You know — all good boys and girls at Christmas know — that, before the last scene of the pantomime, when the Good Fairy ascends1 in a blaze of glory, and Harlequin and Columbine take hands, having danced through all their tricks and troubles and tumbles, there is a dark, brief, seemingly meaningless penultimate scene, in which the performers appear to grope about perplexed2, whilst the music of bassoons and trombones, and the like, groans3 tragically4. As the actors, with gestures of dismay and outstretched arms, move hither and thither5, the wary6 frequenter of pantomimes sees the illuminators of the Abode7 of Bliss8 and Hall of Prismatic Splendour nimbly moving behind the canvas, and streaking9 the darkness with twinkling fires — fires which shall blaze out presently in a thousand colours round the Good Fairy in the Revolving11 Temple of Blinding Bliss. Be happy, Harlequin! Love and be happy and dance, pretty Columbine! Children, mamma bids you put your shawls on. And Jack12 and Mary (who are young and love pantomimes,) look lingeringly still over the ledge13 of the box, whilst the fairy temple yet revolves14, whilst the fireworks play, and ere the Great Dark Curtain descends15.
My dear young people, who have sate16 kindly17 through the scenes during which our entertainment has lasted, be it known to you that last chapter was the dark scene. Look to your cloaks, and tie up your little throats, for I tell you the great baize will soon fall down. Have I had any secrets from you all through the piece? I tell you the house will be empty and you will be in the cold air. When the boxes have got their nightgowns on, and you are all gone, and I have turned off the gas, and am in the empty theatre alone in the darkness, I promise you I shall not be merry. Never mind! We can make jokes though we are ever so sad. We can jump over head and heels, though I declare the pit is half emptied already, and the last orange-woman has slunk away. Encore une pirouette, Colombine! Saute, Arlequin, mon ami! Though there are but five bars more of the music, my good people, we must jump over them briskly, and then go home to supper and bed.
Philip Firmin, then, was immensely moved by this magnanimity and kindness on the part of his old employer, and has always considered Mugford’s arrival and friendliness18 as a special interposition in his favour. He owes it all to Brandon, he says. It was she who bethought herself of his condition, represented it to Mugford, and reconciled him to his enemy. Others were most ready with their money. It was Brandon who brought him work rather than alms, and enabled him to face fortune cheerfully. His interval19 of poverty was so short, that he actually had not occasion to borrow. A week more, and he could not have held out, and poor Brandon’s little marriage present must have gone to the coenotaph of sovereigns — the dear Little Sister’s gift which Philip’s family cherish to this hour.
So Philip, with a humbled21 heart and demeanour, clambered up on his sub-editorial stool once more at the Pall22 Mall Gazette, and again brandished23 the paste pot and the scissors. I forget whether Bickerton still remained in command at the Pall Mall Gazette, or was more kind to Philip than before, or was afraid of him, having heard of his exploits as a fire-eater; but certain it is, the two did not come to a quarrel, giving each other a wide berth24, as the saying is, and each doing his own duty. Good-by, Monsieur Bickerton. Except, mayhap, in the final group round the Fairy Chariot (when, I promise you, there will be such a blaze of glory that he will be invisible), we shall never see the little spiteful envious25 creature more. Let him pop down his appointed trap-door; and, quick fiddles27! let the brisk music jig28 on.
Owing to the coolness which had arisen between Philip and his father on account of their different views regarding the use to be made of Philip’s signature, the old gentleman drew no further bills in his son’s name, and our friend was spared from the unpleasant persecution29. Mr. Hunt loved Dr. Firmin so ardently30 that he could not bear to be separated from the doctor long. Without the doctor, London was a dreary31 wilderness32 to Hunt. Unfortunate remembrances of past pecuniary33 transactions haunted him here. We were all of us glad when he finally retired34 from the Covent Garden taverns35 and betook himself to the Bowery once more.
And now friend Philip was at work again, hardly earning a scanty36 meal for self, wife, servant, children. It was indeed a meagre meal, and a small wage. Charlotte’s illness, and other mishaps37, had swept away poor Philip’s little savings38. It was determined39 that we would let the elegantly furnished apartments on the first floor. You might have fancied the proud Mr. Firmin rather repugnant to such a measure. And so he was on the score of convenience, but of dignity, not a whit40. To this day, if necessity called, Philip would turn a mangle41 with perfect gravity. I believe the thought of Mrs. General Baynes’s horror at the idea of her son-in-law letting lodgings42 greatly soothed43 and comforted Philip. The lodgings were absolutely taken by our country acquaintance, Miss Pybus, who was coming up for the May meetings, and whom we persuaded (heaven be good to us) that she would find a most desirable quiet residence in the house of a man with three squalling children. Miss P. came, then, with my wife to look at the apartments; and we allured44 her by describing to her the delightful45 musical services at the Foundling hard by; and she was very much pleased with Mrs. Philip, and did not even wince46 at the elder children, whose pretty faces won the kind old lady’s heart: and I am ashamed to say we were mum about the baby: and Pybus was going to close for the lodgings, when Philip burst out of his little room, without his coat, I believe, and objurgated a little printer’s boy, who was sitting in the hall, waiting for some “copy” regarding which he had made a blunder; and Philip used such violent language towards the little lazy boy, that Pybus said “she never could think of taking apartments in that house,” and hurried thence in a panic. When Brandon heard of this project of letting lodgings, she was in a fury. She might let lodgin’s , but it wasn’t for Philip to do so. “Let lodgin’s, indeed! Buy a broom, and sweep a crossin’!” Brandon always thought Charlotte a poor-spirited creature, and the way she scolded Mrs. Firmin about this transaction was not a little amusing. Charlotte was not angry. She liked the scheme as little as Brandon. No other person ever asked for lodgings in Charlotte’s house. May and its meetings came to an end. The old ladies went back to their country towns. The missionaries47 returned to Caffraria. (Ah! where are the pleasant-looking Quakeresses of our youth, with their comely48 faces, and pretty dove-coloured robes? They say the goodly sect49 is dwindling50 — dwindling.) The Quakeresses went out of town: then the fashionable world began to move: the Parliament went out of town. In a word, everybody who could, made away for a holiday, whilst poor Philip remained at his work, snipping51 and pasting his paragraphs, and doing his humble20 drudgery52.
A sojourn53 on the sea-shore was prescribed by Dr. Goodenough, as absolutely necessary for Charlotte and her young ones, and when Philip pleaded certain cogent54 reasons why the family could not take the medicine prescribed by the doctor, that eccentric physician had recourse to the same pocket-book which we have known him to produce on a former occasion; and took from it, for what I know, some of the very same notes which he had formerly55 given to the Little Sister. “I suppose you may as well have them as that rascal56 Hunt?” said the doctor, scowling58 very fiercely. “Don’t tell me. Stuff and nonsense. Pooh! Pay me when you are a rich man!” And this Samaritan had jumped into his carriage, and was gone, before Philip or Mrs. Philip could say a word of thanks. Look at him as he is going off. See the green brougham drive away, and turn westward59, and mark it well. A shoe go after thee, John Goodenough; we shall see thee no more in this story. You are not in the secret, good reader: but I, who have been living with certain people for many months past, and have a hearty60 liking61 for some of them, grow very soft when the hour for shaking hands comes, to think we are to meet no more. Go to! when this tale began, and for some months after, a pair of kind old eyes used to read these pages, which are now closed in the sleep appointed for all of us. And so page is turned after page, and behold62 Finis and the volume’s end.
So Philip and his young folks came down to Periwinkle Bay, where we were staying, and the girls in the two families nursed the baby, and the child and mother got health and comfort from the fresh air, and Mr. Mugford — who believes himself to be the finest sub-editor in the world — and I can tell you there is a great art in sub-editing a paper — Mr. Mugford, I say, took Philip’s scissors and paste-pot, whilst the latter enjoyed his holiday. And J. J. Ridley, R.A., came and joined us presently, and we had many sketching63 parties, and my drawings of the various points about the bay, viz., Lobster64 Head, the Mollusc Rocks, are considered to be very spirited, though my little boy (who certainly has not his father’s taste for art) mistook for the rock a really capital portrait of Philip, in a gray hat and paletot, sprawling65 on the sand.
Some twelve miles inland from the bay is the little town of Whipham Market, and Whipham skirts the park palings of that castle where Lord Ringwood had lived, and where Philip’s mother was born and bred. There is a statue of the late lord in Whipham marketplace. Could he have had his will, the borough66 would have continued to return two members to Parliament, as in the good old times before us. In that ancient and grass-grown little place, where your footsteps echo as you pass through the street, where you hear distinctly the creaking of the sign of the “Ringwood Arms” hotel and posting-house, and the opposition67 creaking of the “Ram68 Inn” over the way — where the half-pay captain, the curate, and the medical man stand before the fly-blown window-blind of the “Ringwood Institute” and survey the strangers — there is still a respect felt for the memory of the great lord who dwelt behind the oaks in yonder hall. He had his faults. His lordship’s life was not that of an anchorite. The company his lordship kept, especially in his latter days, was not of that select description which a nobleman of his lordship’s rank might command. But he was a good friend to Whipham. He was a good landlord to a good tenant69. If he had his will, Whipham would have kept its own. His lordship paid half the expense after the burning of the town-hall. He was an arbitrary man, certainly, and he flogged Alderman Duffle before his own shop, but he apologized for it most handsome afterwards. Would the gentlemen like port or sherry? Claret not called for in Whipham; not at all: and no fish, because all the fish at Periwinkle Bay is bought up and goes to London. Such were the remarks made by the landlord of the Ringwood Arms to three cavaliers who entered that hostelry. And you may be sure he told us about Lord Ringwood’s death in the postchaise as he came from Turreys Regum; and how his lordship went through them gates (pointing to a pair of gates and lodges71 which skirt the town), and was drove up to the castle and laid in state; and his lordship never would take the railway, never; and he always travelled like a nobleman, and when he came to a hotel and changed horses, he always called for a bottle of wine, and only took a glass, and sometimes not even that. And the present Sir John has kept no company here as yet; and they say he is close of his money, they say he is. And this is certain, Whipham haven’t seen much of it, Whipham haven’t.
We went into the inn yard, which may have been once a stirring place, and then sauntered up to the park gate, surmounted72 by the supporters and armorial bearings of the Ringwoods. “I wonder whether my poor mother came out of that gate when she eloped with my father?” said Philip. “Poor thing, poor thing!” The great gates were shut. The westering sun cast shadows over the sward where here and there the deer were browsing73, and at some mile distance lay the house, with its towers and porticos and vanes flaming in the sun. The smaller gate was open, and a girl was standing75 by the lodge70 door. Was the house to be seen?
“Yes,” says a little red-cheeked girl, with a curtsey.
“No!” calls out a harsh voice from within, and an old woman comes out from the lodge and looks at us fiercely. “Nobody is to go to the house. The family is a-coming.”
That was provoking. Philip would have liked to behold the great house where his mother and her ancestors were born.
“Marry, good dame,” Philip’s companion said to the old beldam, “this goodly gentleman hath a right of entrance to yonder castle, which, I trow, ye wot not of. Heard ye never tell of one Philip Ringwood, slain76 at Busaco’s glorious fi — ”
“Hold your tongue, and don’t chaff77 her, Pen,” growled78 Firmin.
“Nay, and she knows not Philip Ringwood’s grandson,” the other wag continued, in a softened79 tone. “This will convince her of our right to enter. Canst recognize this image of your queen?”
“Well, I suppose ‘ee can go up,” said the old woman, at the sight of this talisman80. “There’s only two of them staying there, and they’re out a-drivin.”
Philip was bent81 on seeing the halls of his ancestors. Gray and huge, with towers, and vanes, and porticos, they lay before us a mile off, separated from us by a streak10 of glistening82 river. A great chestnut83 avenue led up to the river, and in the dappled grass the deer were browsing.
You know the house, of course. There is a picture of it in Watts84, bearing date 1783. A gentleman in a cocked hat and pigtail is rowing a lady in a boat on the shining river. Another nobleman in a cocked hat is angling in the glistening river from the bridge, over which a postchaise is passing.
“Yes, the place is like enough,” said Philip; “but I miss the post-chaise going over the bridge, and the lady in the punt with the tall parasol. Don’t you remember the print in our housekeeper85’s room in Old Parr Street? My poor mother used to tell me about the house, and I imagined it grander than the palace of Aladdin. It is a very handsome house,” Philip went on. “‘It extends two hundred and sixty feet by seventy-five, and consists of a rustic86 basement and principal story, with an attic87 in the centre, the whole executed in stone. The grand front towards the park is adorned88 with a noble portico74 of the Corinthian order, and may with propriety89 be considered one of the finest elevations90 in the — ’ I tell you I am quoting out of Watts’s Seats of the Nobility and Gentry91, published by John and Josiah Boydell, and lying in our drawing-room. Ah, dear me! I painted the boat and the lady and gentleman in the drawing-room copy, and my father boxed my ears, and my mother cried out, poor dear soul! And this is the river, is it? And over this the postchaise went with the club-tailed horses, and here was the pig-tailed gentleman fishing. It gives one a queer sensation,” says Philip, standing on the bridge, and stretching out his big arms. “Yes, there are the two people in the punt by the rushes. I can see them, but you can’t; and I hope, sir, you will have good sport.” And here he took off his hat to an imaginary gentleman supposed to be angling from the balustrade for ghostly gudgeon. We reach the house presently. We ring at a door in the basement under the portico. The porter demurs92, and says some of the family is down, but they are out, to be sure. The same half-crown argument answers with him which persuaded the keeper at the lodge. We go through the show-rooms of the stately but somewhat faded and melancholy93 palace. In the cedar94 dining-room there hangs the grim portrait of the late earl; and that fair-haired officer in red? that must be Philip’s grandfather. And those two slim girls embracing, surely those are his mother and his aunt. Philip walks softly through the vacant rooms. He gives the porter a gold piece ere he goes out of the great hall, forty feet cube, ornamented95 with statues brought from Rome by John first Baron96, namely, Heliogabalus. Nero’s mother, a priestess of Isis, and a river god; the pictures over the doors by Pedimento; the ceiling by Leotardi, and in a window in the great hall there is a table with a visitors’ book, in which Philip writes his name. As we went away, we met a carriage which drove rapidly towards the house, and which no doubt contained the members of the Ringwood family, regarding whom the porteress had spoken. After the family differences previously98 related, we did not care to face these kinsfolks of Philip, and passed on quickly in twilight99 beneath the rustling100 umbrage101 of the chestnuts102. J. J. saw a hundred fine pictorial103 effects as we walked; the palace reflected in the water; the dappled deer under the chequered shadow of the trees. It was, “Oh, what a jolly bit of colour!” and, “I say, look, how well that old woman’s red cloak comes in!” and so forth104. Painters never seem tired of their work. At seventy they are students still, patient, docile105, happy. May we too, my good sir, live for fourscore years, and never be too old to learn! The walk, the brisk accompanying conversation, amid stately scenery around, brought us with good appetites and spirits to our inn, where we were told that dinner would be served when the omnibus arrived from the railway.
At a short distance from the Ringwood Arms, and on the opposite side of the street, is the Ram Inn, neat postchaises and farmers’ ordinary; a house, of which the pretensions106 seemed less, though the trade was somewhat more lively. When the tooting of the horn announced the arrival of the omnibus from the railway, I should think a crowd of at least fifteen people assembled at various doors of the High Street and Market. The half-pay captain and the curate came out from the Ringwood Athen?um. The doctor’s apprentice107 stood on the step of the surgery door, and the surgeon’s lady looked out from the first floor. We shared the general curiosity. We and the waiter stood at the door of the Ringwood Arms. We were mortified108 to see that of the five persons conveyed by the ‘bus, one was a tradesman, who descended109 at his door (Mr. Packwood, the saddler, so the waiter informed us), three travellers were discharged at the Ram, and only one came to us.
“Mostly bagmen goes to the Ram,” the waiter said, with a scornful air; and these bagmen, and their bags, quitted the omnibus.
Only one passenger remained for the Ringwood Arms Hotel, and he presently descended under the porte cochère; and the omnibus — I own, with regret, it was but a one-horse machine — drove rattling110 into the court-yard, where the bells of the “Star,” the “George,” the “Rodney,” the “Dolphin,” and so on, had once been wont111 to jingle112, and the court had echoed with the noise and clatter113 of hoofs114 and ostlers, and the cries of “First and second, turn out.”
Who was the merry-faced little gentleman in black, who got out of the omnibus, and cried, when he saw us, “What, you here?” It was Mr. Bradgate, that lawyer of Lord Ringwood’s with whom we made a brief acquaintance just after his lordship’s death.” “What, you here?” cries Bradgate, then, to Philip. Come down about this business, of course? Very glad that you and — and certain parties have made it up. Thought you weren’t friends.
What business? What parties? We had not heard the news? We had only come over from Periwinkle Bay by chance, in order to see the house.
“How very singular! Did you meet the — the people who were staying there?”
We said we had seen a carriage pass, but did not remark who was in it. What, however, was the news? Well. It would be known immediately, and would appear in Tuesday’s Gazette. The news was that Sir John Ringwood was going to take a peerage, and that the seat for Whipham would be vacant. And herewith our friend produced from his travelling bag a proclamation, which he read to us, and which was addressed —
“To the worthy115 and independent electors of the borough of Ringwood.”
“London, Wednesday.”
“Gentlemen, — A gracious Sovereign having been pleased to order that the family of Ringwood should continue to be represented in the House of Peers, I take leave of my friends and constituents116 who have given me their kind confidence hitherto, and promise them that my regard for them will never cease, or my interest in the town and neighbourhood where my family have dwelt for many centuries. The late lamented117 Lord Ringwood’s brother died in the service of his Sovereign in Portugal, following the same flag under which his ancestors for centuries have fought and bled. My own son serves the Crown in a civil capacity. It was natural that one of our name and family should continue the relations which so long have subsisted118 between us and this loyal, affectionate, but independent borough. Mr. Ringwood’s onerous119 duties in the office which he holds are sufficient to occupy his time. A gentleman united to our family by the closest ties will offer himself as a candidate for your suffrages120 — ”
“Why, who is it? He is not going to put in uncle Twysden, or my sneak121 of a cousin?”
“No,” says Mr. Bradgate.
“Well, bless my soul! he can’t mean me,” said Philip. “Who is the dark horse he has in his stable!”
Then Mr. Bradgate laughed. “Dark horse you may call him. The new member is to be Grenville Woolcomb, Esq., your West India relative, and no other.”
Those who know the extreme energy of Mr. P. Firmin’s language when he is excited, may imagine the explosion of Philippine wrath122 which ensued as our friend heard this name. “That miscreant123: that skinflint: that wealthy crossing-sweeper: that ignoramus who scarce could do more than sign his name! Oh, it was horrible, shameful124! Why, the man is on such ill terms with his wife that they say he strikes her. When I see him I feel inclined to choke him, and murder him. That brute125 going into Parliament, and the republican Sir John Ringwood sending him there! It’s monstrous126!”
“Family arrangements. Sir John, or, I should say, my Lord Ringwood is one of the most affectionate of parents,” Mr. Bradgate remarked. “He has a large family by his second marriage, and his estates go to his eldest127 son. We must not quarrel with Lord Ringwood for wishing to provide for his young ones. I don’t say that he quite acts up to the extreme Liberal principle of which he was once rather fond of boasting. But if you were offered a peerage, what would you do; what would I do? If you wanted money for your young ones, and could get it, would you not take it? Come, come, don’t let us have too much of this Spartan128 virtue129! If we were tried, my good friend, we should not be much worse or better than our neighbours. Is my fly coming, waiter?” We asked Mr. Bradgate to defer130 his departure, and to share our dinner. But he declined, and said he must go up to the great house, where he and his client had plenty of business to arrange, and where no doubt he would stay for the night. He bade the inn servants put his portmanteau into his carriage when it came. “The old lord had some famous port wine,” he said; “I hope my friends have the key of the cellar.”
The waiter was just putting our meal on the table, as we stood in the bow-window of the Ringwood Arms coffee-room, engaged in this colloquy132. Hence we could see the street, and the opposition inn of the Ram, where presently a great placard was posted. At least a dozen street boys, shopmen, and rustics133 were quickly gathered round this manifesto134, and we ourselves went out to examine it. The Ram placard denounced, in terms of unmeasured wrath, the impudent135 attempt from the Castle to dictate136 to the free and independent electors of the borough. Freemen were invited not to promise their votes; to show themselves worthy of their name; to submit to no Castle dictation. A county gentleman of property, of influence, of liberal principles — no West Indian, no Castle Flunkey, but a True English Gentleman, would come forward to rescue them from the tyranny under which they laboured. On this point the electors might rely on the word of A Briton.
“This was brought down by the clerk from Bedloe’s . He and a newspaper man came down in the train with me; a Mr. — ”
As he spoke97, there came forth from the Ram the newspaper man of whom Mr. Bradgate spoke — an old friend and comrade of Philip, that energetic man and able reporter, Phipps of the Daily Intelligencer, who recognized Philip, and cordially greeting him, asked what he did down here, and supposed he had come to support his family.
Philip explained that we were strangers, had come from a neighbouring watering place to see the home of Philip’s ancestors, and was not even aware, until then, that an electioneering contest was pending137 in the place, or that Sir John Ringwood was about to be promoted to the peerage. Meanwhile, Mr. Bradgate’s fly had driven out of the hotel yard of the Ringwood Arms, and the lawyer running to the house for a bag of papers, jumped into the carriage and called to the coachman to drive to the castle.
“Bon appétit!” says he, in a confident tone, and he was gone.
“Would Phipps dine with us?” Phipps whispered, “I am on the other side, and the Ram is our house.”
We, who were on no side, entered into the Ringwood Arms, and sat down to our meal — to the mutton and the catsup, cauliflower and potatoes, the copper-edged side dishes, and the watery138 melted butter, with which strangers are regaled in inns in declining towns. The town badauds, who had read the placard at the Ram, now came to peruse139 the proclamation in our window. I daresay thirty pairs of clinking boots stopped before the one window and the other, the while we ate tough mutton and drank fiery140 sherry. And J. J., leaving his dinner, sketched141 some of the figures of the townsfolk staring at the manifesto, with the old-fashioned Ram Inn for a background — a picturesque142 gable enough.
Our meal was just over, when, somewhat to our surprise, our friend Mr. Bradgate the lawyer returned to the Ringwood Arms. He wore a disturbed countenance143 He asked what he could have for dinner? Mutton, neither hot nor cold. Hum! That must do. So he had not been invited to dine at the Park? We rallied him with much facetiousness144 on this disappointment.
Little Bradgate’s eyes started with wrath. “What a churl145 the little black fellow is!” he cried. “I took him his papers. I talked with him till dinner was laid in the very room where we were. French beans and neck of venison — I saw the housekeeper and his man bring them in!” And Mr. Woolcomb did not so much as ask me to sit down to dinner — but told me to come again at nine o’clock! Confound this mutton — it’s neither hot nor cold! The little skinflint! The glasses of fiery sherry which Bradgate now swallowed served rather to choke than appease146 the lawyer. We laughed, and this jocularity angered him more. “Oh,” said he, “I am not the only person Woolcomb was rude to. He was in a dreadful ill-temper. He abused his wife: and when he read somebody’s name in the stranger’s book, I promise you, Firmin, he abused you. I had a mind to say to him, ‘Sir, Mr. Firmin is dining at the Ringwood Arms, and I will tell him what you say of him.’ What india rubber mutton this is! What villanous sherry! Go back to him at nine o’clock, indeed! Be hanged to his impudence147!”
“You must not abuse Woolcomb before Firmin,” said one of our party. “Philip is so fond of his cousin’s husband, that he cannot bear to hear the black man abused.”
This was not a very brilliant joke, but Philip grinned at it with much savage148 satisfaction.
“Hit Woolcomb as hard as you please, he has no friends here, Mr. Bradgate,” growled Philip. “So he is rude to his lawyer, is he?”
“I tell you he is worse than the old earl,” cried the indignant Bradgate. “At least the old man was a peer of England, and could be a gentleman when he wished. But to be bullied149 by a fellow who might be a black footman, or ought to be sweeping150 a crossing! It’s monstrous!”
“Don’t speak ill of a man and a brother, Mr. Bradgate. Woolcomb can’t help his complexion151.”
“But he can help his confounded impudence, and shan’t practise it on me!” the attorney cried.
As Bradgate called out from his box, puffing152 and fuming153, friend J. J. was scribbling154 in the little sketchbook which he always carried. He smiled over his work. “I know,” he said, “the Black Prince well enough. I have often seen him driving his chestnut mares in the Park, with that bewildered white wife by his side. I am sure that woman is miserable155, and poor thing — ”
“Serve her right! What did an English lady mean by marrying such a fellow!” cries Bradgate.
“A fellow who does not ask his lawyer to dinner!” remarks one of the company: perhaps the reader’s very humble servant. “But what an imprudent lawyer he has chosen — a lawyer who speaks his mind.”
“I have spoken my mind to his betters, and be hanged to him! Do you think I am going to be afraid of him?” bawls156 the irascible solicitor157.
“Contempsi Catilin? gladios — do you remember the old quotation158 at school, Philip.” And here there was a break in our conversation, for chancing to look at friend J. J.’s sketch-book, we saw that he had made a wonderful little drawing, representing Woolcomb and Woolcomb’s wife, grooms159, phaeton, and chestnut mares, as they were to be seen any afternoon in Hyde Park, during the London season.
Admirable! Capital! Everybody at once knew the likeness161 of the dusky charioteer. Iracundus himself smiled and sniggered over it. “Unless you behave yourself, Mr. Bradgate, Ridley will make a picture of you,” says Philip. Bradgate made a comical face and retreated into his box, of which he pretended to draw the curtain. But the sociable162 little man did not long remain in his retirement163; he emerged from it in a short time, his wine decanter in his hand, and joined our little party; and then we fell to talking of old times; and we all remembered a famous drawing by H. B., of the late Earl of Ringwood, in the old-fashioned swallow-tailed coat and tight trowsers, on the old-fashioned horse, with the old-fashioned groom160 behind him, as he used to be seen pounding along Rotten Row.
“I speak my mind, do I?” says Mr. Bradgate presently. “I know somebody who spoke his mind to that old man, and who would have been better off if he had held his tongue.”
“Come, tell me, Bradgate,” cried Philip. “It is all over and past now. Had Lord Ringwood left me something? I declare I thought at one time that he intended to do so.”
“Nay, has not your friend here been rebuking164 me for speaking my mind? I am going to be as mum as a mouse. Let us talk about the election,” and the provoking lawyer would say no more on a subject possessing a dismal165 interest for poor Phil.
“I have no more right to repine,” said that philosopher, “than a man would have who drew number x in the lottery166, when the winning ticket was number y. Let us talk, as you say, about the election. Who is to oppose Mr. Woolcomb?”
Mr. Bradgate believed a neighbouring squire167, Mr. Hornblow, was to be the candidate put forward against the Ringwood nominee168.
“Hornblow! what, Hornblow of Grey Friars?” cries Philip. “A better fellow never lived. In this case he shall have our vote and interest; and I think we ought to go over and take another dinner at the Ram.”
The new candidate actually turned out to be Philip’s old school and college friend, Mr. Hornblow. After dinner we met him with a staff of canvassers on the tramp through the little town. Mr. Hornblow was paying his respects to such tradesmen as had their shops yet open. Next day being market day he proposed to canvass169 the market-people. “If I meet the black man, Firmin,” said the burly squire, “I think I can chaff him off his legs. He is a bad one at speaking, I am told.”
As if the tongue of Plato would have prevailed in Whipham and against the nominee of the great house! The hour was late to be sure, but the companions of Mr. Hornblow on his canvass augured170 ill of his success after half-an-hour’s walk at his heels. Baker171 Jones would not promise no how: that meant Jones would vote for the Castle, Mr. Hornblow’s legal aide-de-camp, Mr. Batley, was forced to allow. Butcher Brown was having his tea, — his shrill-voiced wife told us, looking out from her glazed172 back parlour: Brown would vote for the Castle. Saddler Briggs would see about it. Grocer Adams fairly said he would vote against us — against us? — against Hornblow, whose part we were taking already. I fear the flattering promises of support of a great body of free and unbiassed electors, which had induced Mr. Hornblow to come forward and, were but inventions of that little lawyer, Batley, who found his account in having a contest in the borough. When the polling-day came — you see, I disdain173 to make any mysteries in this simple and veracious174 story — Mr. Grenville Woolcomb, whose solicitor and agent spoke for him, Mr. Grenville Woolcomb, who could not spell or speak two sentences of decent English, and whose character for dulness, ferocity, penuriousness175, jealousy176, almost fatuity177, was notorious to all the world, was returned by an immense majority, and the country gentleman brought scarce a hundred votes to the poll.
We who were in nowise engaged in the contest, nevertheless, found amusement from it in a quiet country place where little else was stirring. We came over once or twice from Periwinkle Bay. We mounted Hornblow’s colours openly. We drove up ostentatiously to the Ram, forsaking178 the Ringwood Arms, where Mr. Grenville Woolcomb’s Committee Room was now established in that very coffee-room where we had dined in Mr. Bradgate’s company. We warmed in the contest. We met Bradgate and his principal more than once, and our Montagus and Capulets defied each other in the public street. It was fine to see Philip’s great figure and noble scowl57 when he met Woolcomb at the canvass. Gleams of mulatto hate quivered from the eyes of the little captain. Darts179 of fire flashed from beneath Philip’s eyebrows180 as he elbowed his way forward, and hustled181 Woolcomb off the pavement. Mr. Philip never disguised any sentiment of his. Hate the little ignorant, spiteful, vulgar, avaricious182 beast? Of course I hate him, and I should like to pitch him into the river. Oh, Philip! Charlotte pleaded. But there was no reasoning with this savage when in wrath. I deplored183, though perhaps I was amused by, his ferocity.
The local paper on our side was filled with withering184 epigrams against this poor Woolcomb, of which, I suspect, Philip was the author. I think I know that fierce style and tremendous invective185. In the man whom he hates he can see no good; and in his friend no fault. When we met Bradgate apart from his principal, we were friendly enough. He said we had no chance in the contest. He did not conceal186 his dislike and contempt for his client. He amused us in later days (when he actually became Philip’s man of law) by recounting anecdotes187 of Woolcomb, his fury, his jealousy, his avarice188, his brutal189 behaviour. Poor Agnes had married for money, and he gave her none. Old Twysden, in giving his daughter to this man, had hoped to have the run of a fine house; to ride in Woolcomb’s carriages, and feast at his table. But Woolcomb was so stingy that he grudged190 the meat which his wife ate, and would give none to her relations. He turned those relations out of his doors. Talbot and Ringwood Twysden, he drove them both away. He lost a child, because he would not send for a physician. His wife never forgave him that meanness. Her hatred191 for him became open and avowed192. They parted, and she led a life into which we will look no farther. She quarrelled with parents as well as husband. “Why,” she said, “did they sell me to that man?” Why did she sell herself? She required little persuasion194 from father and mother when she committed that crime. To be sure, they had educated her so well to worldliness, that when the occasion came she was ready.
We used to see this luckless woman, with her horses and servants decked with Woolcomb’s ribbons, driving about the little town, and making feeble efforts to canvass the townspeople. They all knew how she and her husband quarrelled. Reports came very quickly from the Hall to the town. Woolcomb had not been at Whipham a week when people began to hoot195 and jeer196 at him as he passed in his carriage. “Think how weak you must be,” Bradgate said, “when we can win with this horse! I wish he would stay away, though. We could manage much better without him. He has insulted I don’t know how many free and independent electors, and infuriated others, because he will not give them beer when they come to the house. If Woolcomb would stay in the place, and we could have the election next year, I think your man might win. But, as it is, he may as well give in, and spare the expense of a poll.” Meanwhile Hornblow was very confident. We believe what we wish to believe. It is marvellous what faith an enthusiastic electioneering agent can inspire in his client. At any rate, if Hornblow did not win this time, he would at the next election. The old Ringwood domination in Whipham was gone henceforth for ever.
When the day of election arrived, you may be sure we came over from Periwinkle Bay to see the battle. By this time Philip had grown so enthusiastic in Hornblow’s cause — (Philip, by the way, never would allow the possibility of a defeat) — that he had his children decked in the Hornblow ribbons, and drove from the bay, wearing a cockade as large as a pancake. He, I, and Ridley the painter, went together in a dog-cart. We were hopeful, though we knew the enemy was strong; and cheerful, though ere we had driven five miles the rain began to fall.
Philip was very anxious about a certain great roll of paper which we carried with us. When I asked him what it contained, he said it was a gun; which was absurd. Ridley smiled in his silent way. When the rain came, Philip cast a cloak over his artillery197, and sheltered his powder. We little guessed at the time what strange game his shot would bring down.
When we reached Whipham, the polling had continued for some hours. The confounded black miscreant, as Philip called his cousin’s husband, was at the head of the poll, and with every hour his majority increased. The free and independent electors did not seem to be in the least influenced by Philip’s articles in the county paper, or by the placards which our side had pasted over the little town, and in which freemen were called upon to do their duty, to support a fine old English gentleman, to submit to no Castle nominee, and so forth. The pressure of the Ringwood steward198 and bailiffs was too strong. However much they disliked the black man, tradesman after tradesman, and tenant after tenant, came up to vote for him. Our drums and trumpets199 at the Ram blew loud defiance200 to the brass201 band at the Ringwood Arms. From our balcony, I flatter myself, we made much finer speeches than the Ringwood people could deliver. Hornblow was a popular man in the county. When he came forward to speak, the market-place echoed with applause. The farmers and small tradesmen touched their hats to him kindly, but slunk off sadly to the polling-booth and voted according to order. A fine, healthy, handsome, redcheeked squire, our champion’s personal appearance enlisted202 all the ladies in his favour.
“If the two men,” bawled203 Philip, from the Ram window, “could decide the contest with their coats off before the market-house yonder, which do you think would win — the fair man or the darkey?” (Loud cries of “Hornblow for iver!” or, “Mr. Philip, we’ll have yew204.") “But you see, my friends, Mr. Woolcomb does not like a fair fight. Why doesn’t he show at the Ringwood Arms and speak? I don’t believe he can speak — not English. Are you men? Are you Englishmen. Are you white slaves to be sold to that fellow?” Immense uproar205. Mr. Finch206, the Ringwood agent, in vain tries to get a hearing from the balcony of the Ringwood Arms. “Why does not Sir John Ringwood — my Lord Ringwood now — come down amongst his tenantry and back the man he has sent down? I suppose he is ashamed to look his tenants207 in the face. I should be, if I ordered them to do such a degrading job. You know, gentlemen, that I am a Ringwood myself. My grandfather lies buried — no, not buried — in yonder church. His tomb is there. His body lies on the glorious field of Busaco!” (“Hurray!") “I am a Ringwood.” (Cries of “Hoo — down. No Ringwoods year. We wunt have un!") “And before George, if I had a vote, I would give it for the gallant208, the good, the admirable, the excellent Hornblow. Some one holds up the state of the poll, and Woolcomb is ahead! I can only say, electors of Whipham, the more shame for you!” “Hooray! Bravo!” The boys, the people, the shouting are all on our side. The voting, I regret to say, steadily209 continues in favour of the enemy.
As Philip was making his speech, an immense banging of drums and blowing of trumpets arose from the balcony of the Ringwood Arms, and a something resembling the song of triumph called, “See the Conquering Hero comes,” was performed by the opposition orchestra. The lodge-gates of the park were now decorated with the Ringwood and Woolcomb flags. They were flung open, and a dark green chariot with four grey horses issued from the park. On the chariot was an earl’s coronet, and the people looked rather scared as it came towards us, and said — “Do’ee look now, ’tis my lard’s own postchaise!” On former days Mr. Woolcomb and his wife, as his aide-de-camp, had driven through the town in an open barouche, but, to-day being rainy, preferred the shelter of the old chariot, and we saw, presently, within, Mr. Bradgate, the London agent, and by his side the darkling figure of Mr. Woolcomb. He had passed many agonizing210 hours, we were told subsequently, in attempting to learn a speech. He cried over it. He never could get it by heart. He swore like a frantic211 child at his wife who endeavoured to teach him his lesson.
“Now’s the time, Mr. Briggs!” Philip said to Mr. B., our lawyer’s clerk, and the intelligent Briggs sprang downstairs to obey his orders. “Clear the road there! make way!” was heard from the crowd below us. The gates of our inn courtyard, which had been closed, were suddenly flung open, and, amidst the roar of the multitude, there issued out a cart drawn212 by two donkeys, and driven by a negro, beasts and man all wearing Woolcomb’s colours. In the cart was fixed213 a placard, on which a most undeniable likeness of Mr. Woolcomb was designed: who was made to say, “Vote for me! Am I Not a Man and a Brudder?” “This cart trotted214 out of the yard of the Ram, and, with a cortège of shouting boys, advanced into the market-place, which Mr. Woolcomb’s carriage was then crossing.”
Before the market-house stands the statue of the late earl, whereof mention has been made. In his peer’s robes, a hand extended, he points towards his park gates. An inscription215, not more mendacious216 than many other epigraphs, records his rank, age, virtues217, and the esteem218 in which the people of Whipham held him. The mulatto who drove the team of donkeys was an itinerant219 tradesman who brought fish from the bay to the little town; a jolly wag, a fellow of indifferent character, a frequenter of all the alehouses in the neighbourhood, and rather celebrated220 for his skill as a bruiser. He and his steeds streamed with Woolcomb ribbons. With ironical221 shouts of “Woolcomb for ever!” Yellow Jack urged his cart towards the chariot with the white horses. He took off his hat with mock respect to the candidate sitting within the green chariot. From the balcony of the Ram we could see the two vehicles approaching each other; and Yellow Jack waving his ribboned hat, kicking his bandy legs here and there, and urging on his donkeys. What with the roar of the people, and the banging and trumpeting222 of the rival bands, we could hear but little: but I saw Woolcomb thrust his yellow head out of his chaise-window — he pointed26 towards that impudent donkey-cart, and urged, seemingly, his postilions to ride it down. Plying223 their whips, the postboys galloped224 towards Yellow Jack and his vehicle, a yelling crowd scattering225 from before the horses, and rallying behind them, to utter execrations at Woolcomb. His horses were frightened, no doubt; for just as Yellow Jack wheeled nimbly round one side of the Ringwood statue, Woolcomb’s horses were all huddled226 together and plunging227 in confusion beside it, the fore-wheel came in abrupt228 collision with the stonework of the statue railing: and then we saw the vehicle turn over altogether, one of the wheelers down with its rider, and the leaders kicking, plunging, lashing229 out right and left, wild and maddened with fear. Mr. Philip’s countenance, I am bound to say, wore a most guilty and queer expression. This accident, this collision, this injury, perhaps death of Woolcomb and his lawyer, arose out of our fine joke about the Man and the Brother.
We dashed down the stairs from the Ram — Hornblow, Philip, and half-a-dozen more — and made a way through the crowd towards the carriage, with its prostrate230 occupants. The mob made way civilly for the popular candidate — the losing candidate. When we reached the chaise, the traces had been cut: the horses were free: the fallen postilion was up and rubbing his leg: and, as soon as the wheelers were taken out of the chaise, Woolcomb emerged from it. He had said from within (accompanying his speech with many oaths, which need not be repeated, and showing a just sense of his danger), “Cut the traces, hang you! And take the horses away: I can wait until they’re gone. I’m sittin’ on my lawyer; I ain’t goin’ to have my head kicked off my those wheelers.” And just as we reached the fallen postchaise he emerged from it, laughing, and saying, “Lie still, you old beggar!” to Mr. Bradgate, who was writhing231 underneath232 him. His issue from the carriage was received with shouts of laughter, which increased prodigiously233 when Yellow Jack, nimbly clambering up the statue-railings, thrust the outstretched arm of the statue through the picture of the Man and the Brother, and left that cartoon flapping in the air over Woolcomb’s head.
Then a shout arose, the like of which has seldom been heard in that quiet little town. Then Woolcomb, who had been quite good-humoured as he issued out of the broken postchaise, began to shriek234, curse, and revile235 more shrilly236 than before; and was heard, in the midst of his oaths and wrath, to say, “He would give any man a shillin’ who would bring him down that confounded thing!” Then, scared, bruised237, contused, confused, poor Mr. Bradgate came out of the carriage, his employer taking not the least notice of him.
Hornblow hoped Woolcomb was not hurt, on which the little gentleman turned round, and said, “Hurt? no; who are you! Is no fellah goin’ to bring me down that confounded thing? I’ll give a shillin’, I say, to the fellah who does!”
“A shilling is offered for that picture!” shouts Philip, with a red face, and wild with excitement. “Who will take a whole shilling for that beauty?”
On which Woolcomb began to scream, curse, and revile more bitterly than before. “You here? Hang you, why are you here? Don’t come bullyin’ me. Take that fellah away, some of you fellahs. Bradgate, come to my committee room. I won’t stay here, I say. Let’s have the beast of a carriage, and — Well, what’s up now?”
While he was talking, shrieking238, and swearing, half a dozen shoulders in the crowd had raised the carriage up on its three wheels. The panel which had fallen towards the ground had split against a stone, and a great gap was seen in the side. A lad was about to thrust his hand into the orifice, when Woolcomb turned upon him.
“Hands off, you little beggar!” he cried, “no priggin’! Drive away some of these fellahs, you postboys! Don’t stand rubbin’ your knee there, you great fool. What’s this?” and he thrust his own hand into the place where the boy had just been marauding.
In the old travelling carriages there used to be a well or sword-case, in which travellers used to put swords and pistols in days when such weapons of defence were needful on the road. Out of this sword-case of Lord Ringwood’s old post-chariot, Woolcomb did not draw a sword, but a foolscap paper folded and tied with a red tape. And he began to read the superscription — “Will of the Right Honourable239 John, Earl of Ringwood. Bradgate, Smith and Burrows240.”
“God bless my soul! It’s the will he had back from my office, and which I thought he had destroyed.” My dear fellow, I congratulate you with all my heart!’ And herewith Mr. Bradgate the lawyer began to shake Philip’s hand with much warmth. “Allow me to look at that paper. Yes, this is in my handwriting. Let us come into the Ringwood Arms — the Ram — anywhere, and read it to you!”
... Here we looked up to the balcony of the Ringwood Arms, and beheld241 a great placard announcing the state of the poll at 1 o’clock.
Woolcomb 216 Hornblow 92
“We are beaten,” said Mr. Hornblow, very goodnaturedly. “We may take our flag down. Mr. Woolcomb, I congratulate you.”
“I knew we should do it,” said Mr. Woolcomb, putting out a little yellow-kidded hand. Had all the votes beforehand — knew we should do the trick. I say. Hi! you — Whatdoyoucallem — Bradgate! What is it about, that will? It does not do any good to that beggar, does it?” and with laughter and shouts, and cries of “Woolcomb for ever,” and “Give us something to drink, your honour,” the successful candidate marched into his hotel.
And was the tawny242 Woolcomb the fairy who was to rescue Philip from grief, debt, and poverty? Yes. And the old postchaise of the late Lord Ringwood was the fairy chariot. You have read in a past chapter how the old lord, being transported with anger against Philip, desired his lawyer to bring back a will in which he had left a handsome legacy243 to the young man, as his mother’s son. My lord had intended to make a provision for Mrs. Firmin, when she was his dutiful niece, and yet under his roof. When she eloped with Mr. Firmin, Lord Ringwood vowed193 he would give his niece nothing. But he was pleased with the independent and forgiving spirit exhibited by her son; and, being a person of much grim humour, I daresay chuckled244 inwardly at thinking how furious the Twysdens would be, when they found Philip was the old lord’s favourite. Then Mr. Philip chose to be insubordinate, and to excite the wrath of his great-uncle, who desired to have his will back again. He put the document into his carriage, in the secret box, as he drove away on that last journey, in the midst of which death seized him. Had he survived, would he have made another will, leaving out all mention of Philip? Who shall say? My lord made and cancelled many wills. This certainly, duly drawn and witnessed, was the last he ever signed; and by it Philip is put in possession of a sum of money which is sufficient to ensure a provision for those whom he loves. Kind readers, I know not whether the fairies be rife245 now, or banished246 from this work-a-day earth, but Philip’s biographer wishes you some of those blessings247 which never forsook248 Philip in his trials: a dear wife and children to love you, a true friend or two to stand by you, and in health or sickness, a clear conscience, and a kindly heart. If you fall upon the way, may succour reach you. And may you, in your turn, have help and pity in store for the unfortunate whom you overtake on life’s journey.
Would you care to know what happened to the other personages of our narrative249? Old Twysden is still babbling250 and bragging251 at clubs, and though aged131 is not the least venerable. He has quarrelled with his son for not calling Woolcomb out, when that unhappy
difference arose between the Black Prince and his wife. He says his family has been treated with cruel injustice252 by the late Lord Ringwood, but as soon as Philip had a little fortune left him he instantly was reconciled to his wife’s nephew. There are other friends of Firmin’s who were kind enough to him in his evil days, but cannot pardon his prosperity. Being in that benevolent253 mood which must accompany any leave-taking, we will not name these ill-wishers of Philip, but wish that all readers of his story may have like reason to make some of their acquaintances angry.
Our dear Little Sister would never live with Philip and his Charlotte, though the latter especially and with all her heart besought254 Mrs. Brandon to come to them. That pure and useful and modest life ended a few years since. She died of a fever caught from one of her patients. She would not allow Philip or Charlotte to come near her. She said she was justly punished for being so proud as to refuse to live with them. All her little store she left to Philip. He has now in his desk the five guineas which she gave him at his marriage; and J. J. has made a little picture of her, with her sad smile and her sweet face, which hangs in Philip’s drawing-room, where father, mother, and children talk of the Little Sister as though she were among them still.
She was dreadfully agitated255 when the news came from New York of Dr. Firmin’s second marriage. “His second? His third!” she said. “The villain256, the villain!” That strange delusion257 which we have described as sometimes possessing her increased in intensity258 after this news. More than ever, she believed that Philip was her own child. She came wildly to him, and cried that his father had forsaken259 them. It was only when she was excited that she gave utterance260 to this opinion. Doctor Goodenough says that though generally silent about it, it never left her.
Upon his marriage Dr. Firmin wrote one of his long letters to his son, announcing the event. He described the wealth of the lady (a widow from Norfolk, in Virginia) to whom he was about to be united. He would pay back, ay, with interest, every pound, every dollar, every cent, he owed his son. Was the lady wealthy? We had only the poor doctor’s word.
Three months after his marriage he died of yellow fever, on his wife’s estate. It was then the Little Sister came to see us in widow’s mourning, very wild and flushed. She bade our servant say, “Mrs. Firmin was at the door;” to the astonishment261 of the man, who knew her. She had even caused a mourning-card to be printed. Ah, there is rest now for that little fevered brain, and peace, let us pray, for that fond, faithful heart.
The mothers in Philip’s household and mine have already made a match between our children. We had a great gathering262 the other day at Roehampton, at the house of our friend Mr. Clive Newcome (whose tall boy, my wife says, was very attentive263 to our Helen), and, having been educated at the same school, we sat ever so long at dessert, telling old stories, whilst the children danced to piano music on the lawn. Dance on the lawn, young folks, whilst the elders talk in the shade! What? The night is falling: we have talked enough over our wine: and it is time to go home? Good night. Good night, friends, old and young! The night will fall: the stories must end: and the best friends must part.
The End
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ascends
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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tragically
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thither
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wary
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abode
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bliss
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streaking
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streak
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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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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ledge
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revolves
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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sate
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kindly
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friendliness
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interval
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humble
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humbled
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pall
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brandished
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berth
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envious
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pointed
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fiddles
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jig
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persecution
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ardently
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dreary
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wilderness
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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34
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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35
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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36
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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37
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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38
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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39
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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40
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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41
mangle
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| vt.乱砍，撕裂，破坏，毁损，损坏，轧布 | |
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42
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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43
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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44
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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46
wince
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|
| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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47
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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48
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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49
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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50
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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51
snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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52
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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53
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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54
cogent
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| adj.强有力的，有说服力的 | |
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55
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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56
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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57
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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58
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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59
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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60
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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61
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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62
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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63
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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64
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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65
sprawling
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|
| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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66
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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67
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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68
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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69
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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70
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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71
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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72
surmounted
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|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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73
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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74
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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75
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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76
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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77
chaff
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|
| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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78
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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79
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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80
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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81
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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82
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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83
chestnut
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|
| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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84
watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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85
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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86
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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87
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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88
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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89
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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90
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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91
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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92
demurs
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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93
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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94
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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95
ornamented
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|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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97
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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98
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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99
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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100
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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101
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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102
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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103
pictorial
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|
| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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104
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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105
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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106
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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107
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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108
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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109
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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110
rattling
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|
| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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111
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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112
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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113
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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114
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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116
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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117
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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118
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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120
suffrages
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| （政治性选举的）选举权，投票权( suffrage的名词复数 ) | |
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121
sneak
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|
| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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122
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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123
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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124
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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125
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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126
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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127
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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128
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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129
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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130
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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131
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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132
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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133
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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134
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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135
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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136
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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137
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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138
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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139
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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140
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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141
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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142
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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143
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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144
facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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145
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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146
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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147
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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148
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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149
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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150
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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151
complexion
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|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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152
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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153
fuming
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|
| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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154
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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155
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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156
bawls
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|
| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的第三人称单数 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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157
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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158
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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159
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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160
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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161
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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162
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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163
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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164
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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165
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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166
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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167
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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168
nominee
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| n.被提名者；被任命者；被推荐者 | |
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169
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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170
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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171
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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172
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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173
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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174
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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175
penuriousness
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176
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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177
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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178
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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179
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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180
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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181
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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182
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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183
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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185
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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186
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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187
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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188
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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189
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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190
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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191
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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192
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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193
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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194
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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195
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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196
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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197
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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198
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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199
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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200
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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201
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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202
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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203
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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204
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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205
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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206
finch
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| n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀，金丝雀等) | |
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207
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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208
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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209
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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210
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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211
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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212
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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213
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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214
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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215
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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216
mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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217
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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218
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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219
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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220
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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221
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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222
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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223
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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224
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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225
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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226
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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227
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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228
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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229
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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230
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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231
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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232
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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233
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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234
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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235
revile
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| v.辱骂，谩骂 | |
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236
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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237
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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238
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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239
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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240
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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241
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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242
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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243
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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244
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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246
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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248
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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249
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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250
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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251
bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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252
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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253
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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254
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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255
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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256
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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257
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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258
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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259
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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260
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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261
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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262
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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263
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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