“I was born on October 20th, 1822, at Uffington, Berks, of which village my grandfather was Vicar. He was also a Canon of St. Paul’s, and spent half the year at his house in Amen Corner, with which my first memories of London are connected. It was, till this year, the strangest quiet old nook in the city, behind its big timber gates, within one hundred yards of Fleet street on one side, and Newgate Market on the other, but the distant murmur16 of life only made the repose17 more striking in those days. Now they are building some new minor18 Canons’ houses on the vacant ground beyond which will be opened out towards Newgate street, and the corner will be a thoroughfare. The most remarkable19 fact of my childhood happened there, as I was in the house (I believe) with Sir Walter Scott, a great friend of my grandfather, on his last sad visit to London.
“My grandmother was a very notable woman in many ways, and a great economist20 and early riser. She used to take me and my brother out shopping in the early morning, and our excursions extended as far as Billingsgate fish-market, then at the height of the career which has secured for it an unenviable place in our English vocabulary. It was certainly a strange place for a lady and small boys, and is connected with the most vivid of my childish memories. Toddling21 after my grandmother to the stall where she made her purchases, we came one morning on the end of a quarrel[vii] between a stalwart fish-fag and her fancy man. She struck him on the head with a pewter pot which flattened22 with the blow. He fell like a log, the first blood I had ever seen, gushing23 from his temples, and the scene is as fresh as ever in my memory at the end of half a century. The narrow courts in that neighborhood are still my favorite haunts in London.
“But my town visits were short. I was a thorough country-bred boy, and passed eleven months in the year at the foot of the Berkshire chalk-hills, much in the manner depicted24 in ‘Tom Brown.’
“I was sent to school at the early age of eight, to accompany my elder brother. It was a preparatory school for Winchester, and the best feature about it was the Winchester custom, called ‘standing26 up,’ which means that we were encouraged to learn a great deal of poetry by heart, for which we got extra marks at the end of the half year. We were allowed (within limits) to choose our own poets, and I always chose Scott from family tradition, and in this way learned the whole of the ‘Lady of the Lake,’ and most of the ‘Lay of the last Minstrel’ and ‘Marmion,’ by heart, and can repeat much of them to this day. Milton reckoned highest for marks, but I was prejudiced against him in this wise: Not far from the school was Addington, a place of the then Duke of Buckingham, who was also a friend of my grandfather, who, with my grandmother, paid him a visit at the end of our first half year. We went over to sleep, and travel back home next day with the old folk, and in the morning before starting, the Duchess gave us each a sovereign, neatly27 wrapped up in white, glossy28 paper. It was the first piece of gold I ever had, and I kept it in my hand to look at on the journey. I was leaning out of the window of the carriage when my attention was suddenly called to some roadside sight, and I dropped the precious metal. My shout of anguish29 and dismay brought the carriage to a stand-still, and I had to confess. After some trouble my sovereign was found, and[viii] taken charge of by my grandmother, who, in due course, returned it to me, no longer in current coin of the realm, but in the shape of a pocket edition of Milton’s poems, with ‘Thomas Hughes from the Duchess of Buckingham and Chandos’ written on the title page. I still possess the odious30 small volume, and have learnt to forgive the great Puritan,—indeed, I have read Masson’s life of him with real interest in these latter days. But I never learnt a line of him by heart as a boy, and regret it to this day.
“Those were evil days in Wessex, the time of the Swing riots and machine and rick burning. My father was the most active magistrate31 in the district, and was constantly in the saddle, keeping the King’s peace. He was an old fashioned Tory, but with true popular sympathies, and had played cricket and football all his life with the men and boys of our village, and it is one of my proudest memories that only one man from Uffington joined the rioters, and he came back after three weeks ashamed and penitent32. Amongst other good deeds, my father rode off alone one night and saved the house and chapel33 of a dissenting34 minister in a neighboring village from being sacked and burned. Nevertheless I can not pretend to say that I was brought up to look upon dissenters35 as anything but a stiff-necked and perverse36 generation.
“At the age of ten, February 1834, I was sent on to Rugby with my brother, as, happily for us, Arnold had been a college friend of my father. Here I stayed till I was nearly nineteen, starting from the bottom and ending in the sixth form, though by no means at the head of the school.
“It was a very rough, not to say brutal37, place when I went there, but much mended during those years.
“I was a very idle boy so far as the regular lessons were concerned, and I expect I should have been advised to go elsewhere early in my career but for a certain fondness for history and literature which Arnold discovered in me and[ix] which (I fancy) covered a multitude of sins. He first struck it at a monthly examination of the Shell, then the form intervening between the fourth and fifth. He asked the head boy why it was the Romans had so specially38 rejoiced over the terms of a certain treaty with the Parthians (we were reading Horace, I think). It came all down to the lowest bench where I was, and I said, ‘because they got back the eagles taken from Crassus,’ and sent a gleam of pleasure into the Doctor’s face which was getting rather grim. Up I went to the top of the form, and from that time he often asked me questions outside the text book and specially by way of illustration from Scott’s novels, to which he was fond of referring. I could generally come to the point, having them at my fingers’ ends, and was proud of my consequent recognition. To this day I remember the feeling of grief and humiliation39 which came across me when I failed him on a critical occasion. It was years after the above event when I was in the sixth, and some distinguished40 visitor (Bunsen, I think it was) was present at the lesson. We were reading the passage in Aristotle about old age, (is it in the Ethics41 or Politics? I’m sure I forget) and he asked the head of the school to illustrate42 from Scott’s novels what Aristotle says about the characteristic of old age, to be absorbed in petty interests and to be careless about great contemporary events. Down came the question, past some very able and some very studious boys, since distinguished one way or another—past John Connington, Matt. Arnold, Sir R. Cross, to me—and then the Doctor paused for several seconds with a confident look. But no response came and he passed on, ‘and I was left lamenting43.’ No one answered, and he had to remind us of the old Abbot, pottering away in his garden on the border, when Mary and her defeated followers44 ride up before Crossing, and the old monk45 leans on his spade and looks after them, saying, ‘I could pity this poor Queen and these Lords, but what are these things to a man of four score—and it’s a[x] fine growing morning for the young kale-wort’—and so goes to his spading again.
“I cannot help to this day wondering at the patience and forbearance both of him and my tutor, Cotton, afterwards Bishop46 of Calcutta, over my frightful47 copies of verses, and Greek and Latin prose. As I was head of the eleven at cricket, and of bigside at football, I naturally had but small leisure to devote to such matters, and consequently my copies were notorious for the number of picture frames they were certain to contain,—picture frames being the strong black marks which the Doctor used to make round bad, false concords48 munus hospitalis or quantities munera stare
“He used to do it slowly and grimly, his under lip seeming to grow out as the pen went deliberately49 round the wretched words, and one did not feel good during the operation. But as no boy enjoyed the sausage seller’s buffooneries, or Socrates’ banters50 more than I, (tho’ I made sad hashes in construing51 them) I remained in favor, tho’ incorrigible52, till the end.
“I carried away from Rugby dreadfully bad scholarship, but two invaluable53 possessions. First, a strong religious faith in and loyalty54 to Christ; and secondly55, open mindedness. It was said (and is still said, I believe,) of Arnold, by way of censure56, that to him everything was an open question every morning of his life. And though he never made any direct effort to unsettle any of our convictions that I can remember, we went out into the world the least hampered57 intellectually of any school of English boys of that time. To this day I am always ready to change an old opinion the moment I can get a better one, and so I think it has been with many of my old school-fellows, though we believed ourselves to be a thorough true blue school.
[xi]
“Perhaps I also owe to Rugby my strong democratic bias58, but I don’t think it. I guess I was born so (or barn-zo, as Wessex chaw-bacon pronounced it in the famous story). As a little scrap59 in petticoats nothing pleased me so much as playing with the village children, and I could never understand why they shouldn’t have all the things I had. At any rate it was at Rugby that I first was able to indulge my radical60 propensities61. Up to my time, the school-close (or playgrounds) was kept as sacred ground, no ‘lout’ (as we politely called the neighboring lieges) being allowed to set foot within the precincts, and I had often noticed the insolent62 airs with which casual intruders in fustian63 or corduroy had been extruded64. So when I became head of the eleven (and so a sort of constitutional monarch65 in the close) I asked the best cricketers amongst the ‘louts’ to come in and practice with me on summer evenings, and got up matches with their club, to the great advantage, I still believe, of school as well as town.
“I was dreadfully loath66 to leave, and when I was obliged, (as nineteen is the limit of ages) was much averse67 to going up to Oxford68. I knew that my scholarship was too weak to allow me to take anything like high honors, and so, as my profession was to be the Bar, I wanted to go up to London at once and enter at an Inn of Court. My father, however, after consulting his legal friends, decided69 that I should go to Oxford, and accordingly I went up to his old College, Oriel, in February, 1842. My first year at Oxford was utterly70 wasted, except that I learned to pull a good oar71, and perfected myself in boxing, which was then much in vogue72, several prize-fighters being generally kept in pay by the under-graduates. The lectures were perfectly73 easy to me as I had read all the books at Rugby, and I employed no private tutor. I knew I couldn’t take high honors, (or at any rate choose to think so) and as I happened to fall into an idle, fast set, just did as the rest, and made a fool of myself in all the usual[xii] ways. But I never much enjoyed that kind of thing and got very sick of it by the time I had taken my little-go, and towards the end of my second year, just before I was of age, the most important event of my life happened, for in the long vacation I became engaged to my wife, then a schoolgirl, the great friend of my only sister. This pulled me up short. Our parents very properly said we were silly young people and must not see one another for years, or correspond, that we might see whether we really knew our minds. I went back to Oxford quite a new man, knocked off all not absolutely necessary expense, and lived decently and soberly for the rest of my time, taking my degree the first moment I could without coaching, by which I saved money. Consequently, with the help of a small legacy74 of ￡200, which came to me at twenty-one from an old great-aunt, I came away quite out of debt and with some small balance towards furnishing chambers76 in London, which was fairly creditable, as, there being three of us up at once, my father only allowed us ￡200 a year each. This was supposed to be too small for a fellow to live on!! Alas77, it is even worse now, I fear!
“I had the good luck to be under Clough (the poet) and Fraser, now Bishop of Manchester, who were Oriel tutors at that time, and the latter of whom is still one of my closest friends. I went up, as I have said, believing myself still a Tory, but left Oxford a Radical. Something of the change was owing to the insolence78 of undergraduate life at that day, but more to a tour I took with a pupil through the North in the long vacation of my third year. My pupil was the son of a neighboring Berkshire squire79, and all his father wanted was that I should keep him out of mischief80. If he could be interested or taught anything, so much the better. We happened to stop at a Commercial hotel in Lancashire on our way North, and in the bagman’s room I got into an argument with some of the North county travellers on the subject of the Corn Laws, then prominently before Parliament. On this[xiii] first night I came speedily to the conclusion that I knew very little about the matter, and before I returned to Oxford for Michaelmas term I had become a good free-trader.
“I was nearly twenty-two when I went up to London, straight from Oxford, to begin my legal career. My father kindly81 suggested that I should take a run on the Continent before settling down, to get up my French and German to the point at any rate of tolerably fluent small talk, and here again I have no doubt but he was right, as the want of early training of ear and tongue has left me a helpless mortal ever since. However, I was determined82 to lose not a month or a week if I could help it, and soon found myself in small rooms on the third floor at No. 15 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, from the windows of which, on a fine day, I could see the Surrey hills. I paid ￡30 a year for the chambers, and lived in them for another ￡70, keeping down my whole expenditure83 within ￡100 a year, a feat25 I am still rather proud of. I never could have done it but for a glorious old woman who kept the house, and did for all the inhabitants, of whom only two lived in their chambers. She had come up from Devonshire as a girl some fifty years before to that house where she had been ever since, and in all that time had never seen the Thames, which is, as you know, not five minutes’ walk from Lincoln’s Inn Fields; nor St. Paul’s, except the dome84, from the top windows of No. 15. She still spoke85 with a delightful86 Devonshire accent, all her U’s being as soft as if she had left Torquay yesterday, and I won her heart at once by professing87, or I should say acknowledging, a passion for junket, which she prepared in a reverent88 and enthusiastic manner on the slightest excuse. As my wife that was to be lived in Devonshire, the coincidence was peculiarly grateful to me, and the dear old woman, Roxworthy by name, could not have had my interests more at heart had I been her own son.
“There I lived for two years and upwards89 pleasantly enough, for several old school and college friends had chambers[xiv] in the neighborhood. My engagement was a constant stimulus90 to work and economy, and made me indifferent as to society. I just visited two or three family friends on Sundays, and for the rest did very well without it. From my own experience I would have every youngster get engaged by the time he is twenty-one, though I am not prepared to maintain that a long engagement is so good for girls as for boys. Mine at any rate was the making of me. My democratic instincts grew in strength during these years, notwithstanding the failure of my first practical endeavors to act up to them. One of these I will mention. Every house in the Square was entitled to a key of the five gardens, in which I spent most of the long summer evenings; and, seeing the number of ragged91 children who came round the railings and looked wistfully through at the lawns and beds within, I extended my privilege to them and used to let them in by the scores, and watch them tumbling on the grass and gathering92 the daisies with entire satisfaction. From the first, this outrageous93 proceeding94 greatly scandalized the Beadle, whose remonstrances95 I entirely96 disregarded, until at last a notice came from the Trustees of the Square that the key of No. 15 would be called in. This threat so alarmed poor Mrs. Roxworthy that I was fain to promise amendment97, and so ceased myself to frequent the gardens. At the end of thirty years a strong effort is being made, as you may see in the papers, to throw the gardens open; so I live in hopes before long of seeing my revenge on the ghost of the Beadle of my day.
“I read hard at the law, but it was very much against the grain, and my endeavors to master the subtleties98 of contingent99 remainders, executory devises, the scintilla100 juris, and all the rest of it, were only partially101 successful. I sometimes think I might have taken con1 amore to common law and to criminal business, but conveyancing and real property law had no attractions for me, beyond the determination, if I could, to make a living by them. I read with a very able conveyancer[xv] and kindly old gentleman, who did his best to impart the mysteries to some six pupils. He soon found where my strength, such as it was, lay, and employed me in the preparation of deeds—such as appointments of new Trustees, where the operative part was quite simple common form, but long statements of fact had to be made in the recitals102. These I rather excelled at, and on the whole, by the time I was of standing to be called to the Bar, was probably about as fit for that ceremony as the average of my cotemporaries.
“Three months before it took place I was married, the probation103 which my wife’s parents had very properly insisted on, having expired at the beginning of 1847, and we being found entirely in the same mind after our three years of separation. Most of our friends thought us mad, as we started on the vast income of ￡400 a year. It was confidently foretold104 that we should be living on our friends or in the workhouse before long, which prophesies105 however were entirely falsified. We started in tiny lodgings106, almost opposite the house we now live in, and always managed to pay our way in the worst of times. And though I admit the experiment was a risky107 one, I have never repented108 it.
“The year of my call, 1848, was the year of revolutions, and on the 10th of April I paraded, like the rest of respectable society, as a special constable109, though with shrewd misgivings110 in my own mind that the Chartists had a great deal to say for themselves. In which belief I soon found sympathizers. Frederick Maurice had recently been appointed Chaplain of Lincoln’s Inn, and was gathering round him a number of young Barristers and Students, whom he was putting to work in their spare time at a ragged school, and visiting the poor in a miserable111 district near Lincoln’s Inn. Contact with our wretched clients soon made it clear to us that something more radical and systematic112 was needed to raise them to anything like independence. They were almost all in the[xvi] hands of slop sellers, chamber75 masters, or other grinders of the faces of the poor. What could be done to deliver them? In the autumn, one of our number spent some time in Paris and came back full of the material and moral effects of association amongst the workmen there.
“We resolved to try the experiment and accordingly formed ourselves into a society for promoting Workingmen’s Associations, with Maurice as president. The idea grew on us apace, and soon called out an amount of enthusiasm which surprised ourselves. We were all busy men, tied to offices from ten till five, so we met at six in the morning and eight at night to settle our rules, and organize our work. We were all poor men too, but soon scraped together enough money to start our first Association. This we resolved should be a tailoring establishment, for which we could ourselves, with the help of our friends, find sufficient custom in the first instance. We had no difficulty in hiring good airy workshops, but how to fill them was the rub. We were now in communication with a number of poor workpeople, especially amongst the Chartists, and, to cut a long story short, started our Association with a slop-worker who had been in prison as manager, and some dozen associates of kindred opinions in the workroom.
“I needn’t trouble you with any details of the Christian113 Socialist114 movement, of which this was a beginning, and which made a great noise in the press and elsewhere at the time. It has survived any number of follies115 and failures, and has gradually spread till there is a union of Societies all over the kingdom, doing a work for our poorer classes which one can only wonder at and be thankful for.
“We wrote tracts116, and started a small paper, ‘The Christian Socialist,’ and were soon at open strife117 with nearly the whole of our press, both the ‘Edinburgh’ and the ‘Quarterly’ condescending118 to bestow119 on us contemptuous, but very angry articles, in which they were joined by weeklies and dailies[xvii] innumerable. But we were young, saucy120, and so thoroughly121 convinced we were right that ‘we cared, shall I say, not a d—n for their damning.’
“Most of my friends looked very serious, and prophesied122 that my prospects123 at the Bar would be ruined by my crotchets, and indeed I was dreadfully afraid of this myself. But the state of things in England was so serious, and I was so thoroughly convinced of the necessity of work in this direction, that I couldn’t give it up. No doubt I lost some business by it, but other business came, as I was wonderfully punctual at Chambers and soon got to be friends with my few clients, who even got to pardon, with a shrug124 of the shoulders, the queer folk they often found there. And queer no doubt they were for a Chancery barrister’s chambers, as emissaries from the tailors’, shoemakers’, printers’, and builders’ Associations (we had a dozen of them going by this time) were often in and out about their rules and accounts and squabbles. I only remember one instance in which I really suffered. A dear old gentleman, a family friend of ours, had managed with much difficulty to persuade his solicitor125 to give me some business. That most respectable of men, head of a firm which could have made any young barrister’s fortune, arrived one afternoon at my chambers with a brief, and was asked by my clerk to sit down for a moment till I was disengaged. This he did, graciously enough, though no doubt with the thought ‘how little I could know my business to keep him waiting even for a moment,’ when my door opened, and a full-blown black person (lately from the West Indies in quest of advice and aid for the freedmen there) walked out. This was too much for my intending client, who hurried away, saying he would call again, but I never saw his brief or him.
“So things went on for some years during which I managed to maintain my growing family without dropping my work for the Associations. We had migrated to Wimbledon,[xviii] for health’s sake, where we built a house side by side with one of the other Promoters, which had one large room common to both houses, the subject of much chaff126 and fun to our visitors and acquaintance. Our garden was also in common, and both arrangements, I think, answered well.
“About this time Maurice became convinced that if Associations of working people were to succeed, the men must be better educated in the highest sense. So he set to work to establish the Workingmen’s College, of which he was the first and I am the present Principal. It is a very noteworthy institution, at which, by the way, Emerson and Goldwin Smith, besides Stanley, Kingsley, Huxley, and other eminent127 Englishmen, have delivered opening addresses, at the beginning of the academical year, in October.
“I found it at first very hard to discover my mission at the college. I tried lectures on the law of combination and association, but they did not draw, and all the other classes for which I was competent, were filled by much better teachers from amongst our number. So, noting how badly set up the men were with round shoulders, and slouching gait, and how much they needed some strong exercise to supple128 them, I started a boxing class, and had some horizontal and parallel bars put up in the back-yard. These proved a great success, and at last it became clear to me, that all my Oxford time spent on such matters had not been thrown away. In connection with the boxing and gymnastic classes, we started social gatherings129 for talk and songs, over a cup of tea, which also were wonderfully successful. I remember Hawthorne coming to one of them; brought by his friend, H. Bright, of Liverpool, and quite losing his shyness and reserve for the evening.
“By this time we had a boy of eight, and, thinking over what I should like to say to him before he went to school, I took to writing a story as the easiest way of bringing out what I wanted. It was done mainly in the long vacation of 1856,[xix] but wasn’t published till early in the next year, and made such a hit that the publishers soon betrayed the secret, and I became famous!
“Whereupon arose again the professional bugbear, now set at rest for years. I had managed to get over and live down Christian Socialism, but who on earth would bring business to a successful author! I considered whether I shouldn’t throw over Lincoln’s Inn and take to writing, but decided that the law was best for me, and determined to stop writing. This good resolution held for two years, when the Berkshire festival of scouring130 the White Horse, (an old Danish or Saxon, certainly Pagan figure, still left on our chalk-hills,) came round, and my old country friends made such a point of having an account of it from me that I gave in and wrote my book No. 2.
“By this time my clients had become case-hardened, and finding no particular ill effects from my previous escapades, I gave in in a weak moment to a tempting131 offer of Macmillan’s, and wrote ‘Tom Brown at Oxford,’ for his magazine. Moreover, I had now made a plunge132 into public life, and was one of the leaders of a semi-political party. This is how it came about: There had been roused in me lively sympathies with the Abolitionists, and I had followed eagerly the progress of events through the Fugitive133 Slave, and Free Soil agitations134. There was no warmer sympathizer with Garrison135 and John Brown and Levi Coffin136, in England; so when the Lincoln election came, and South Carolina led off the seceding137 states with jubilant applause of society in England, I went at once fiercely into the other camp. You may judge of the difficulty of getting our public men of note to take active sides with the North (tho’ many of them didn’t conceal138 their sympathy, and were ready to speak in Parliament, and write,) by the fact that I was about the most prominent speaker at the first great public meeting, which was held in London. This proved to be such an extraordinary success, that there was no further[xx] effort on the part of the jingoes (that name hadn’t yet been invented, but it was precisely139 the same party,) to demonstrate publicly in the metropolis140. In other centres there was need of such work, and I went to Birmingham and Liverpool to speak and deliver lectures on the war and its causes and issues. It was supposed that there was to be a row at the latter place, which was the stronghold of the Rebels; but all went off quietly.
“It was mainly in consequence of these doings that I was asked by the working folk in South London to stand for Lambeth in 1865. I did so, and was brought in triumphantly141 at the head of the Poll, and almost all the expense paid by subscription142. From that time I gradually gave up legal business, and in 1868 took silk, as it is called, i. e., became a Queen’s Counsel. In 1869 I wrote ‘Alfred the Great’ for Macmillan’s Sunday Series. I now made it my chief business to attend to Social-Political questions in Parliament; sat on two Trades unions Commissions; got amendments143 to the Industrial and Friendly Societies Acts through the House, but never took to party politics.
“In 1870, as I hope you remember, I paid my delightful visit to America.
“In 1872 I lost my dear eldest144 brother, and soon after wrote the memoir145 of him for my family. Maurice also died, and I became Principal of the Workingmen’s College.
“Before the next election (1874) the Co-operative question had come to the front. The success of the Upper Class London Supply Societies [copies of our working-class Associations in their main principle and features] had roused the tradesmen throughout the country. I was a candidate for Marylebone, and was fiercely opposed by the tradesmen, and supported by the professional and working classes. There were three Liberal candidates for only two seats, so it was agreed to refer it to the Attorney General to say who should[xxi] retire, and he decided that I had the worst chance of winning the seat (on one-sided and insufficient146 evidence, as my supporters maintained, and I think rightly). I therefore retired147, and got no chance of entering that Parliament. For by this time the Trades Protection Society had been organized, to fight against neither small nor great, but only against those accursed revolutionists who had supported the Co-operative movement, and refused to flinch148 from it.
“So it happened that I was again thrown out at the election this year. I had consented, on the unanimous and unsolicited request of the Liberal party in Salisbury, to stand there, and all went well till just before the election, when the Trades Protective people permitted the party organization to throw me over. I doubt if I shall ever return to the House, as my views on the Church question make me an almost hopeless candidate in the North of England, and my support of Co-operation a perfectly hopeless one at present in the South. I care, however, very little about it, having plenty to do outside in keeping irons hot, especially that most interesting of all my irons, the Tennessee settlement, which I hope to keep very hot indeed, and look upon as about the most hopeful of the many New Jerusalems which have attracted me during my pilgrimage. I am off to open Chapter II. of that Romance [Chapter I., the getting the titles clear, buying the land, &c., having taken some two years.] on the 12th of next month, and I can’t tell you how much my heart is in it.
“And so end my confessions149. The only other points of interest, omitted above, are the publication of the ‘Old Church,’ in 1877, when the disestablishment movement began to get serious, and ‘The Manliness of Christ,’ this Spring, (1880), which latter has been already republished on your side in four different forms; and lastly, my share in the Volunteer movement, which I joined at its start in 1859. The Workingmen’s College raised a corps150 of two[xxii] companies at once, of which, after serving for a few weeks as private, I was made Captain. It soon swelled151 into a regiment152, the 19th Middlesex, of which I became Colonel, and served in it twelve years.”
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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autobiographies
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| n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 )；自传文学 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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squelch
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| v.压制，镇压；发吧唧声 | |
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scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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desecrator
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| 亵渎，玷污； 把（神物）供俗用 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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14
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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15
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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16
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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17
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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18
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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19
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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20
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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21
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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22
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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23
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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24
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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25
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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26
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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27
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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28
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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29
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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30
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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31
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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32
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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33
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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34
dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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35
dissenters
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| n.持异议者，持不同意见者( dissenter的名词复数 ) | |
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36
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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37
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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38
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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39
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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40
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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41
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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42
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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43
lamenting
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|
| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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44
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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45
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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46
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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47
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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48
concords
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| n.和谐，一致，和睦( concord的名词复数 ) | |
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49
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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50
banters
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| n.玩笑，逗乐( banter的名词复数 )v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的第三人称单数 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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51
construing
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的现在分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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52
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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53
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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54
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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55
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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56
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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57
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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59
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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60
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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61
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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62
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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63
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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64
extruded
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| v.挤压出( extrude的过去式和过去分词 )；挤压成；突出；伸出 | |
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65
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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66
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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67
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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68
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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69
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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70
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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71
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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72
Vogue
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|
| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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73
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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74
legacy
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|
| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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75
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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76
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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77
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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78
insolence
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|
| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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79
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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80
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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81
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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82
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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83
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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84
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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85
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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86
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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87
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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88
reverent
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|
| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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89
upwards
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|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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90
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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91
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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92
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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93
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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94
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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95
remonstrances
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|
| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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96
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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97
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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98
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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99
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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100
scintilla
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| n.极少，微粒 | |
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101
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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102
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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103
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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104
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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106
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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107
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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108
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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110
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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111
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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112
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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113
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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114
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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115
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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116
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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117
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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118
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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119
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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120
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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121
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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122
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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124
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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125
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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126
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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127
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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128
supple
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|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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129
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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130
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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131
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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132
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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133
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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134
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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135
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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136
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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137
seceding
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| v.脱离，退出( secede的现在分词 ) | |
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138
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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139
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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140
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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141
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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142
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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143
amendments
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| （法律、文件的）改动( amendment的名词复数 )； 修正案； 修改； （美国宪法的）修正案 | |
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144
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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145
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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146
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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147
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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148
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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149
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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150
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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151
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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152
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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