand? Everybody who writes his epic106, every driveller who can or can’t spell, and produces his novel or his tragedy,— are they all to come and find a bag of sovereigns in exchange for their worthless reams of paper? Who is to settle what is good or bad, saleable or otherwise? Will you give the buyer leave, in fine, to purchase or not? Why, sir, when Johnson sate behind the screen at Saint John’s Gate, and took his dinner apart, because he was too shabby and poor to join the literary bigwigs who were regaling themselves, round Mr. Cave’s best table-cloth, the tradesman was doing him no wrong. You couldn’t force the publisher to recognise the man of genius in the young man who presented himself before him, ragged, gaunt, and hungry. Rags are not a proof of genius; whereas capital is absolute, as times go, and is perforce the bargain-master. It has a right to deal with the literary inventor as with any other;— if I produce a novelty in the book trade, I must do the best I can with it; but I can no more force Mr. Murray to purchase my book of travels or sermons, than I can compel Mr. Tattersall to give me a hundred guineas for my horse. I may have my own ideas of the value of my Pegasus, and think him the most wonderful of animals; but the dealer107 has a right to his opinion, too, and may want a lady’s horse, or a cob for a heavy timid rider, or a sound hack for the road, and my beast won’t suit him.”
“You deal in metaphors108, Warrington,” Pen said; “but you rightly say that you are very prosaic109. Poor Shandon! There is something about the kindness of that man, and the gentleness of that sweet creature of a wife, which touches me profoundly. I like him, I am afraid, better than a better man”
“And so do I,” Warrington said. “Let us give him the benefit of our sympathy, and the pity that is due to his weakness: though I fear that sort of kindness would be resented as contempt by a more high-minded man. You see he takes his consolation110 along with his misfortune, and one generates the other or balances ii, as the way of the world. He is a prisoner, but he is not unhappy.”
“His genius sings within his prison bars,” Pen said.
“Yes,” Warrington said, bitterly; “Shandon accommodates himself to a cage pretty well. He ought to be wretched, but he has Jack and Tom to drink with, and that consoles him: he might have a high place, but, as he can’t, why, he can drink with Tom and Jack;— he might be providing for his wife and children, but Thomas and John have got a bottle of brandy which they want him to taste;— he might pay poor Snip111, the tailor, the twenty pounds which the poor devil wants for his landlord, but John and Thomas lay their hands upon his purse;— and so he drinks whilst his tradesman goes to gaol and his family to ruin. Let us pity the misfortunes of genius, and conspire112 against the publishing tyrants113 who oppress men of letters.”
“What! are you going to have another glass of brandy-and-water?” Pen said, with a humorous look. It was at the Black Kitchen that the above philosophical114 conversation took place between the two young men.
Warrington began to laugh as usual. “Video meliora proboque — I mean, bring it me hot, with sugar, John,” he said to waiter.
“I would have some more, too, only I don’t want it,” said Pen. “It does not seem to me, Warrington, that we are much better than our neighbours.” And Warrington’s last glass having been despatched, the pair returned to their chambers.
They found a couple of notes in the letter-box, on their return, which had been sent by their acquaintance of the morning, Mr. Bungay. That hospitable115 gentleman presented his compliments to each of the gentlemen, and requested their pleasure of company at dinner on an early day, to meet a few literary friends.
“We shall have a grand spread, Warrington. We shall meet all Bungay’s corps116.”
“All except poor Shandon,” said Pen, nodding a good-night to his friend, and he went into his own little room. The events and acquaintances of the day had excited him a good deal, and he lay for some time awake thinking over them, as Warrington’s vigorous and regular snore from the neighbouring apartment pronounced that that gentleman was engaged in deep slumber117.
Is it true, thought Pendennis, lying on his bed and gazing at a bright moon without, that lighted up a corner of his dressing-table, and the frame of a little sketch118 of Fairoaks drawn119 by Laura, and hung over his drawers — is it true that I am going to earn my bread at last, and with my pen? that I shall impoverish120 the dear mother no longer; and that I may gain a name and reputation in the world, perhaps? These are welcome if they come, thought the young visionary, laughing and blushing to himself, though alone and in the night, as he thought how dearly he would relish121 honour and fame if they could be his. If fortune favours me, I laud122 her; if she frowns, I resign her. I pray Heaven I may be honest if I fail, or if I succeed. I pray Heaven I may tell the truth as far as I know it: that I mayn’t swerve123 from it through flattery, or interest, or personal enmity, or party prejudice. Dearest old mother, what a pride will you have, if I can do anything worthy124 of our name I and you, Laura, you won’t scorn me as the worthless idler and spendthrift, when you see that I— when I have achieved a — psha! what an Alnaschar I am because I have made five pounds by my poems, and am engaged to write half a dozen articles for a newspaper. He went on with these musings, more happy and hopeful, and in a humbler frame of mind, than he had felt to be for many a day. He thought over the errors and idleness, the passions, extravagances, disappointments, of his wayward youth: he got up from the bed: threw open the window, and looked out into the night: and then, by some impulse, which we hope was a good one, he went up and kissed the picture of Fairoaks, and flinging himself down on his knees by the bed, remained for some time in that posture125 of hope and submission126. When he rose, it was with streaming eyes. He had found himself repeating, mechanically, some little words which he had been accustomed to repeat as a child at his mother’s side, after the saying of which she would softly take him to his bed and close the curtains round him, hushing him with a benediction127.
The next day, Mr. Pidgeon, their attendant, brought in a large brown-paper parcel, directed to G. Warrington, Esq., with Mr. Trotter’s compliments, and a note which Warrington read.
“Pen, you beggar!” roared Warrington to Pen, who was in his own room.
“Hullo!” sung out Pen.
“Come here, you’re wanted,” cried the other, and Pen came out.
“What is it?” said he.
“Catch!” cried Warrington, and flung the parcel at Pen’s head, who would have been knocked down had he not caught it.
“It’s books for review for the Pall Mall Gazette: pitch into ’em,” Warrington said. As for Pen, he never had been so delighted in his life: his hand trembled as he cut the string of the packet, and beheld128 within a smart set of new neat calico-bound books — travels, and novels, and poems.
“Sport the oak, Pidgeon,” said he. “I’m not at home to anybody today.” And he flung into his easy-chair, and hardly gave himself time to drink his tea, so eager was he to begin to read and to review.
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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intestine
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| adj.内部的；国内的；n.肠 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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calumnies
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hostility
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gulled
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monarchy
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ferocious
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rabble
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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binding
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plunder
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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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affected
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peculiar
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professed
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foes
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belied
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whit
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exultation
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vehemently
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slashing
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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31
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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32
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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33
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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34
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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35
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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36
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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37
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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38
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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39
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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40
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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41
descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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42
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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43
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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44
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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45
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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46
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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48
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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49
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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50
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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53
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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54
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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55
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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56
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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57
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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58
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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59
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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60
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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61
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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62
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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63
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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64
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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65
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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66
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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67
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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68
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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69
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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70
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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71
concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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72
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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73
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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74
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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75
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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76
holders
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| 支持物( holder的名词复数 )； 持有者； （支票等）持有人； 支托（或握持）…之物 | |
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77
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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78
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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79
insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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80
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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81
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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82
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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83
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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84
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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86
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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87
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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88
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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89
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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90
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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91
hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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92
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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93
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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94
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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95
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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96
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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97
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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98
fattens
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| v.喂肥( fatten的第三人称单数 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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99
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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100
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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101
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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102
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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103
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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104
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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105
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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106
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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107
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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108
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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109
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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110
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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111
snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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112
conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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113
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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114
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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115
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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116
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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117
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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118
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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119
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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120
impoverish
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| vt.使穷困，使贫困 | |
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121
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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122
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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123
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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124
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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125
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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126
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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127
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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128
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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