Next day I felt so weak that I could scarcely stand upright. About twelve o'clock Mr. Bransby Cooper and the Rev3. Samuel Jones came round. When Mr. Cooper saw me, he said, 'Why, Holyoake, I did not know you yesterday.'
'Why, sir?'
'You did not seem to be the same person you were before.'
'In what respect was I different?'
I answered, 'Here I had to endure your authority; in court I had to defend my character and liberty. It was my turn yesterday, it is yours again to-day.'
About the middle of the first day's imprisonment6 I was startled by the sonorous7 voice of the street cryer, passing near the walls of the gaol, crying with a loud voice—'Howitt's correct list of all the cast, quit, and condemned8;' and specifying9, with marked emphasis, far above that bestowed10 on two cases of wilful11 murder, the case of George Jacob Holyoake, for uttering certain Blasphemous12 words against God, and of and concerning the Christian13 Religion.' The above words and specification14 are to be found in the said 'Correct List,' which a turnkey bought for me at my request, and which I still have. On the second morning after my sentence, I was sitting by the (very little) fire in the common room, contemplating15, with very critical air, a can of somewhat indifferent gruel16, which I had not the slightest disposition17 to eat, when the prayer bell rung, which did not at all improve my temper. Where the gaol was situated18, I enjoyed such a propinquity to dock bells, basin bells, cathedral bells, and gaol bells, that had I been inclined to rebel, it would have chimed in with the others. Upon the aforesaid prayer bell ringing, all my fellow-prisoners made a rapid escape. I could not tell what had become of them. Over my head was a large grating, for the convenience of gaolers overlooking the room. Down this grating there came a tremendous voice, shouting 'Holyoake! Holyoake! Holyoake!' The voice belonged to Ogden, a man whom Carlyle would have delighted to honour. Nature made him for a gaoler. Looking up, I said 'What do you want?'
'Did you not hear that bell?'
'Yes,' I said; 'what of that?'
'All the other prisoners are gone to prayers.'
'Well, let the poor devils go, if they like it.'
'I can't be talked to in this way,' he roared out, in his surliest tones; 'you must go.'
'I am afraid that is a mistake of yours.'
'Don't you know where you are?'
'Yes; I'm in Gloucester Gaol, sitting over a can of very bad gruel.'
'Don't you know you are a prisoner?' 'Oh! yes; I am quite sensible of it.'
'Well, you must do as the others do, and you must go to prayers.'
'Then you must carry me.'
'I'll report you to the clergyman.'
'Give the clergyman my compliments, and say I'm not coming to prayers.'
He stalked away with the air of one whose dignity was greatly outraged19. During the time of this colloquy20 prayers were suspended, and the clergyman was waiting my arrival in order to begin. As soon as prayers were well over, an order came for me—'The clergyman wanted me.'
'Well, Mr. Holyoake,' he said, when I met him, 'how is it you did not come to prayers?'
I answered, 'You cannot expect me to come to prayers; you imprison5 me here on the ground that I do not believe in a God, and then you would take me to chapel21 to pray to one. I cannot prevent your imprisoning22 me, but I can prevent your making me a hypocrite, and must.'
'But if you attended the ordinances23 of grace, it might lead you to believe in the Christian religion.'
'I should be very sorry for that.'
'Really me—how can you say so, sir?'
'Because I should be very sorry to treat those who differ from me as you treat me.'
'You do not understand us. It is not you we persecute—it is your opinions.'
'Then I wish you would imprison my opinions, and not me.' Here he turned to refresh himself by looking at the rules for the regulation of prisoners in Gloucester gaol. He resumed—'But you must attend prayers—it's the rule of the gaol.' 'I must do what I must do, I know; but, if I do that, I must be carried into chapel every morning, and that will not edify24 the remainder of your congregation. What can I do if I go? I could not say, "O Lord, I have erred25 and strayed like a lost sheep." You see yonder gratings? I'm not likely to err2 and stray, for the next six months, beyond those bars.' 'Ah! that is not what we mean.'
'Then what do you mean? Can I join with those men in saying, "O Lord, who hath given us grace with one accord to make our common supplications unto thee," when I shall make no supplications, unless I am forced to it? You know the prisoners only go because the turnkey is behind them?' Then I showed him the passage, 'We have done those things which we ought not to have done,' &c, and asked him what I had done, or had the chance of doing, wrong, since I came there? At this he was puzzled a little, and he at last answered—
'Ah! but we think there is a divine influence in prayer, which might operate upon you.'
'Not in this place,' I answered, 'where it is so much contradicted by your practice. I will agree to this, that when on Sundays you preach, and I may hear something new, I will come.'
He ended the colloquy after a very Christian manner, by saying, 'Well, if you don't come to prayers, you shall be locked up.'
I answered, 'Well, sir, give your orders.' I need scarcely say this was done, in one form or other, to the end of my imprisonment. Sometimes I was locked in my sleeping cell, but generally in the day room; but I found it more agreeable than the litany, and I never asked for any alteration26. I went to chapel only on Sunday (the preaching day), but never to the week-day prayers.
Offensive regulations were often sought to be applied27 to me. One was an attempt to make me wear the prison dress. I said I preferred my own clothes. The answer was, the rules were imperative28, and they must enforce them. I inquired whether they had any spare time on their hands, for it would be necessary to dress me every morning. My answer was reported to the magistrates30, and I heard no more of the project.
Out of doors much is said against passive resistance, but in prison it is the only resistance possible, and is often very effective, If you speak or act, you are at the mercy of those in whose power you are. Take any aggressive step and your gaoler knocks you down, or locks you up in a moment. But if you simply will not do a thing, if without bluster31 or bravado32 you leave it to them to make you do it, or to do it themselves, they often find it of rather awkward accomplishment33. To carry me to prayers or to dress me every morning was far more offensive and troublesome to them than breaking my head, so they left me alone.
Old Mr. Jones, the magistrate29, paid me frequent visits. One day he took me to the door, and pointing upwards34, asked, 'did I not see there proofs sufficient of the existence of a God?' I answered, that 'when the boundless35 expanse of the skies had been before me I had been unable to think so, and now the few square feet, which the high walls of the gaol permitted me to see, were still less likely to inspire me with that conviction.'
A little reflection ought to have shown these gentlemen, who made these appeals to me, that the time and place were both inauspicious in which to address to me such interrogatories. Indeed it was offensive, and on more than one occasion I told them, that having undertaken to compel my acquiescence36 with them by imprisonment, I could never divest37 myself of the conviction that it was superfluous38 to pretend to win me by argument.
The last visit Mr. Jones paid was to read me a psalm39. As on my trial I had complained of the discourtesy of their calling me a fool, the old man was particularly anxious to justify40 himself. He found what seemed to him a favourable41 opportunity in the circumstance that a German scholar had at this time published a new translation of the Psalms42 of David. As I had spoken favourably44 of German theologians, he concluded that this one would have weight with me. He brought down the book, summoned the whole class of prisoners, and we stood twelve or eighteen in a row. Proclaiming attention, he said he wished to read to us, and particularly to me, the 14th Psalm. Reading aloud the first verse where David observes 'the fool hath said in his heart there is no God,' Mr. Jones said, 'Now, Holyoake, you complained that we called you a fool—you see David says you are a fool.' The old man looked round with an air of triumph, which was considerably45 moderated when I gently but distinctly observed that 'I no more liked rudeness in the mouth of David than in the mouth of a magistrate.' My fellow-prisoners glanced around in consternation46 at my audacity47, and expected to hear me ordered into the dark cell, but old Mr. Jones turned round, shut up his book, and walked away without saying a word, and I never saw him afterwards.
The next day I wrote to the Board of Magistrates to say that 'if visiting magistrates continued to question me before other prisoners, where the discipline of the gaol forbade adequate reply, I should refuse to answer.' In future I was always called out by myself and spoken with alone.
Before my trial the same Mr. Jones told me that my friend, Mr. Richard Carlile, had died in London a very horrible death, recanting all his principles before he expired, and urged me to take warning by his example and do the same. Shortly after Mr. Jones was surprised to meet Mr. Carlile in the corridor of the gaol bringing me refreshments48, which his experience assured him I needed. And it was not the least part of my pride on the day of my trial that he sat near me from morning till night, encouraging me by his presence, and assisting me by his wisdom. After my conviction he vindicated49 me assiduously through the press, addressed to me public letters, and wrote to Justice Erskine and Sir Robert Peel, threatening to renew his former war against the Church if my situation was not ameliorated—a very curious species of recantation it must be confessed, but a fair sample of the usual death-bed 'scenes' which the pulpits relate.
My company as a prisoner was not of a very agreeable kind, I had to listen to recitals50 of depravity such as I never heard before, and do not wish to hear again. But this was not all. Sometimes a companion was filthy51 as well as wicked. One man sent in among us had the itch52, and before I found it out he had held me by the wrists in some accidental wrestle—which misfortune might have subjected me to a taste of prison discipline which few will be able to imagine.
When the surgeon finds that a prisoner has this disease he makes no remark, but shortly after, the man is called out by the turnkey, whom he has to follow through various corridors to remote cells at the top of the gaol, near the gallows53. Upon entering one, he is told to take off his clothes. As soon as he is in a state of nudity, his clothes are taken away, and locked up. He is then shown a cask filled with brimstone, grease, and other mixture, of the consistence of pitch, and quite as offensive to the sight. With this he is made to smear54 his entire person over; when this is done, he is left locked up in the place. All he finds about him is a bed on which are two blankets, in which hundreds, smeared55 as he is, have lain before. When no longer able to endure the cold, he may lie in this place. Thick and chilly56, these disgusting coverings adjust themselves to the body when softened57 by the warmth, where, without caution, the liquid will run into the eyes and the mouth. Here he remains58 some days and eats the uncut food which is brought to him as well as he can with his filthy fingers.
Such is the description of a process of cure (as I gathered from several whose experience I heard narrated), to which I might have been subjected, if, when I discovered pustules on my wrists similar to those on the infected man, I had not kept from the observation of the surgeon while they remained. My habit of daily ablution, and some medicine I procured59, saved me from more than temporary discomfort60. I need scarcely add, that had such a cure been attempted on me, I should have had to be carried to the place, and the application must have been effected by force.
After some weeks' imprisonment, and when I had had sufficient opportunity of noticing the disposition of the authorities, and estimating the treatment to which I was to be subjected, I addressed the following, slightly abridged—
County Gaol, to Sir James Graham, her Majesty's Secretary of State.
Sir,—At the recent Gloucester Assizes your memorialist was sentenced by Mr. Justice Erskine to six months' imprisonment for the alleged62 offence of blasphemy.
Since that period he has been confined in the common gaol and fed on convict gruel, bread, rice, and potatoes. It is true your memorialist is allowed the privilege of purchasing, to some extent, better food, but his imprisonment renders this privilege valueless, without the assistance of friends, upon whom are the claims of his family left dependent by his incarceration63.
Under these circumstances your memorialist applied to the surgeon of the gaol for other diet; by the surgeon he was referred to the governor; by the governor to the visiting magistrates, and by the visiting magistrates back to e surgeon, who subsequently has recommended, though not prescribed, better diet: but from the recommendation of it, your memorialist concludes that in that gentleman's opinion it is necessary. Two other surgeons whom your memorialist consulted on entering his prison warned him that a generous diet was absolutely requisite64, and the decay of your memorialist's health is a testimony65 of its truth.
He prays for other regulations than those under which he sees visitors. They have always to stand, sometimes to talk through the bars of a gate, and are permitted to stay but a few minutes. As your memorialist is far from his friends, these rules continually prevent him seeing them, and receiving those attentions to his wants he otherwise would.
He wishes permission to remain up in an evening until the hour of the debtors66' retiring (9 o'clock), or at least to be allowed the use of a light in his cell, in which he is confined from twelve to fourteen hours, and during the winter he will be so shut up sixteen hours and a half. Thus much time will be lost your memorialist could employ upon a little mathematical speculation67.** which would afford him the gratification of contributing himself to the support of his family.
* I always said 'Prisoner for Blasphemy' in all my
communications, and directed my friends so to address me, to
which the magistrates objected. But if I was to be written
to at a gaol, I preferred to be known as a prisoner for
opinion rather than as a prisoner for crime.
** Mentioned to prevent the supposition on the part of Sir
James that the time would be employed in writing blasphemy,
which would be fatal to the application.
As every newspaper sent your memorialist is retained by the governor, your memorialist prays the liberty of reading them.
The visiting magistrates have said they should have no objection to grant what your memorialist asks, had they the power; and hence he prays the exercise of your authority on his behalf.
As custom attaches little weight to the opinion of a prisoner, it becomes not your memorialist to speak of his own case, but trusts he may with propriety68 refer to it as one in which he believes will be found little that is aggravated69. Seduced70 in the warmth of debate to express his honest opinion on a religious question, young and inexperienced, he took not the hypocrite's crooned path, nor the dissembler's hidden way, but unwarily uttered language disingenuousness71 would have concealed72 or art have polished, and became in consequence the ready victim of Christianity. Criminal without intention, punishment brings with it no consciousness or guilt73, and hence that which in other circumstances would be light, is, in his, a bitter infliction74.
George Jacob Holyoake.
Sir James gave me permission to remain up till 9 o'clock after I had been three months in prison. But for the concession75 it required an effort to be grateful, for it was a permission to remain up without fire and without light. For unless I could pay for fire and light, I had to go without. Whether Sir James Graham intended this, I have no means of knowing; he probably expected that the magistrates would not interpret his order as a privilege to sit up in the cold and in the dark, which would be a greater punishment than going to bed. But they did put this construction upon it. As Sir James did not mention fire and light, they refused to supply them.
Mathematical studies were impossible, for the authorities also refused to allow me my instruments, lest I should commit suicide with them; but I had provided for that, as every man should who goes to gaol. There was just width enough in my cell to admit of the heavy iron bed-frame being raised on one end. By marking a circle round one of the legs, which I did with a fragment of stone, I determined76 the place on which the leg would fall when the frame was pulled down. My head once placed on that spot, the great weight of the frame would have sent the narrow leg through the brain, and death must have been instantaneous. I am no friend of suicide, and had a thousand reasons for living; but I had not been long in gaol before I saw many things to which none but the degraded or the weak would submit—and lest they should come to my turn, I provided against them.
About this time an event occurred in my family which converted my imprisonment into an unexpected bitterness. Against that 'love abroad which means spite (or indifference) at home,' I early set my face. Between me and Eleanor, my wife, there always existed an understanding as to the risks I ran in my free speaking. Whatever consequences fell upon my own head alone, I had myself only to please in incurring77: but those which affected78 others, I had no right to invoke79, without their consent—and this consent I always sought from my wife, in any special case which arose. At our marriage, Eleanor very well understood that my life somewhat resembled a soldier's, and that it would often include duties and dangers not compatible with perennial80 fireside comfort Nor did she object to this, and I have had the sweet fortune always to be left to do whatever I should have done, had I been single and childless. On my saying, on the imprisonment of Mr. Southwell, first editor of the Oracle81, that it was my duty to take his place, Eleanor replied—'Do what it seems your duty to do, and I and the children will take care of ourselves as well as we can. When they grow up, I trust they will contemplate82 with little satisfaction any advantage they might have enjoyed at the expense of their father's duty. We can leave them no riches, but we may at least leave them a good example, and an unsoiled name.'
It was therefore that when I came to leave home, to go to my trial, all was calm and cheerful as usual, though there was much around to suggest uneven83 thoughts. On that day no one came to accompany me or to spend an hour of solace84 with those from whom I parted. Had there been a single friend present to have made up the appearance of society after I was gone, the loneliness would have been less bitter. As I left the house I heard that cry break forth85 which had been suppressed that it might not sadden my departure. Before I had proceeded far up Windsor Street, Ashted, I was arrested by Madeline's silvery voice calling 'good bye, dada,' and turning round I saw her large bright, black eyes (which every body praised) peering like two stars round the lintel of the door. I am glad I did not then know that I should never hear that voice again, nor see those bright eyes any more. To turn the attention of mankind in an atheistical87 direction may do harm to some. The propagation of all new views does harm, more or less. As in commercial speculations89 much capital is sunk before any returns come in, so in the improvement of the people, you sacrifice some old feeling which is good, before the new opinion, which is better, can be created. But all the new opinions I have at any time imbibed90 have never produced so much harm in me as the prudential doctrines91 of Political Economy. The doctrine92 that it is disreputable in the poor to have children, is salutary, no doubt—but it requires to be enforced under limitation. To regard the existence of your little ones as an expense, and the gentle love of children as a luxury in which you cannot indulge without reproach, is to sour life, dry up affection, and blight93 those whose tender years should be passed in a perpetual smile of joy. To look into the face of your child and feel that the hand of death, which shall hush94 that gentle voice, pale those rosy95 cheeks, and quench96 those animated97 eyes—is a political blessing98, is horrible. I look back with mute terror on the day when I was under the influence of those feelings. I cannot dwell upon it. I would burn all the books of Political Economy I ever read (and I think it the science of many blessings) if I could feel once more on my knee the gentle hand of my child from whom I parted that day, too stoical to shed a tear.
After a few weeks of my imprisonment had passed away, hint—words came of Madeline's failing health. Out of some money sent by my private friends, John Fowler and Paul Rodgers, of Shefield, to buy better food than the gaol afforded, I saved a guinea and sent it to Birmingham to purchase Madeline a winter cloak—it was spent in buying her a coffin99. Though of perfect health and agility100, she was one of those children who require entire preservation101 from exposure, want, or fatigue102. On ten shillings per week, which was all that the Anti-Persecution union could provide, this could not be done, as Eveline, then in arms, left her mother no opportunity of increasing that small income. Cold succeeded cold, when want of more means caused them all to go to live in a house ill ventilated, and where several were ill of fever, which soon attacked Madeline.
Mr. Chilton sent me several intimations to prepare for the worst, should it happen. But I could not believe in the worst happening, and indeed I had yet to realise what the worst implied. At length one morning the heavy corridor door grated on its harsh hinges, and the morose103 turnkey—fit messenger of misery—put a letter into my hand. As it had been, as usual, broken open—for there is no feeling, not even that of affection and death, respected in a gaol—Ogden knew its contents, and in justice to him I must say he endeavoured, as well as one whose ability lay in his moroseness104 could, to speak a word of apology and sympathy. The strangeness and awkwardness of the attempt drew my attention to the fatal black border, which gave me sensations such as I never received before and never shall again, for the first death of one dear to you, like that of the first love, brings with it a feeling which is never repeated. I remember that some prisoner came and covered me with a coat, for I had walked into the yard without one. Captain Mason and two friends came round, but I could not speak to them. He addressed a few words to me, but I turned away.
Then Madeline had died the death of the poor; she had perished among the people who know neither hope nor comfort, a pledge that I shall never forsake105 those with whose sad destiny one so dear to me is linked. Though in the death of poverty there is nothing remarkable106, though hundreds of children are daily killed off in the same way, yet parents unused to this form of calamity107 find in it, the first time, a bitterness which can never be told. The ten shillings per week income of the family was made up by small subscriptions108 by some who knew me, and by a few outside who happened to think useful the course I had taken. One or two friends whose professions had beforetime been profuse109, Eleanor met. They were cold, or to her they seemed so. She thought they feared a continued acquaintance might lay them under some tax to contribute to her support. This she could never bear. Offering her hand to one who did not take it, she went home, and nothing induced her to subject herself to such suspicion any more. A quick and enduring sense of independence, which no privation could disturb, was an attribute in her character I had always admired, and this dreadful form of its operation I have never been able to censure111. The Roman mother put on the armour112 of her son as he went out, and saw him brought home dead from the fight without weakness: but in that case, the strife113 of arms, the glory of victory, the sublimity114 of duty, and the applause of the senate, were so many supports to the mother's heroism115; but harder far is it for a mother to bend over her child day by day and night after night, and see relentless116 death eat like a canker into the bud of the damask cheek of beauty, and be too poor to snatch it from the tomb—and this with no trumpet117 note, no clang of arms to drown the dying scream, no incense118 of glory to raise the sinking heart, no applause of a generous people to reward the sacrifice—without one soul near who could penetrate119 to the depth of that desolation, and utter those words of sympathy which is all which humanity can do to soothe120 in the face of death. There were indeed those near who might have done so, but some could not comprehend this grief, and others, for reasons of Political Economy, 'did not see the good of regret' at a child dying, and they will learn from these pages for the first time that these wounds existed which, after eight years, are still fresh.
There are homesteads that have witnessed deeds That battle fields, with all their bannered pomp, Have little to compare with. Life's great play May, so it have an actor great enough, Be well performed upon a humble121 stage.
'My dada's coming to see me,' Madeline exclaimed on the night of her death, with that full, pure, and thrilling tone which marked her when in health. 'I am sure he is coming to night, mama,' and then remembering that that could not be, she said 'write to him, mama, he will come to see me;' and these were the last words she uttered—and all that remains now is the memory of that cheerless, tireless room, and the midnight reverberation122 of that voice which I would give a new world to hear again.
For her father, he was debating in incoherence the vain proposition as to whether he could prevail on the Governor to let him go home for one night to smooth and watch over that dying pillow, and he would cheerfully and gratefully have expiated123 the privilege by six or twelve months' additional imprisonment.
O liberty! whom the nations welcome with triumphant124 shouts, Whom all to whom the world owes its progress have worshipped—over how many graves hast thou walked! Rising with the morning's dawn, making all people radiant with thy presence, the poet thrills as thy chariot is borne on the tarn's golden beams, and he hails thee as a goddess, and blesses thee as a bride, and sings of thy triumphs and benefactions! But those who serve thee—who make their lives a sad and desert waste that thy pathway through the world may be unobstructed—who kneel to thee in their dungeon-churches and pour out the incense of life's young warm blood at gibbet-altars: they know thee by thy gory125 garments dripping with the blood of the father and the tear of the orphan126, and the desolation which precedes thy progress. The anthems127 of thy march are hollow voices from Siberia's mines, and Vinceanes' cells—the wail128 of women under the Russian knout, the groans129 of Konarski and the whistle of bullets which slay130 the Bandiera and Blum—thy trophies131 are the fresh graves of Hungary and Rome, thy throne is on a hecatomb of earth's noblest and bravest sons. Yet art thou still sacred in the eyes of man. Queen of Genius and Progress! emblem132 of that suffering through which Humanity is purified and developed! Thou hast trodden on the grave of my child, and I worship then still, although thou mayst yet tread on my own.
Yes, though I neither hope—for that would be presumptuous133—nor expect it, seeing no foundation, I shall be pleased to find a life after this. Not a life where those are punished who were unable to believe without evidence, and unwilling134 to act in spite of reason—for the prospect135 of annihilation is pleasanter and more profitable to contemplate: not a life where an easy faith is regarded as 'easy virtue136' is regarded among some men—but a life where those we have loved and lost here are restored to us again—for there, in that Hall where those may meet who have been sacrificed in the cause of duty—where no gross, or blind, or selfish, or cruel nature mingles137, where none sit but those whom human service and endurance have purified and entitled to that high company, Madeline will be a Hebe. Yes, a future life, bringing with it the admission to such companionship, would be a noble joy to contemplate. But Christianity has no such dream as this.
On making arrangements for the burial, at the Birmingham Cemetery138, the clerk asked whether they should provide a Minister, or whether the friends of the deceased would do so? The answer was—'A minister was not desired. 'Then I presume,' the clerk observed, 'you mean that you will provide one yourselves?' The answer again was, 'we do not require one at all. Please send the beadle merely.'
On the day of the interment the beadle attended as requested. He was instructed to conduct the burial party direct to the grave; and not into the chapel, which he did without remark: and when the coffin, plain but pretty, without tinsel or angels, was lowered, each threw a bouquet140 of flowers in, and when the grave was made up they returned home. Thus Madeline was buried, as became her innocence141 and her fate, without parade, without priest, or priestly ceremony. Had hesitation142 been displayed, or previous inquiries143 been made as to whether what was done could have been permitted, no question but that a priest would have been inflicted144, as at the grave of Carlile and others—for Christianity, always officious and rude to the dissentient, is never more so than when opposition145 is paralysed by agony on the bed of death, or hushed in speechless sadness by the side of the grave.
As it would only be painful to Mrs. Holyoake, I never wished her to visit me; but after the death of Madeline she desired it, and she brought little 'Eveline' (a name given to her in lieu of her own because of its similarity to Madeline.) On this occasion Mr. Bransby Cooper sent to say that the magistrates' Committee-room, an elegant and cheerful apartment, should be at my service, at Mrs. Holyoake's visit. Mr. Cooper was the first of the magistrates to send a message of condolence on the death of Madeline, and in this instance his kindness was delicate and generous. As on the day Mrs. Holyoake came the magistrates happened to hold a meeting in it, an apology was sent me, and the Lodge146 placed at my service. No turnkey was sent in, and I was permitted to see my friends with an air of perfect freedom. My sister Caroline, who was one of the party, brought me a present of wine and cigars. As both were forbidden by the rules of the gaol, I declined to touch them. As I was trusted without restraint, I was doubly anxious to respect a liberty so generously conceded. Had they set a watch over me, I should have had less scruple147, and perhaps have thought it a merit to defeat their suspicions.
Captain Mason, the governor, was a study—a type of the gentleman, official, and conventional, whose qualities were instructive. Bland148, imperturbable149, civil, and firm, he was never weak and never rude. Among the uneducated, all decisive action is announced in commotion150 or bluster. The gentleman is never in a hurry, never in a contention151. If you annoy him, are rude to him, impose upon him, or menace him, perhaps he quietly indicates his opinion of the impropriety, perhaps his resolution is taken without. He avoids you. His defence is prevention. Renewal152 of offence, renewal of intercourse153, chance of altercation154 or repetition, is simply impossible. Such was Captain Mason. I watched his manners with pleasure—he governed the gaol like a drawing room, excepting that the desserts were not quite the same. I saw rude men baffled, they could not make out how. Possibly he had nerves and sensibility, but these articles were not in common use. They were kept under lock and key, and never brought out in the routine of official duties. As blandly155 and courteously156 as he wished me good morning, he would have conducted me to the gallows, had instruction to that effect reached him. He would have apologised for the inconvenience, but he would have hung me while I was saying 'pray don't mention it.'
Excepting in one transaction our intercourse was unruffled. When I had left the gaol, a prisoner (the Master of a Post Office) the only gentleman on my side of the prison, addressed to me a letter of accusation157 against the governor—an act which made me a participator in his sentiments. As it passed through the governor's hands, he wrote under the name the crime and sentence of the writer—a brief and bitter retort. I reenclosed the letter to the writer with a note to Captain Mason, observing that on leaving the gaol I had expressed to him the only opinion I entertained of him, and I should regard it as unmanly to be a party to reproaches which I did not see reason to address to him in person. He wrote me back, with a soldier's honourable158 frankness, that 'I had always behaved honourably159 in my intercourse with him, and he did not believe I would do an unmanly thing.'
The exceptional transaction with the Captain referred to was this. One of my fellow-prisoners was an epileptic man, whose ignorance and irritability160, more than any crime, had led to his imprisonment. As I kept a sort of school in our common room, and taught a few things to those about me who were disposed to learn, I had become interested in Upton, a humble and unhappy man, who learned at grammar anxiously. Some nights he would fall out of bed in an epileptic fit, and lie groaning161 on the stone floor for an hour or more together. It was in vain that we shouted to the turnkeys. They who can hear a man think of escaping, cannot hear when he breaks his neck. Upton representing that a little tobacco, to which he had been accustomed, would save him from the frequency of these fits, I procured him some. Smoking it one day in a corner, in a paper pipe made for the purpose out of one of my letters, the governor came upon him through a side door. Upon being asked how he procured it, he answered, 'From a man who had just come in from the Sessions.' This the governor did not believe. At night Ogden made an immense speech at me, in which that luminous162 functionary163 inserted several elephantine hints, to the effect that he knew the source whence the aforesaid tobacco came. It was a treat to hear Ogden hint; it was like a hippopotamus164 putting his paw out, or kicking a man down stairs. As soon as I could get to speak to Upton, I prevailed upon him to allow me to write to the governor, tell him the truth, and take the blame upon myself, reminding Upton that a good man might be surprised into a lie, but only a bad man would persist in one. The retaliation165 of the governor was refined and vindictive166. Instead of ordering me into a dark cell on bread and water for two or three days, which was the authorised punishment, he ordered two gates to be locked between me and my visitors, so that those who spoke43 were obliged to shout to me. This he continued, with slight variation, to the end of my imprisonment. This deprived me of the pleasure of seeing ladies who called, as I would never consent to see them under circumstances of so much humiliation167.
Captain Mason had had previous proof that my professions might be trusted. When first imprisoned168, the reader perhaps remembers I was kept (though on my way home after a journey) a fortnight while the magistrates played at bail169. When at length they signified their intention of accepting it, Captain Mason took me, through the city, to Bransby Cooper's house, where the bail-deed was to be completed. On our way I asked him if it would be necessary for me to take an oath, before my own bond could be accepted, as I should object to take an oath? He turned round and replied—'Why, Holyoake, as you don't believe in any of the Gods, you could have no objection to swear by them all.' I explained to him that if the Magistrate would regard my oath as a mere139 ceremony, by which I rendered myself liable to penalties in case of violated truth or failure in my bond, I would take the oath readily, if all the Gods of the Pantheon were in it: but if it were regarded as a profession of my religious faith, I would not take it. It was better that I should go back to gaol, than to make a profession of belief which would mislead others. I told Mr. Cooper the same when we reached his house. He, however, said my signature would do.
One day I concluded a dialogue with my chaplain upon the principle of reciprocation171, i. e. of retorting his language upon himself, and, I think, not without utility, for he never afterwards fell into that insensible arrogance172 of speech so common among pastors173. On the occasion referred to, he began—'Are you really an atheist86, Mr. Holyoake?' 'Really I am.'
'You deny that there is a God?'
'No; I deny that there is sufficient reason to believe that there is one.'
'And I am very sorry to find that you have the temerity to say there is one. If it be absurd in me to deny what I cannot demonstrate, is it not improper175 for you to avert176 so dogmatically what you cannot prove?'
'Just where it leaves us both. 'It is a question of probability.' 'Ah! the probabilities in favour of atheism are very few.'
'How know you that? Did you ever examine the question without prejudice, or read that written in its favour without fear? Those who dare not look at all never see far.'
'But if the atheist has so much on his side, why does he not make it known? We do not keep back our evidences.'
'Has the atheist an equal opportunity with you? Is it generous in you to taunt178 him with lack of evidence, when you are prepared to punish its production?'
'The reason is that your principles are so horrible; as Robert Hall has said, 'Atheism is a bloody179 and ferocious180 system.'
'Permit me, sir, to return that gentle speech—to tell you that your principles are horrible, and that Christianity is a bloody and ferocious system.'
'Really I am shocked to hear you speak so dreadfully of Christianity.'
'Why should you be shocked to hear what you are not shocked to say?'
'But atheism is so revolting.' 'But Christianity is so revolting.'
'How dangerous is it for atheism to corrupt181 the minds of children.' 'How pernicious is it for Christian doctrines to corrupt the thoughts of infancy182.'
'But you are only asserting.'
'Are you doing otherwise? I sometimes think that Christians183 would be more respectful in their speech if the same language could be applied to them with impunity184 which they apply to others.'
'But, my dear sir, the language of the atheist is so shocking to Christian feeling.'
'And, my dear sir, has it never occurred to you that the language of the Christian is shocking to atheistical feeling?'
'Atheists have a right to their opinions, I allow, but not to publish them.'
'I shall think you speak reasonably when you permit the same rule to be applied to the Christian.'
'But you really cannot be an atheist?'
'And you say this who have been a party to imprisoning me here for being one! If you believe yourself, go and demand my liberation.'
'Ah! when you come to die you will wish that you were a Christian.'
'Can it be that I shall wish to hold a creed185 that I distrust—one that leads me to deny another the liberty I claim for myself? If to be capable of looking back with satisfaction on conduct like this is to be a Christian, may I never die the death of the righteous, and may my last end never be like his.'
As the general treatment pursued towards me did not work an satisfactory conversion186, some attempts were made by gentler means. Taken one day into a sleeping cell for privacy, one who had the power to fulfil his promises passed in review the casualties of a life like mine, and asked whether I had not better change it. Thinking I was seduced by some attraction which belonged to my position, he suggested how fickle187 a thing was popularity, and how soon the applause of friends might die away, or change with the growth or refinement188 of my conviction, into suspicion or even hate. Had I not better accept the editorship of a paper, where I should not be required to contradict, but merely to avoid advocating my views? Had I not better accept a school in a retired189 part of the country—-a girls' school also might be given to Mrs. Holyoake, and our joint190 incomes would ensure competence191, respectability, and usefulness? I answered, 'I think you have mistaken me. The opinions I defended are also my convictions; and thinking them useful, it seems my duty to propagate them, and the discharge of this duty is more serious in my eyes than you suppose; nor do the inducements you picture exist. Do you not see that I am nearly friendless? I am without even the attentions of those from whom I have some right to expect it. Except Mr. Farn, Mr. Watts192, and Mr. Campbell, none of my colleagues among the Social Missionaries193 have written me a friendly word. The editor of the New Moral World, upon whose protection I have some claim, has written no word in my favour. The only public defence for which I am indebted has come from strange papers, and unknown men. Even Mr. Owen, the advocacy of whose opinions involved me in this prosecution194, he who occupied the largest share of my veneration195, has not even recognised my existence by a single line. This affair may have made some noise, but I am not so young as to mistake noise for popularity, nor so weak as to think popularity the one thing needful. Popularity, is to be won by those who can flatter the public, but that estimation which is alone worth having is only to be won by the service of the people, and that is not the work of youth but of life. That which you call my cause is yet in an infantine state. It has no attractions but the rude ones of daring and truth. It requires to be divested196 of antagonism197, and developed in its relations to political and social interests and personal character. This must be the work of time, and judging from the present, it will be a work of difficult and precarious198 effort. At present we number no public friends of wealth or influence. We have every thing to gain—yet the comparative affluence199 you offer would be a canker to my peace, while it was the price of duty evaded200. My self-chosen faith, presumptuous and thorny201, will be sweeter to walk. It is enough that you see I am not misled by its attractions. Now I tread these floors with a proud step, and meet your eye with unblenched brow, because it is necessary to show you that in defence of my opinions I feel neither fear nor guilt—but when I walk from this place into the wilderness202 of the world, my steps will falter203 and my face will pale, because my path will lie over the grave of my child.'
All I remember farther is that my tempter made a few not unfeeling remarks, and led me back in silence to my usual cell.
The final efforts for my conversion were on this wise. The Rev. Mr. Cooper sent for me, a few days before my liberation, and asked me to follow him to the chapel. Arrived there, he ascended204 the pulpit, motioning me to a prisoner's pew without even asking me to be seated. My neck was stiff with a severe cold, and I was as ill able as ill disposed to be catechised. I stood leaning on the spikes205—not inapt emblems206 of such Christian love as I had there been made acquainted with. The good Chaplain prayed—I did not move. He looked at me to catch my eye—I kept mine fixed207 on the spikes. He addressed me—I made no sign. He spoke some minutes—still I remained motionless. He paused and asked what I thought of his representations—I answered no word. He seemed to think he was making a favourable impression. He resumed, and came to another peroration208, and again besought209 me to answer—still no motion, no word from me. He began a third time, and touched all serious topics which he could command, and came again to an elaborate peroration on deathbeds; and as I remained still silent and immovable, he said, somewhat perplexed210 this time, 'Holyoake, won't you speak?' I then answered 'Not while we occupy these places. Do you not preach to me and place me here where prisoners stand? I take this to be a ceremony, and not a conversation.' He walked down from his pulpit and asked me to accompany him, when he took me into several cells till he found one warmed with hot air, and asked would I speak with him there on friendly terms? I answered, 'with pleasure;' and there we conversed211 for the last time. I troubled him to repeat his arguments, as I would not admit that I had attended to a word. When he had done, I briefly212 assured him that my experience there had not created in me any desire to be a Christian: he had brought before me no new evidences, and as it had been found necessary to enforce those I knew before by penal170 reasons, the operation had rather diminished their weight in my estimation.
He professed213 himself anxious to 'present me with a Bible'—a fact which I knew was destined214 to make a figure in the next Gaol Report to the County Magistrates; I therefore resolved to have one worth acceptance, or not one at all. When he brought to me the usual prison copy, I respectfully declined it, I said, a thin copy bound in calf215, in pearl type, with marginal references, would be interesting to me, but the dumpling-shaped book he offered, I could never endure in my library. He deliberated—the trade price of the Bible he offered me was about tenpence, that I desiderated would cost him half a guinea. The reflection was fatal. The Bible never came, and the evangelical fact that 'The prisoner George Jacob Holyoake was presented with a copy of the Holy Scriptures217 before leaving the gaol, which it is hoped, under the Divine blessing, will be the means of bringing him to the knowledge of the truth'—was never recorded.
About this period I saw the magistrates for the last time. There seemed to be a full Board of them, and Mr. Bransby Cooper was in the chair. Before withdrawing I addressed Mr. Cooper, and said—'As in a short time I shall leave this place, I wish, before doing so, to express to you my sense of the kindness and consideration shown me by you when Mrs. Holyoake visited me here. It is one of the few things I shall remember with pleasure when again at liberty. You will not, I fear, believe in the possibility of one of my opinions feeling gratitude218, but I will at least assure you of it.' The answer he made was a compensation for much that I had experienced. In that loud voice in which he usually spoke, he exclaimed—'Yes, I will say this, that I believe you, Holyoake. I don't believe that you could be a hypocrite.'
One day a magistrate, described to me as the Hon. and Rev, Andrew Sayer, sent me a copy of Paley's works, requesting my particular attention to his Natural Theology. 'Did I put into your hands,' I said, addressing that gentleman, 'an atheistic88 work, you would tell me of the contamination you dread110; and may I not plead the same risk in perusing219 your theistical book? But, as all in the search after truth must venture through phases of error, I shall not hesitate to comply with your request; and that you may be certain that I do so, you may, when I have ended, put to me any question upon the contents you please.' It happened that my examination resulted in my writing 'Paley Refuted in his Own Words.' When Mr. Sayer came to ask me what conclusions I had come to on the books he had lent me, I made this answer to him—* Sir, I am surprised at your asking me this question. Does it become you, a clergyman and a magistrate, to ask me to commit crime?'
'What do you mean?' he inquired.
'I mean this,' I replied, 'that in having punished my last expression of opinion as a crime, by bringing me here, it does not become you to put religious inquiries to me again.' He seemed confounded; and on this occasion I showed him, that while Christianity punished as crime the expression of dissentient opinions, Christians were disqualified from seeking the state of any man's thoughts with respect to religion. Unless one volunteers explanations, Christians have plainly no right to demand them. They put themselves out of the pale of ordinary privilege.
Writing 'Paley Refuted' and the 'Short and Easy Method with the Saints'—a title suggested by 'Leslie's Short and Easy Method with the Deist,' another book put into my hands by the authorities—occupied me till the end of my imprisonment. On the 15th of February, 1843, I was liberated216; and three days after (having paid visits of acknowledgment to my friends in Gloucester, Cheltenham, and Worcester) I rejoined (what I might then term the remains of) my family in Birmingham.
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1
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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specifying
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| v.指定( specify的现在分词 )；详述；提出…的条件；使具有特性 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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specification
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| n.详述；[常pl.]规格，说明书，规范 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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43
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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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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46
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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48
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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49
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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50
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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51
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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54
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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57
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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58
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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65
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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66
debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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67
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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68
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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69
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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70
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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71
disingenuousness
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72
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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73
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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74
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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75
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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76
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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77
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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78
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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79
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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80
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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81
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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82
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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83
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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84
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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85
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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86
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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87
atheistical
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| adj.无神论（者）的 | |
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88
atheistic
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| adj.无神论者的 | |
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89
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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90
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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91
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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92
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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93
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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94
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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95
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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96
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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97
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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98
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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99
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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100
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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101
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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102
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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103
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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104
moroseness
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105
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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106
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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107
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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108
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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109
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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110
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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111
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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112
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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113
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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114
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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115
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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116
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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117
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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118
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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119
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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120
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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121
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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122
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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123
expiated
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| v.为（所犯罪过）接受惩罚，赎（罪）( expiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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125
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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126
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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127
anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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128
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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129
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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130
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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131
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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132
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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133
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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134
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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135
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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136
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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137
mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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138
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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139
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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140
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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141
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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142
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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143
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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144
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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146
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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147
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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148
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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149
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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150
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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151
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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152
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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153
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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154
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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155
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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156
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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157
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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158
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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159
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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160
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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161
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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162
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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163
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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164
hippopotamus
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| n.河马 | |
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165
retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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166
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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167
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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168
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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170
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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171
reciprocation
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| n.互换 | |
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172
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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173
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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174
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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175
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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176
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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177
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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178
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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179
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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180
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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181
corrupt
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|
| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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182
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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183
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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184
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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185
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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186
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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187
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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188
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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189
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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190
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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191
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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192
watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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193
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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194
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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195
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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196
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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197
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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198
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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200
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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204
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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206
emblems
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| n.象征，标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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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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peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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210
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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217
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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