I dined yesterday with three gentlemen, whose time of life may be guessed by their conversation, a great part of which consisted of Eton reminiscences and lively imitations of Dr. Keate. Each one, as he described how he had been flogged, mimicked1 to the best of his power the manner and the mode of operating of the famous doctor. His little parenthetical remarks during the ceremony were recalled with great facetiousness2: the very hwhish of the rods was parodied3 with thrilling fidelity4, and after a good hour’s conversation the subject was brought to a climax5 by a description of that awful night when the doctor called up squad6 after squad of boys from their beds in their respective boardinghouses, whipped through the whole night, and castigated7 I don’t know how many hundred rebels. All these mature men laughed, prattled9, rejoiced, and became young again, as they recounted their stories; and each of them heartily10 and eagerly bade the stranger to understand how Keate was a thorough gentleman. Having talked about their floggings, I say, for an hour at least, they apologized to me for dwelling12 upon a subject which after all was strictly13 local: but, indeed, their talk greatly amused and diverted me, and I hope, and am quite ready, to hear all their jolly stories over again.
Be not angry, patient reader of former volumes by the author of the present history, if I am garrulous15 about Grey Friars, and go back to that ancient place of education to find the heroes of our tale. We are but young once. When we remember that time of youth, we are still young. He over whose head eight or nine lustres have passed, if he wishes to write of boys, must recall the time when he himself was a boy. Their habits change; their waists are longer or shorter; their shirt-collars stick up more or less; but the boy is the boy in King George’s time as in that of his royal niece — once our maiden16 queen, now the anxious mother of many boys. And young fellows are honest, and merry, and idle, and mischievous17, and timid, and brave, and studious, and selfish, and generous, and mean, and false, and truth-telling, and affectionate, and good, and bad, now as in former days. He with whom we have mainly to do is a gentleman of mature age now walking the street with boys of his own. He is not going to perish in the last chapter of these memoirs18 — to die of consumption with his love weeping by his bedside, or to blow his brains out in despair, because she has been married to his rival, or killed out of a gig, or otherwise done for in the last chapter but one. No, no; we will have no dismal19 endings. Philip Firmin is well and hearty20 at this minute, owes no man a shilling, and can enjoy his glass of port in perfect comfort. So, my dear miss, if you want a pulmonary romance, the present won’t suit you. So, young gentleman, if you are for melancholy21, despair, and sardonic22 satire23, please to call at some other shop. That Philip shall have his trials, is a matter of course — may they be interesting, though they do not end dismally24! That he shall fall and trip in his course sometimes, is pretty certain. Ah, who does not upon this life-journey of ours? Is not our want the occasion of our brother’s charity, and thus does not good come out of that evil? When the traveller (of whom the Master spoke25) fell among the thieves, his mishap26 was contrived27 to try many a heart beside his own — the Knave’s who robbed him, the Levite’s and Priest’s who passed him by as he lay bleeding, the humble28 Samaritan’s whose hand poured oil into his wound, and held out its pittance29 to relieve him.
So little Philip Firmin was brought to school by his mamma in her carriage, who entreated30 the housekeeper31 to have a special charge of that angelic child; and as soon as the poor lady’s back was turned, Mrs. Bunce emptied the contents of the little boy’s trunk into one of sixty or seventy little cupboards, wherein reposed32 other boys’ clothes and haberdashery: and then Mrs. Firmin requested to see the Rev33. Mr. X., in whose house Philip was to board, and besought34 him, and explained many things to him, such as the exceeding delicacy35 of the child’s constitution, and Mr. X., who was very good-natured, patted the boy kindly36 on the head, and sent for the other Philip, Philip Ringwood, Phil’s cousin, who had arrived at Grey Friars an hour or two before; and Mr. X. told Ringwood to take care of the little fellow; and Mrs. Firmin, choking behind her pocket-handkerchief, gurgled out a blessing37 on the grinning youth, and at one time had an idea of giving Master Ringwood a sovereign, but paused, thinking he was too big a boy, and that she might not take such a liberty, and presently she was gone; and little Phil Firmin was introduced to the long-room and his schoolfellows of Mr. X.’s house; and having plenty of money, and naturally finding his way to the pastrycook’s , the next day after school, he was met by his cousin Ringwood and robbed of half the tarts38 which he had purchased. A fortnight afterwards, the hospitable39 doctor and his wife asked their young kinsman40 to Old Parr Street, Burlington Gardens, and the two boys went; but Phil never mentioned anything to his parents regarding the robbery of tarts, being deterred41, perhaps, from speaking by awful threats of punishment which his cousin promised to administer when they got back to school, in case of the little boy’s confession42. Subsequently, Master Ringwood was asked once in every term to Old Parr Street; but neither Mrs. Firmin, nor the doctor, nor Master Firmin liked the baronet’s son, and Mrs. Firmin pronounced him a violent, rude boy.
I, for my part, left school suddenly and early, and my little protégé behind me. His poor mother, who had promised herself to come for him every Saturday, did not keep her promise. Smithfield is a long way from Piccadilly; and an angry cow once scratched the panels of her carriage, causing her footman to spring from his board into a pig-pen, and herself to feel such a shock, that no wonder she was afraid of visiting the City afterwards. The circumstances of this accident she often narrated43 to us. Her anecdotes44 were not numerous, but she told them repeatedly. In imagination, sometimes, I can hear her ceaseless, simple cackle; see her faint eyes, as she prattles46 on unconsciously, and watch the dark looks of her handsome, silent husband, scowling47 from under his eyebrows48 and smiling behind his teeth. I daresay he ground those teeth with suppressed rage sometimes. I daresay to bear with her endless volubility must have tasked his endurance. He may have treated her ill, but she tried him. She, on her part, may have been a not very wise woman, but she was kind to me. Did not her housekeeper make me the best of tarts, and keep goodies from the company dinners for the young gentlemen when they came home? Did not her husband give me of his fees? I promise you, after I had seen Dr. Fell a few times, that first unpleasing impression produced by his darkling countenance49 and sinister50 good looks wore away. He was a gentleman. He had lived in the great world, of which he told anecdotes delightful51 to boys to hear; and he passed the bottle to me as if I was a man.
I hope and think I remembered the injunction of poor Mrs. Firmin to be kind to her boy. As long as we stayed together at Grey Friars, I was Phil’s champion, whenever he needed my protection, though of course I could not always be present to guard the little scapegrace from all the blows which were aimed at his young face by pugilists of his own size. There were seven or eight years’ difference between us (he says ten, which is absurd, and which I deny); but I was always remarkable52 for my affability, and, in spite of our disparity of age, would often graciously accept the general invitation I had from his father for any Saturday and Sunday when I would like to accompany Philip home.
Such an invitation is welcome to any schoolboy. To get away from Smithfield, and show our best clothes in Bond Street, was always a privilege. To strut53 in the Park on Sunday, and nod to the other fellows who were strutting54 there too, was better than remaining at school, “doing Diatessaron,” as the phrase used to be, having that endless roast beef for dinner, and hearing two sermons in chapel55. There may have been more lively streets in London than Old Parr Street; but it was pleasanter to be there than to look at Goswell Street over Grey Friars’ wall; and so the present biographer and reader’s very humble servant found Dr. Firmin’s house an agreeable resort. Mamma was often ailing56, or, if well, went out into the world with her husband; in either case, we boys had a good dinner provided for us, with the special dishes which Phil loved; and after dinner we adjourned57 to the play, not being by any means too proud to sit in the pit with Mr. Brice, the doctor’s confidential58 man. On Sunday we went to church at Lady Whittlesea’s , and back to school in the evening; when the doctor almost always gave us a fee. If he did not dine at home (and I own his absence did not much damp our pleasure), Brice would lay a small enclosure on the young gentlemen’s coats, which we transferred to our pockets. I believe schoolboys disdain59 fees in the present disinterested60 times.
Everything in Dr. Firmin’s house was as handsome as might be, and yet somehow the place was not cheerful. One’s steps fell noiselessly on the faded Turkey carpet; the room was large, and all save the dining-table in a dingy61 twilight62. The picture of Mrs. Firmin looked at us from the wall, and followed us about with wild violet eyes. Philip Firmin had the same violet odd bright eyes, and the same coloured hair of an auburn tinge63; in the picture it fell in long wild masses over the lady’s back as she leaned with bare arms on a harp64. Over the sideboard was the doctor, in a black velvet65 coat and a fur collar, his hand on a skull66, like Hamlet. Skulls67 of oxen, horned, with wreaths, formed the cheerful ornaments68 of the cornice. On the side-table glittered a pair of cups, given by grateful patients, looking like receptacles rather for funereal69 ashes than for festive70 flowers or wine. Brice, the butler, wore the gravity and costume of an undertaker. The footman stealthily moved hither and thither71, bearing the dinner to us; we always spoke under our breath whilst we were eating it. “The room don’t look more cheerful of a morning when the patients are sitting here, I can tell you,” Phil would say; indeed, we could well fancy that it was dismal. The drawing-room had a rhubarb-coloured flock paper (on account of the governor’s attachment72 to the shop, Master Phil said), a great piano, a harp smothered73 in a leather bag in the corner, which the languid owner now never touched; and everybody’s face seemed scared and pale in the great looking-glasses, which reflected you over and over again into the distance, so that you seemed to twinkle off right through the Albany into Piccadilly.
Old Parr Street has been a habitation for generations of surgeons and physicians. I suppose the noblemen for whose use the street was intended in the time of the early Georges fled, finding the neighbourhood too dismal, and the gentlemen in black coats came and took possession of the gilded74, gloomy chambers75 which the sacred mode vacated. These mutations of fashion have always been matters of profound speculation77 to me. Why shall not one moralize over London, as over Rome, or Baalbec, or Troy town? I like to walk among the Hebrews of Wardour Street, and fancy the place, as it once was, crowded with chairs and gilt78 chariots, and torches flashing in the hands of the running footmen. I have a grim pleasure in thinking that Golding Square was once the resort of the aristocracy, and Monmouth Street the delight of the genteel world. What shall prevent us Londoners from musing79 over the decline and fall of city sovereignties, and drawing our cockney morals? As the late Mr. Gibbon meditated80 his history leaning against a column in the Capitol, why should not I muse14 over mine, reclining under an arcade81 of the Pantheon? Not the Pantheon at Rome, in the Cabbage Market by the Piazza82 Navona, where the immortal83 gods were worshipped, — the immortal gods who are now dead; but the Pantheon in Oxford84 Street, ladies, where you purchase feeble pomatums, music, glassware, and baby-linen; and which has its history too. Have not Selwyn, and Walpole, and March, and Carlisle figured there? Has not Prince Florizel flounced through the hall in his rustling85 domino, and danced there in powdered splendour? and when the ushers86 refused admission to lovely Sophy Baddeley, did not the young men, her adorers, draw their rapiers and vow87 to slay88 the doorkeepers; and, crossing the glittering blades over the head of the enchantress, make a warlike triumphal arch for her to pass under, all flushed, and smiling, and perfumed, and painted? The lives of streets are as the lives of man, and shall not the streetpreacher, if so minded, take for the text of his sermon the stones in the gutter89? That you were once the resort of the fashion, O Monmouth Street! by the invocation of blessed St. Giles shall I not improve that sweet thought into a godly discourse90, and make the ruin edifying91? O mes frères! There were splendid thoroughfares, dazzling company, bright illuminations, in our streets when our hearts were young: we entertained in them a noble youthful company of chivalrous92 hopes and lofty ambitions; of blushing thoughts in snowy robes spotless and virginal. See, in the embrasure of the window, where you sate93 looking to the stars and nestling by the soft side of your first-love, hang Mr. Moses’ moseum of turned old clothes, very cheap; of worn old boots, bedraggled in how much and how many people’s mud; a great bargain. See! along the street, strewed94 with flowers once mayhap — a fight of beggars for the refuse of an apple-stall, or a tipsy basket-woman, reeling shrieking95 to the station. O me! O my beloved congregation! I have preached this stale sermon to you for ever so many years. O my jolly companions, I have drunk many a bout11 with you, and always found vanitas vanitatum written on the bottom of the pot!
I choose to moralize now when I pass the place. The garden has run to seed, the walks are mildewed96, the statues have broken noses, the gravel97 is dank with green moss98, the roses are withered99, and the nightingales have ceased to make love. It is a funereal street, Old Parr Street, certainly; the carriages which drive there ought to have feathers on the roof, and the butlers who open the doors should wear weepers — so the scene strikes you now as you pass along the spacious100 empty pavement. You are bilious101, my good man. Go and pay a guinea to one of the doctors in those houses; there are still doctors there. He will prescribe taraxacum for you, or pil: hydrarg: Bless you! in my time, to us gentlemen of the fifth form, the place was bearable. The yellow fogs didn’t damp our spirits — and we never thought them too thick to keep us away from the play: from the chivalrous Charles Kemble, I tell you, my Mirabel, my Mercutio, my princely Falconbridge: from his adorable daughter (O my distracted heart!): from the classic Young: from the glorious Long Tom Coffin102: from the unearthly Vanderdecken — “Return, O my love, and we’ll never, never part” (where art thou, sweet singer of that most thrilling ditty of my youth?): from the sweet, sweet Victorine and the Bottle Imp45. Oh, to see that Bottle Imp again, and hear that song about the “Pilgrim of Love!” Once, but — hush103! — this is a secret — we had private boxes, the doctor’s grand friends often sending him these; and finding the opera rather slow, we went to a concert in M— d — n Lane, near Covent Garden, and heard the most celestial104 glees, over a supper of fizzing sausages and mashed105 potatoes, such as the world has never seen since. We did no harm; but I daresay it was very wrong. Brice, the butler, ought not to have taken us. We bullied106 him, and made him take us where we liked. We had rum-shrub in the housekeeper’s room, where we used to be diverted by the society of other butlers of the neighbouring nobility and gentry107, who would step in. Perhaps it was wrong to leave us so to the company of servants. Dr. Firmin used to go to his grand parties, Mrs. Firmin to bed. “Did we enjoy the performance last night?” our host would ask at breakfast. “Oh, yes, we enjoyed the performance!” But my poor Mrs. Firmin fancied that we enjoyed Semiramide or the Donna del Lago; whereas we had been to the pit at the Adelphi (out of our own money), and seen that jolly John Reeve, and laughed — laughed till we were fit to drop — and stayed till the curtain was down. And then we would come home, and, as aforesaid, pass a delightful hour over supper, and hear the anecdotes of Mr. Brice’s friends, the other butlers. Ah, that was a time indeed! There never was any liquor so good as rum-shrub, never; and the sausages had a flavour of Elysium. How hushed we were when Dr. Firmin, coming home from his parties, let himself in at the street-door! Shoeless, we crept up to our bedrooms. And we came down to breakfast with innocent young faces — and let Mrs. Firmin, at lunch, prattle8 about the opera; and there stood Brice and the footman behind us, looking quite grave, the abominable108 hypocrites!
Then, sir, there was a certain way, out of the study window, or though the kitchen, and over the leads, to a building, gloomy, indeed, but where I own to have spent delightful hours of the most flagitious and criminal enjoyment109 of some delicious little Havannahs, ten to the shilling. In that building there were stables once, doubtless occupied by great Flemish horses and rumbling110 gold coaches of Walpole’s time; but a celebrated111 surgeon, when he took possession of the house, made a lecture-room of the premises112, — “And this door,” says Phil, pointing to one leading into the mews, “was very convenient for having the bodies in and out” — a cheerful reminiscence. Of this kind of furniture there was now very little in the apartment, except a dilapidated skeleton in a corner, a few dusty casts of heads, and bottles of preparations on the top of an old bureau, and some mildewed harness hanging on the walls. This apartment became Mr. Phil’s smoking-room when, as he grew taller, he felt himself too dignified113 to sit in the kitchen regions: the honest butler and housekeeper themselves pointing out to their young master that his place was elsewhere than among the servants. So there, privately114 and with great delectation, we smoked many an abominable cigar in this dreary115 back-room, the gaunt walls and twilight ceilings of which were by no means melancholy to us, who found forbidden pleasures the sweetest, after the absurd fashion of boys. Dr. Firmin was an enemy to smoking, and ever accustomed to speak of the practice with eloquent116 indignation. “It was a low practice — the habit of cabmen, pot-house frequenters, and Irish apple-women,” the doctor would say, as Phil and his friend looked at each other with a stealthy joy. Phil’s father was ever scented117 and neat, the pattern of handsome propriety118. Perhaps he had a clearer perception regarding manners than respecting morals; perhaps his conversation was full of platitudes119, his talk (concerning people of fashion chiefly) mean and uninstructive, his behaviour to young Lord Egham rather fulsome120 and lacking of dignity. Perhaps, I say, the idea may have entered into young Mr. Pendennis’s mind that his hospitable entertainer and friend, Dr. Firmin, of Old Parr Street, was what at the present day might be denominated an old humbug121; but modest young men do not come quickly to such unpleasant conclusions regarding their seniors. Dr. Firmin’s manners were so good, his forehead was so high, his frill so fresh, his hands so white and slim, that for some considerable time we ingenuously122 admired him; and it was not without a pang123 that we came to view him as he actually was — no, not as he actually was — no man whose early nurture124 was kindly can judge quite impartially125 the man who has been kind to him in boyhood.
I quitted school suddenly, leaving my little Phil behind me, a brave little handsome boy, endearing himself to old and young by his good looks, his gaiety, his courage, and his gentlemanly bearing. Once in a way a letter would come from him, full of that artless affection and tenderness which fills boys’ hearts, and is so touching126 in their letters. It was answered with proper dignity and condescension127 on the senior boy’s part. Our modest little country home kept up a friendly intercourse128 with Dr. Firmin’s grand London mansion129, of which, in his visits to us, my uncle, Major Pendennis, did not fail to bring news. A correspondence took place between the ladies of each house. We supplied Mrs. Firmin with little country presents, tokens of my mother’s good-will and gratitude130 towards the friends who had been kind to her son. I went my way to the university, having occasional glimpses of Phil at school. I took chambers in the Temple, which he found great delight in visiting; and he liked our homely131 dinner from Dick’s , and a bed on the sofa, better than the splendid entertainments in Old Parr Street and his great gloomy chamber76 there. He had grown by this time to be ever so much taller than his senior, though he always persists in looking up to me unto the present day.
A very few weeks after my poor mother passed that judgment132 on Mrs. Firmin, she saw reason to regret and revoke133 it. Phil’s mother, who was afraid, or perhaps was forbidden, to attend her son in his illness at school, was taken ill herself, and the doctor sent for his boy.
Phil returned to Grey Friars in a deep suit of black; the servants on the carriage wore black too; and a certain tyrant134 of the place, beginning to laugh and jeer135 because Firmin’s eyes filled with tears at some ribald remark, was gruffly rebuked136 by Sampson major, the cock of the whole school; and with the question, “Don’t you see the poor beggar’s in mourning, you great brute137?” was kicked about his business.
When Philip Firmin and I met again, there was crape on both our hats. I don’t think either could see the other’s face very well. I went to see him in Parr Street, in the vacant, melancholy house, where the poor mother’s picture was yet hanging in her empty drawing-room.
“She was always fond of you, Pendennis,” said Phil. “God bless you for being so good to her. You know what it is to lose — to lose what loves you best in the world. I didn’t know how — how I loved her, till I had lost her.” And many a sob138 broke his words as he spoke.
Her picture was removed from the drawing-room presently into Phil’s own little study — the room in which he sate and defied his father. What had passed between them? The young man was very much changed. The frank looks of old days were gone, and Phil’s face was haggard and bold. The doctor would not let me have a word more with his son after he had found us together, but, with dubious139 appealing looks, followed me to the door, and shut it upon me. I felt that it closed upon two unhappy men.
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mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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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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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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castigated
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| v.严厉责骂、批评或惩罚（某人）( castigate的过去式 ) | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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39
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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40
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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41
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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43
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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45
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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46
prattles
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的第三人称单数 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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47
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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48
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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49
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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50
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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51
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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54
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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55
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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56
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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57
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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59
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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60
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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61
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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62
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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63
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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64
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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65
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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66
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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67
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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68
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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70
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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71
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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72
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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73
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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74
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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75
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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76
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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77
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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78
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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79
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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80
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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81
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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82
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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83
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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84
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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85
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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86
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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87
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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88
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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89
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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91
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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92
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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93
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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94
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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95
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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96
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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98
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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99
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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100
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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101
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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102
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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103
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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104
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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105
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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106
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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108
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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109
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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110
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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111
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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112
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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113
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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114
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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115
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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116
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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117
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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118
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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119
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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120
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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121
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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122
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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123
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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124
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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125
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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126
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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127
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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128
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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129
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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130
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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131
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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132
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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133
revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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134
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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135
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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136
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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138
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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139
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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