OR, A PEEP INTO THE BACK SETTLEMENTS OF ENGLAND.
There are thousands of places in this beautiful kingdom, which if you could change their situation—if you could take some plain, monotonous1, and uninteresting tracts2 from the neighbourhood of large cities, from positions barren and of daily observance, and place these in their stead—would acquire an incalculable value; while the common spots would serve the present inhabitants of those sweet places just as well, and often far better, for the ordinary purposes of their lives—for walking over in the day, sleeping in during the night, and raising grass, cattle, and corn upon. The dwellers4 of cities—the men who have made fortunes, or are making them, and yet long for the quietness and beauty of the country—but especially the literary, the nature-loving, the poetical6—would, to use a common expression, jump at them; and, if it were in their power to secure them, would make heavens-upon-earth of them. Yes! they are such spots as thousands are longing7 for; as the day-dreaming young, and the world-weary old, are yearning8 after, and painting to their mind’s eye, daily in great cities; and the dull, the common-place, the unpercipient of their beauty and their glory, are dwelling9 in them;—paradisiacal fields and magnificent mountains; or cloudy hollows in their mottled sides; or little cleuchs and glens, hidden and green—overhung[197] with wild wood—rocky, and resounding10 with dashing and splashing streams;—places, where the eye sees the distant flocks and their slowly-stalking shepherds—the climbing goat, the soaring eagle: and the ear catches their far-off cries; whence a thousand splendours and pageants11, changing aspects, and kindling12 and dying glories, in earth and sky, are witnessed; the cheerful arising of morning—the still, crimson13, violet, purple, azure14, dim grey, and then dark fading away of day into night, are watched; where the high and clear grandeur15 and solitude16 of night, with its moon and stars, and wandering breezes, and soul-enwrapping freshness, are seen and felt. Such places as these, and the brown or summer-empurpled heath, with its patch of ancient forest; its blasted, shattered, yet living old trees, greeting you with feelings and fancies of long-past centuries; the clear, rushing brook17; the bubbling and most crystalline spring; and the turf that springs under your feet with a delicious elasticity18, and sends up to your senses a fresh and forest-born odour; or cottages perched in the sides of glades19, or on eminences20 by the sea—the soul-inspiring sea—with its wide views of coming and going ships, its fresh gales21, and its everlasting22 change of light and life, on its waters, and on its shores; its sailors, and its fishermen, with all their doings, families, and dependencies—every one of them thoroughly24 covered and saturated25 with the spirit of picturesque26 and homely27 beauty; or inland hollows and fields, and old hamlets, lying amid great woods and slopes of wondrous28 loveliness;—if we could but turn things round, and bring these near us, and unite, at once, city advantages, city society, and them! But it never can be! And there are living in them, from generation to generation, numbers of people who are not to be envied, because they know nothing at all of the enviableness of their situation.
We are continually labouring to improve society—to diffuse29 education—to confer higher and ampler religious knowledge; but these people know little of all this—experience little of its effect; for their abodes30, and natural paradises, lie far from the great tracks of travel and commerce; far from our great roads; in the most out-of-the-world places—the very nooks of the world.
If you come by chance upon them, you are struck with their admirable beauty, their solemn repose31, their fresh and basking[198] solitude. You cannot help exclaiming, What happy people must these be! But, when you come to look closer into them, the delusion32 vanishes. They do not, in fact, see any beauty that you see. Their minds have never been stirred from the sluggish33 routine of their daily life; their mental eye has never been unsealed, and directed to survey the advantages of their situation. They have been occupied with other things. Like the farmer’s lad mentioned by Wordsworth, their souls have become encrusted in their own torpor35.
A sample should I give
Of what this stock produces, to enrich
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim,
Impart new gladness to the morning air?”
Forgive me, if I venture to suspect
That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse,
Beneath a cumbrous frock that to the knees
Fellows to those that lustily upheld
The wooden-stools, for everlasting use,
Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare;
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant and strange;
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew
A look or motion of intelligence,
Or puzzling through a Primer, line by line,
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last.
The Excursion, B. 8.
This, however, is one of the worst specimens43 of the most stupified class—farm-servants. Wordsworth himself makes his good and wise Wanderer, a shepherd in his youth, and describes him, when a lad, as impressed with the deepest sense of nature’s majesty45. He represents him, in one of the noblest passages of the language, as witnessing the sun rise from some bold headland, and
Rapt into still communion that transcends46
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise.
And, indeed, the mountaineer must be generally excepted from[199] that torpor of mind I have alluded47 to. The forms of nature that perpetually surround him, are so bold and sublime48, that they almost irresistibly49 impress, excite, and colour his spirit within him; and those legends and stirring histories which generally abound50 in them, co-operate with these natural influences. This unawakened intellect dwells more generally amid the humbler and quieter forms of natural beauty; in the “sleepy hollows” of more champaign regions.
It might be supposed that these nooks of the world would, in their seclusion54, possess very much one moral character; but nothing can be more untrue. Universally, they may seem old-fashioned, and full of a sweet tranquillity55; but their inhabitants differ widely in character in different parts of the country—widely often in a short space, and in a manner that can only be accounted for by their less or greater communion with towns, less or greater degree of education extended to them—and the kind extended. Where they are far from towns, and hold little intercourse57 with them, and have no manufactory in them, they may be dull, but they are seldom very vicious. If they have had little education, they lead a very mechanical sort of life; are often very boorish58, and have very confined notions and contracted wishes; are rude in manner, but not bad in heart. I have been in places—ay, in this newspaper-reading age, where a newspaper never comes; where they have no public-house, no school, no church, and no doctor; and yet the district has been populous59. But, in similarly situated60 places, where yet they had a simple, pious61 pastor—some primitive62 patriarch, like the venerable Robert Walker, of whom so admirable an account is given by Wordsworth; where they have been blest with such a man amongst them, and where they have had a school; where they knew little of what was going on in the world, and where yet you were sure to find, in some crypt-like hole in the wall, or in a little fireside window, about half a dozen books—the Bible, “Hervey’s Meditations63 among the Tombs,” “Baxter’s Saint’s Everlasting Rest,” “Romaine’s Life of Faith,” or his “drop of Honey from the Rock Christ,” “Macgowan’s Life of Christ,” or “Drelincourt on Death,” and such like volumes; or “Robinson Crusoe,” “Philip Quarle,” “The History of Henry the Earl of Moreland,” “Pilgrim’s Progress,” or “Pamela;”—have[200] you found a simplicity64 of heart and manner, a quiet prosperity, a nearer approach to the Arcadian idea of rural life, than anywhere else in this country. There are yet such places to be found in our island, notwithstanding the awful truth of what was said by Coleridge, that “Care, like a foul66 hag, sits on us all; one class presses with iron foot upon the wounded heads beneath, and all struggle for a worthless supremacy67, and all, to rise to it, move shackled68 by their expenses.”
But these are now few and far between; and they are certainly “nooks of the world,” far from manufacturing towns; for my experience coincides with that of Captain Lloyd, as given in his “Field Sports of the North:”—“Manufactures, of whatever nature they may be, may certainly tend to enrich individuals, but, to my mind, they add little to the happiness of the community at large. In what parts of any country in the world, are such scenes of vice69 and squalid misery70 to be witnessed, as in manufacturing districts?” What he adds is very true—that, though it may appear singular, yet it is a fact, that the farther we retreat from great towns and manufactories, a greater degree of comfort is generally to be observed amongst the peasantry. It is, indeed, a strange relief to the spirit of one who has known something of the eager striving of the world, to come upon a spot where the inhabitants are passing through life, as it were, in a dreamlike pilgrimage, half unconscious of its trials and evils—an existence which, if it have not the merit of great and triumphant71 virtue72, has that absence of selfish cunning, pride, sorrow, and degradation73, which one would seek for in vain amid more bustling74 scenes. To find the young, soberly and cheerfully fulfilling their daily duties—nowhere affluence75, but everywhere plenty and comfort observable—and the old, in their last tranquil56 days, seated in their easy chairs, or on the stone bench at their doors, glad to chat with you on all they have known on earth and hoped for in heaven—why, it would be more easy to scathe76 such a place with the evil spirit of the town, than to raise it in the scale of moral life. The experiment of improvement there, you feel, would be a hazardous77 one. It were easy and desirable to give more knowledge: but not easy to give it unaccompanied by those blighting78 contaminations that at present cling to it.
[201]
It is in those rural districts into which manufactories have spread—that are partly manufacturing and partly agricultural—that the population assumes its worst shape. The state of morals and manners amongst the working population of our great towns is terrible—far more so than casual observers are aware of. After all that has been done to reform and educate the working class, the torrent79 of corruption80 rolls on. The most active friends of education, the most active labourers in it, are ready to despair, and sometimes exclaim,—“What have we done, after all!” There, the spirit of man is aroused to a marvellous activity; but it is an unhealthful activity, and overpowers, in its extravagance, all attempts to direct it aright. “Evil communications corrupt81 good manners” faster than good communications can counteract82 them; and where the rural population, in its simplicity, comes in contact with this spirit, it receives the contagion83 in its most exaggerated form—a desolating84 moral pestilence85; and suffers in person and in mind. There, spread all the vice and baseness of the lowest grade of the town, made hideous86 by still greater vulgarity and ignorance, and unawed by the higher authorities, unchecked by the better influences which there prevail, in the example and exertions87 of a higher caste of society.
The Methodists have done much to check the progress of demoralization in these districts. They have given vast numbers education; they have taken them away from the pot-house and the gambling-house; from low haunts and low pursuits. They have placed them in a certain circle, and invested them with a degree of moral and social importance. They have placed them where they have a character to sustain, and higher objects to strive after; where they have ceased to be operated upon by a perpetual series of evil influences, and have been brought under the regular operation of good ones. They have rescued them from brutality89 of mind and manners, and given them a more refined association on earth, and a warm hope of a still better existence hereafter. If they have not done all that could be desired, with such materials, they have done much, and the country owes them much. The thorough mastery of the evil requires the application of yet greater power—it requires a NATIONAL POWER. The evil lies deeper than the surface; it lies in the distorted nature of our[202] social relations; and, before the population can be effectually reformed, its condition must be physically90 ameliorated!
There never was a more momentous91 and sure truth pronounced, than that pronounced by Christ,—“They who take the sword, shall fall by the sword.” If they do not fall by its edge, they will by its hilt. It is under this evil that we are now labouring. As a nation we have fallen, through war, into all our present misery and crime. It is impossible that the great European kingdoms, with their present wealth and cultivated surfaces, in their present artificial state of society, can carry on war without enduring evils far more extensive, tremendous, and lasting23, than the mere92 ravaging93 of lands, the destruction of towns, or even of human lives. We are, as a nation, an awful proof of this at this moment. By the chances of war, at one time manufacturing and farming almost for the world; prospering94, apparently95, on the miseries96 of whole kingdoms wrapt in one wide scene of promiscuous97 carnage and anarchy98, our tradesmen and agriculturists commanded their own terms; and hence, on the one hand, they accumulated large fortunes, while, on the other, the nation, by its enormous military preparations—its fleets and armies marching and sailing everywhere, prepared to meet emergencies at all points and in all climes; by its aids and subsidies99 abroad; by its wasteful100 expenditure101 at home—piled up the most astounding102 debt ever heard of in the annals of the world. A vast working population was not merely demanded by this unnatural103 state of excitement, but might be said to be forced into existence, to supply all manner of articles to realms too busy in mutual104 slaughter105 to be able to manufacture or plough for themselves. Every thing assumed a new and wonderful value. All classes, the working classes as well as the rest, with the apparent growing prosperity, advanced into habits of higher refinement107 and luxury. The tables of mechanics were heaped with loads of viands108 of the best quality, and of the highest price, as earliest in the market; their houses were crowded with furniture, till they themselves could scarcely turn round in them—clocks, sometimes two or three in one house; chests of drawers and tables thronged109 into the smallest rooms; looking-glasses, tea-trays, and prints, stuck on every possible space on the walls; and, from the ceiling depending hams, bags, baskets, fly-cages of many colours, and a miscellaneous congregation of other articles, that gave their[203] abodes more the aspect of warerooms or museums, than the dwellings110 of the working class. Dress advanced in the same ratio; horses and gigs were in vast request; and the publicans and keepers of tea-gardens made ample fortunes.
The war ceased. Commerce was thrown open to the competition of the world. The continental111 nations began to breathe, and to look round on their condition. Their poverty and their spirit of emulation112, the sight of their own stripped condition, and of England apparently enriched beyond calculation at their expense, set them rapidly about helping113 themselves. This could not but be quickly and deeply felt here. To maintain our position, all manner of artificial means were adopted. Every class, feeling the tide of wealth changing its course, strove to keep what it had got. The working class, as individually the weakest, because they had spent their gains as they came, went to the ground. The value of every necessary of life was kept up as much as possible by legal enactments114. The rate of wages fell. The manufacturers, impelled115 by the same necessity of struggling for the maintenance of their rank, were plunged116 into the most eager competition; the utmost pressure of reduction fell on the labour of the operatives, who, with their acquired habits, were ill able to bear it. They were thrust down to a condition the most pitiful and morally destructive—to excessive labour, to semi-starvation, to pauperism117. They could not send their children to school—not so much from the expense of schooling—for that was made light by public contribution, and new plans of facility in teaching large numbers—but because they wanted every penny their children could earn, by any means, to aid in the common support. Hence, mere infants were crowded in pestilent mills when they should have been growing in the fresh air, and were stunted118 and blighted119 in body and in mind—a system, the evil of which became so enormous as to call loudly upon the attention of the legislature, and the indignant wonder of the nation. The parents themselves had not a moment’s time to watch over their welfare or their morals; at least sixteen hours’ unremitting daily labour being necessary to the most miserable120 existence. Evils accumulated on all sides. The working class considered themselves cast off from the sympathies of the upper classes, regarded and valued but as tools and machines; their children grew into ignorant[204] depravity, in spite of all efforts of law or philanthropy to prevent them. These causes still operate wherever manufacturing extends: and till the condition of this great class, whether in towns or villages, can be amended121; till time for domestic relaxation122 can be given to the man, and a Christian123, rather than a literary, education to the boy—an inculcation of the beauty and necessity of the great Christian principles; the necessity of reverencing124 the laws of God; doing, in all their intercourse with their fellow men, as they would be done by; the necessity of purity of life and justice of action, rather than the cant125 of religious feeling, and the blind mystery of sectarian doctrine,—the law and the philanthropy must be in vain.
To the simple, and yet uncontaminated parts of the country, there is yet a different kind of education that I should rejoice to see extended. It should be, to open the eyes of the rural population to the advantages of their situation;—to awaken52 a taste for the enjoyment126 of nature;—to give them a touch of the poetical;—to teach them to see the pleasantness of their quiet lives,—of their cottages and gardens,—of the freshness of the air and country around them, especially as contrasted with the poor and squalid alleys127 where those of their own rank, living in towns, necessarily take up their abode,—of the advantages in point of health and purity afforded to their children by their position,—of the majestic128 beauty of the day, with its morning animation129, its evening sunsets, and twilights almost as beautiful; its nightly blue altitude, with its moon and stars:—all this might be readily done by the conversation of intelligent people, and by the diffusion130 of cheap publications amongst them; and done, too, without diminishing the relish131 for the daily business of their lives. Airy and dreamy notions—notions of false refinement, and aspirations132 of soaring beyond their own sphere—are not inspired by sound and good intelligence, but by defective133 and bad education.
The sort of education I mean has long been realized in Scotland, and with the happiest results. There, large towns and manufactories have produced their legitimate134 effect, as with us; but, in the rural districts, every child, by national provision, has a sound, plain education given him. He is brought up in habits of economy, and sentiments of rational religion, and the most solemn and thorough morality. The consequence is, that almost all grow[205] up with a sense of self-respect; a sense of the dignity of human nature; a determined135 resolve of depending on their own exertions: and though no people are so national, because they are made sensible of the beauty of their country and the honourable136 deeds of their forefathers137, yet, if they cannot find means of living at home without degradation, and, indeed, without bettering their condition, they soberly march off, and find some place where they can, though it be at the very ends of the earth.
Nothing is better known than the intelligence and order that distinguish a great portion of the rural population of Scotland. No people are more diligent138 and persevering139 in their proper avocations140; and yet none are more alive to the delights of literature. Amid wild mountain tracks and vast heaths, where you scarcely see a house as you pass along for miles, and where you could not have passed two generations ago without danger of robbery or the dirk, they have book societies, and send new books to and fro to one another, with an alacrity141 and punctuality that are most delightful142. When I have been pedestrianizing in that country, I have frequently accosted143 men at their work, or in their working dress—perhaps with their axe144 or their spade in their hands, and three or four children at their heels—and found them well acquainted with the latest good publications, and entertaining the soundest notions of them, without the aid of critics. Such men in England would probably not have been able to read at all. They would have known nothing but the routine of their business, the state of the crop, and the gossip of the neighbourhood: but there, sturdy and laborious145 men, tanned with the sun, or smeared146 with the marl in which they had been delving147, have not only been able to give all the knowledge of the district; its histories and traditions; the proprietorships, and other particulars of the neighbourhood; but their eyes have brightened at the mention of their great patriots150, reformers, and philosophers, and their tongues have grown perfectly151 eloquent152 in discussing the works of their poets and other writers. The names of Wallace, Bruce, Knox, Fletcher of Saltoun, the Covenanters, Scott, Burns, Hogg, Campbell, Wilson, and others, have been spells that have made them march away miles with me, when they could not get me into their own houses, and find it difficult to turn back.
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Now, why should not this be so in England? Why should not similar means produce similar effects? They must and would; and by imbuing153 the rural population with a spirit as sound and rational, we should not only raise it in the social scale to a degree of worth and happiness at present not easily imaginable, but render the most important service to the country, by attaching “a bold peasantry, the country’s pride,” to their native soil, by the most powerful of ties, and rendering154 them both able and more determined to live in honourable dependence155 on self-exertion. Book Societies, under local management, should do for the Country what Mechanics’ Libraries are doing for the Towns—building up those habits, and perfecting those healthful tastes, for which popular education is but the bare foundation.
Wordsworth gives an account of the early years of his Wanderer, which, under such a system, might be that of thousands.
Early had he learned
The mystery, the life which cannot die:—
What wonder if his being thus became
Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires,
Low thoughts, there had no place; yet was his heart
And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired
Wisdom, which works through patience:—hence he learned
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought
Self-questioned, where it did not understand,
And with a superstitious160 eye of love.
So passed the time; yet to the nearest town
He duly went, with what small overplus
While at the stall he read. Among the hills
His schoolmaster supplied; books that explain
The purer elements of truth, involved,
In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe,
And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind
Busy in solitude and poverty.
[207]Yet still uppermost,
Nature was at his heart, as if he felt,
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power
In all things that from her sweet influence
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms,
Of science, and among her simplest laws,
His triangles—they were the stars of heaven,
The silent stars! Oft did he take delight
To measure th’ altitude of some tall crag
That is the eagle’s birthplace, or some peak
Familiar with forgotten years.——
Thus was he reared; much wanting to assist
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more,
And every moral feeling of his soul
And drinking from the well of homely life.
The Excursion, B. 1.
Such a process I should rejoice to see producing such characters in England. Yes! Milton, Thomson, Cowper, the pious and tender Montgomery, and Bloomfield, one of their own kind, would be noble and enriching studies for the simplest cottage, and cottage-garden, and field-walk. Some of our condensed historians, our best essayists and divines, travellers, naturalists176 in a popular shape, and writers of fiction, as Scott, and Edgeworth, and De Foe177, might be with vast advantage diffused178 amongst them. Let us hope it will one day be so. And already I know some who have reaped those blessings179 of an awakened51 heart and intellect, too long denied to the hard path of poverty, and which render them not the less sedate181, industrious182, and provident183, but, on the contrary, more so. They have made them, in the humblest of stations, the happiest of men; quickened their sensibilities towards their wives and children; converted the fields, the places of their daily toil167, into places of earnest meditative184 delight—schools of perpetual observation of God’s creative energy and wisdom.
It was but the other day that the farming-man of a neighbouring lady having been pointed185 out to me as at once remarkably186 fond of reading and attached to his profession, I entered into[208] conversation with him; and it is long since I experienced such a cordial pleasure as in the contemplation of the character that opened upon me. He was a strong man; not to be distinguished187 by his dress and appearance from those of his class, but having a very intelligent countenance188; and the vigorous, healthful feelings, and right views, that seemed to fill not only his mind but his whole frame, spoke189 volumes for that vast enjoyment and elevation190 of character which a rightly directed taste for reading would diffuse amongst our peasantry. His sound appreciation191 of those authors he had read—some of our best poets, historians, essayists, and travellers—was truly cheering, when contrasted with the miserable and frippery taste which distinguishes a large class of readers; where a-thousand-times-repeated novels of fashionable life, neither original in conception nor of any worth in their object—the languid offspring of a tinsel and exotic existence—are read because they can be read without the labour of thinking. While such works are poured in legions upon the public, like a host of dead leaves from the forest, driven along in mimic192 life by a mighty wind—and while such things are suffered to swell193 the Puffiads of publishers, and shoulder away, or discourage, the substantial labours of high intellect—it is truly reviving to see the awakening194 of mind in the common people. It is, I am persuaded, from the people that a regenerating195 power must come—a new infusion196 of better blood into our literary system. The inanities197 of fashion must weary the spirit of a great nation, and be thrown off; strong, native genius, from the measureless, unploughed regions of the popular mind—robust, gigantic, uneffeminated by luxury, glitter, and sloth—will rise up, and put all soulless artificialities to shame; and already mighty are the symptoms of such a change manifested, in an array of names that might be adduced. But I must not be led farther away by this seducing198 topic.
I found this countryman was a member of our Artisans’ Library, and every Saturday evening he walked over to the town to exchange his books. I asked him whether reading did not make him less satisfied with his daily work; his answer deserves universal attention:—“Before he read, his work was weary to him; for, in the solitary199 fields, an empty head measured the time out tediously, to double its length; but, now, no place was so sweet as the solitary[209] fields: he had always something pleasant floating across his mind; and the labour was delightful, and the day only too short.” Seeing his ardent attachment200 to the country, I sent him the last edition of “The Book of the Seasons;” and I must here give a verbatim et literatim extract from the note in which he acknowledged its receipt, because it not only contains an experimental proof of the falsity of a common alarm on the subject of popular education, but shews at what a little cost much happiness may be conveyed to a poor man:—“Believe me, dear sir, this kind act has made an impression on my heart that time will not easily erase201. There are none of your works, in my opinion, more valuable than this. The study of nature is not only the most delightful, but the most elevating. This will be true in every station of life. But how much more ought the poor man to prize this study! which if prized and pursued as it ought, will enable him to bear, with patient resignation and cheerfulness, the lot by providence202 assigned him. O sir! I pity the working man who possesses not a taste for reading. ’Tis true, it may sometimes lead him to neglect the other more important duties of his station; but his better and more enlightened judgment203 will soon correct itself in this particular, and will enable him, while he steadily204 and diligently205 pursues his private studies, and participates in intellectual enjoyment, to prize, as he ought, his character as a man in every relative duty of life.”
What a nation would this be, filled with a peasantry holding such views, and possessing such a consequent character as this!
The sources of enjoyment in nature have been too long closed to the poor. The rich can wander from side to side of the island, and explore its coasts, its fields, and forests—but the poor man is fettered206 to the spot. The rich can enter the galleries and exhibitions of cities, and contemplate207 all the great works of art; the poor ought to be taught to know that, if they cannot see the works of art—statues and paintings—they can see those of God;—if they cannot gaze on the finest forms of beauty from the chisel208 of the sculptor209, they may be taught to distinguish the beauty of all living forms;—if they cannot behold210 splendid paintings of landscapes, of mountains, of sea-coasts, of sunrises and sunsets; they can see, one or other of them, all the originals of these—originals to whose magnificence and glory the copies never can approach. To the poor,[210] but properly educated man, every walk will become a luxury, a poem, a painting—a source of the sweetest feelings and the most elevating reflections.
But there is one class in these back settlements of England to whom a liberal education is most requisite211, and to whom it would be most difficult to give it—the class of smaller resident proprietors148. The effect of the possession of property in such places is singular and most lamentable212. It produces the most impenetrable hardness of nature—the most selfish and sordid213 dispositions214. Everywhere, the tendency of accumulation is to generate selfishness: but, in towns, there are many counteracting216 influences; the emulative217 desire of vying218, in mode of life, with equals and superiors—the greater spread of information—the various objects of pleasure and association, which keep open the avenues of expenditure, not only in the purse, but in the heart. Here there are none. Amusements and dissipations are self-gratulatingly denounced as gross follies219 and sins; objects of display, as pride. The consequence is, that habits of the strangest parsimony220 prevail—the rudest furniture, the rudest style of living. Men who, in a town or its neighbourhood, would appear as gentlemen, and, perhaps, keep a carriage, there wear often clouted221 shoes, threadbare and patched clothes, and a hat not worth a farthing; and all in a fashion of the most awkward rusticity223. All wisdom is supposed to lie in penuriousness224. They have abundance of maxims225 for ever in their mouths, full of that philosophy; as “Penny-wise and pound-foolish”—“A penny saved is a penny got”—“A pin a-day’s a groat a-year.” All ideas seem absorbed in the one grand idea of accumulating coin, that will never be of more value to them than so many oyster-shells. Such a thing as a noble or generous sentiment would be a surprise to their own souls. Of such men are made the hardest overseers of the poor; whose screwing, iron-handed administration of relief is the boast of the parish, and has led to the most monstrous226 abuses. To them all objects are alike; they have no discrimination; the old and young, the idle and industrious, the sturdy vagabond, and the helpless and dying!—they deem it a virtue to deny them all, till a higher power forces the reluctant doit from their gripe. They are surly, yet proud churls, living wrapped in a sense of their own importance; for they see nobody above them, except there be a squire227 or a lord[211] in the parish; and they see little of him, and then only to make their passing obsequious228 bow; for they are at once
Any education, any change, would be a blessing180 to these men, that would bring them into collision with those of their own supposed standing65, but with better education and more liberal views and habits. The excess to which these causes operate in some of these out-of-the-world places, is scarcely to be credited: they produce the strangest scenes and the strangest characters. Let us take a specimen44 or two from one parish, that would be easily paralleled in many others.
In one part of this secluded230 neighbourhood, you approach extensive woods, and behold amongst them a house of corresponding air and dimensions—a mansion231 befitting a large landed proprietor149. If you choose to explore the outbuildings belonging to it, you will find there a regularly educated and authorized232 physician, living in a dovecot, and writing prescriptions233 for any that choose to employ him, for a crown, or even half-a-crown, which he spends in drink. Paternal234 example and inculcations made him what he is; unfitted him for success in his profession, and left him dependent on his elder brother, who affords him the asylum235 of his dovecot, yet so grudgingly236 that he has even attempted to dislodge him by pulling off the roof; and the poor doctor owes his retreat, not to his brother’s good-will, but to his own possession of a brace174 of formidable bull-dogs, that menace the destruction of any assailant. The dogs lie in his chamber237 when you enter, with their noses on the ground, and their dark glittering eyes fixed238 steadily upon you, and are ready, at a signal, to spring on you, and tear you to pieces. The doctor’s free potations have now deprived him of the power of locomotion239; he cannot quit his pigeon-house; but one of his bull-dogs he has trained to act as his emissary, and with a note suspended to his neck by a tape, he goes to certain houses in the neighbouring village, and so communicates his wishes to certain cronies of his, who are in the habit of attending to them. The dog would tear any one to pieces that attempted to stop him while on his master’s errands, being a very strong and fierce creature; but, if he is not molested240, he goes very[212] civilly along to his place of destination, and, when the note is taken off his neck by the proper hands, returns with great punctuality and decorum.
It must be said of this curiosity of a physician, that he is the descendant of a very curious family; whose history for the last three generations would be a regular series of eccentricities241; and the first of whom, here resident, was a celebrated242 piratical captain, who is said to have come hither disguised as a peasant, seeking as secluded a country as he could find, and driving before him an ass3 loaded with gold. It is certain that he purchased very extensive estates, and that one of his descendants was lately in Parliament, who, partaking of the family qualities, excited more surprise and more laughter in the house, than, perhaps, any man since the days of Sir Thomas Lethbridge.
Not far thence, stands another residence. At some distance it appears a goodly manor-house. It is large; with white walls and many antique gables; a stately avenue of elms in front; tall pines about it, the landmark243 of the whole country round: a spacious244 garden, with a summer-house on the wall, seeming to have been built when there was some taste there for those rural enjoyments245 which such a place is calculated to afford to the amiable246, country-loving, and refined. As you come near, there appear signs of neglect and decay. Old timber, litter, and large stones lie about; there are broken windows, unpainted and rotting wood-work: every thing looks forlorn, as if it were the residence of poverty on the verge247 of utter destitution248.
The fact is, the owner has landed property worth from thirty to forty thousand pounds. But see the man himself! There he goes, limping across his yard, having permanently249 injured one of his legs in some of his farming operations. There he goes—a tall hard-featured, weather-beaten man, dressed in the garb250 of the most rustic222 husbandman: strong clouted ankle-boots, blue or black ribbed worsted stockings; corduroy small-clothes; a yellow striped waistcoat, and a coat of coarse grey cloth, cut short, in a rude fashion, and illustrated251 with metal buttons; a hat that seems to have been originally made of coarse wool or dog’s hair—to have cost some four-and-sixpence some dozen years ago—brown, threadbare, and cocked up behind, by propping252 on his coat collar.
[213]
He has brought up a family of three sons, and never spent on their education three pounds. The consequence has been just what might be expected. They came to know, as they grew up, “for quickly comes such knowledge,” their expectations; and they turned out rude, savage253, and drunken. One married a servant girl, and she dying, the son brought himself and several children to the old man’s to live. Warned by this—for, with all his clownish parsimony, he has pride—the pride of property—he has put the others on farms, and they have married farmer’s daughters: but, always living in expectation of the old man’s death, they attend to no business; always looking forward to the possession of his wealth, they have already condemned254 a good part of it. If any man could be punished that man is, for sparing the expense of their education, and for the example set before them; for, what he has made the sole object of all his thoughts and labours, he sees them squandering256, and knows that they will squander255 it all. But he himself is not guilty of all this; he is but the victim of his own education, and the maxims and manners of his ancestors. If he could have seen the usefulness of education to his sons, he could not have found in his heart to spend the necessary money; but he could not see it: anything further than to be able to sign a receipt, and reckon a sum of money in their heads, he called trash and nonsense.
When his sons were growing towards men, I have chanced to pass his farm-yard, and seen him and two of them filling a manure-cart; labouring, puffing257 and blowing, and perspiring258, as if their lives depended on their labour; and the old man was urging them on with continual curses—“Curse thy body, Dick! Curse thy body, Ben!—Ben! Dick! Ben! Dick! work, lads, work!” And these hopeful sons were repaying their father’s curses with the same horrible earnestness.
A gentleman once told me that, having to call on this man about some money transaction, he was detained till twelve o’clock, and desired to stay dinner, that being his hour. Out of curiosity he consented. Every thing about the house was in the rudest and most desolate259 state. I do not know whether they had a cloth spread on the sturdy oak table, which supported a set of pewter plates, a roasted fowl260, and a pudding in a huge brown earthen dish.[214] The wife, stripped to her stays and quilted petticoat, was too busy making cheese and scolding the servants to come to dinner. The pater familias and his guest sat down together. As he cut up the fowl, the two great lads, Dick and Ben, then about twelve and fourteen years of age, came with their wild eyes staring sharply out of their bushy heads of wild hair, and hung over their father’s chair, one on each side, with an eager expression of voracity261; for they were not asked to sit down. The father, as if he expected them to pounce262 on the dinner and carry it off, kept a sharp look-out on them; and though, out of deference263 to his guest, he restrained his curses, he kept vociferating, as he turned first to one and then to the other, and then gave a cut at the fowl—“Ben! Dick! get away, lads! get away! get away! get away!” But the moment a leg and a wing were cut off, the lads made a sudden spring, and each seizing a joint37, bounded out of the apartment, leaving the old man in wonder at the unmanageableness of his sons. From such an education who can doubt the result?—a brood of savages264, the nuisance of the neighbourhood, and torment265 of the old man’s days. To such a height has the old man’s agony arisen at times, as he saw the wasteful conduct of his sons, that it is a pretty well established fact, that on one occasion he threw himself down in a ditch in one of his own fields, and—did not pray to die, for he never knew the beginning, middle, or end of a prayer, but he tried to die; but, after a long and weary endeavour, finding it in vain, he got up and hobbled off home again, saying—“Well, I see it is as hard to die as to live. I can’t die! I can’t die! I must even bear it, till these lads kill me by inches—and that must be a plaguy while first; for I measure two yards of bad stuff, and I think I’m as hard as a nur,[5] and as tough as whit-leather.”
[5] Nur—a hard knot of wood used by boys at bandy instead of a ball.
Ben, now upwards266 of forty years of age, still lives with the old man, working as a labourer on his farm, and is maintained with his children. Money he never sees: but his father allows him to sell bundles of straw; and he may be seen, in an evening, with two bundles of straw under each arm, proceeding267 to the alehouse in the next village, where he barters268 them for the evening cup. Nay269, the other night, a person encountered, as he supposed, a[215] thief, issuing from the old man’s yard, with a huge beam on his shoulder. It was Ben, going to turn it into ale; who desired his neighbour to say nothing. Nothing can more strikingly close this account than the old man’s usual description of his three sons. “My son Dick has Cain’s mark on his forehead; Ben, if ale was a guinea a-pint270, and he had but one guinea in the world, would buy a pint of ale; and, as for Simon—he is a gentleman! He takes a certificate to shoot. He runs with those long legs of his over three parishes, and comes slinging271 home with a crow, or a pinet[6]—ay, ay, Simon is a gentleman!”
In this same nook of the world might be seen, some years ago, two brothers, stout273 farmers—farmers of their own property—heaping curses and recriminations on each other about their possessions, in so loud a voice that they have been heard half a mile off. This enmity outlasted274 the elder, and burned in the breast of the younger for years after. For it was some years after, that he attended the funeral of a niece whom he left through life to the charity of another. When the funeral was over, they adjourned275 with the parson to the public-house; and here the person who had cared for the neglected niece, urged the uncle now to pay some part of the funeral charges. “Yes,” said he, “thou hast been at a deal of cost,” (these country people still retain the use of thou and thee), “and here is sixpence for the parson’s glass of brandy and water.” The astonished man pushed back the sixpence with contempt; but, at this moment, in came a lad to tell them that the grave being made too near that of the deceased brother, the earth had suddenly fallen in, and broken in the lid of the old man’s coffin276. At this, the living brother started up in evident delight, and exclaimed—“Why, has it? Why, has it? Thou tells me summut, lad! thou tells me summut!” And he gave him the sixpence he had generously destined277 for the parson’s glass.
A scene, described to me by a professional land-agent, would seem to belong to the generation of Parson Adams and Squire Western, but it actually occurred but the other day, and only seven miles from one of our largest county towns. This land-agent was sent for on business by an old gentleman of large landed estate in that county. As the gentleman’s house was in a secluded situation,[216] off the highways, and it was a fine, cool, autumnal day, he took a footpath278 which led the whole way across delightful fields, and after enjoying his walk through meadows and woods, arrived at the Hall with a most vigorous appetite, just as the squire and his housekeeper279 were sitting down to dinner. Of course, nothing less could take place than an invitation for him to join them; which he was not in the disposition215 by any means to decline. I need scarcely say that the fact of the squire and his housekeeper sitting at the same table indicates the ancient gentleman as one of the real old school. He was, in fact, a tall, gaunt, meagre old fellow, whose sole pleasure was putting out his rents on good security, and whose sole family consisted of his housekeeper and one old amphibious animal, who, if he had as many heads as occupations, would have carried at least four more than Janus—occupying his talents, as he did, as gardener, groom280, serving-man, and three or four other personages. The whole house and every thing about it bore amplest marks of neglect and antiquity281. Not a gate, or a door, or a window, or a carpet, or any other piece of furniture, but was just as his father left it fifty years before, except for the work which time, and such tying and patching as were absolutely needful to keep certain things together, had done. Our agent looked with some curiosity at the two covers on the table before them, which being removed revealed a single partridge and three potatoes. The housekeeper having cut the partridge into quarters, gave each of the gentlemen one, and took the third herself. Our worthy282 land-agent supposing this to be but a slight first course, was astounded283 to hear the squire say, he hoped Mr. Mapleton would make a dinner—for he saw what there was! On this significant hint Mr. Mapleton made haste to dispatch his quarter of bird, and cast eager looks on the remaining quarter in the dish. The housekeeper, indeed, was just proceeding to extend the knife and fork towards it, saying, perhaps Mr. Mapleton would take the other quarter, when the old gentleman said very smartly; “Don’t urge Mr. Mapleton unpleasantly—don’t overdo284 him—I dare say he knows when he has had enough, without so much teasing. I have made an excellent dinner indeed!”
Hereupon the housekeeper’s arms and weapons were drawn285 back abruptly286; the old gentleman rang the bell, and the shuffling[217] old serving-man entered and cleared all away. As the cloth and the housekeeper disappeared, the squire also opened a tall cupboard on one side of the fireplace, and Mr. Mapleton began to please his fancy with a forthcoming apparition287 of wine. Having sate, however, some time, and hearing from behind the tall door, which was drawn partly after the old squire so as to conceal288 him, certain sounds as of decanting289 liquor, and as of a knife coming in contact with a plate, sounds particularly familiar and exciting to hungry ears, he contrived290 to lean back so far in his chair as to catch a view of the tall figure of the squire standing with a large plum-cake upon the shelf before him, into which he had made a capacious incision291; and a glass of wine, moreover, at a little distance. This discovery naturally making our land-agent extremely restless, he began to indicate his presence by sundry292 hems106, shuffles294, coughs, and drummings on his chair, which immediately produced this consequence. The old squire’s head protruded295 from behind the cupboard door with an inquiring look; and finding the eyes of Mr. Mapleton as inquiringly fixed on him, he said—“Mr. Mapleton, will you take a glass of wine?” “Certainly, sir, with the greatest pleasure.” The wine was carefully poured out, making various cluckings or sobbings in the throat of the bottle, as very loath296 to leave it, and was set on the table before Mr. Mapleton. No invitation, however, to a participation297 of the cake came; and after sitting perhaps a quarter of an hour longer, listening to the same inviting298 sounds of scraping plate and decantation, he was compelled again to shuffle293, hem5, and drum. This had a similar happy effect to the former attempt; out popped the squire’s head, with a—“Would you take another glass, Mr. Mapleton?” “Certainly, sir, with the greatest pleasure, I feel thirsty with my walk.” The bottle was produced and the glass filled, but to put an end to any further intimations of thirst, the door was instantly closed, the key dropped into the squire’s capacious pocket, and the old gentleman forthwith entered upon business, which, in fact, concerned thousands of pounds.
Before closing this gallery of country oddities, I must say that, in some instances, much goodness of heart is mixed up with this wild growth of queerness. There are very many who will know of whom I am speaking, when I say that there was in the last generation[218] a gentleman in one of the midland counties, who was affected299 with this singular species of monomania: at every execution at the county-town he purchased the rope or ropes of Jack300 Ketch. These ropes, duly labelled with the name of the culprit, the date of his execution, and the crime for which he suffered, were hung round a particular room. On one occasion, arriving at the town, and being told that the criminal was reprieved301, he exclaimed—“Gracious Heavens, then I have lost my rope!” The son of this gentleman still displays a good deal of hereditary302 eccentricity303, but has destroyed these ropes. Nevertheless, I am told, that the carving-knife used in his kitchen is the very sword with which Lord Byron killed Chaworth. He still lives in the same house, and, old bachelor as he is, maintains the old English style and hospitality in a degree not often to be witnessed now. His personal appearance is unique. He is tall, with a ruddy countenance, with white whiskers, white waistcoat, white breeches, and white lining304 to his coat. He always appears most scrupulously305 and delicately clean. His estate is large; and whoever goes to his house on business, finds bread and cheese and ale set before him. His housekeeper is said to receive no regular wages, but every now and then a fifty-pound note is put into her hands, so that she has grown tolerably rich. It is a standing order in the house, that every poor person, come whence he may, who has lost a cow, and is seeking to get another, shall receive a sovereign. I have heard a gentleman say, who knows him well, that his benevolence306, particularly to young tradesmen, is most extraordinary: and that being himself once supposed to be on his death-bed, this worthy man came, sate down by him, cried like a child, and told him if he had not provided for his children just as he wished, that he had only to tell him what he would have done, and then and there it should be done. No relationship whatever existed; and this noble offer was not accepted. The same gentleman told me that it is the regular habit of this worthy example of Old English simplicity and goodness of heart, every evening, before he retires to rest, to sit quietly for a certain time in his easy chair, endeavouring to discover whether he has done any thing wrong during the day, or has possibly hurt any one’s feelings; and if he fancies he has, he hastens the next morning to set all right. It is delightful to have to record proofs[219] of the yet existing spirit of ancient hospitality and simple worth of character.[7]
[7] Since the first edition was published, this worthy but eccentric gentleman is dead.
In conclusion,—let me observe that some of the foregoing cases are shocking ones; but they are only too true; and such are but the events of every day in those sleepy hollows, where public opinion has no weight, and where ignorance and avarice307 are handed down from age to age. I have seen hundreds of such things in such places. And what mode of regeneration shall reach this class of people, who have the rust34 of whole ages in their souls? You cannot offer to them education, as you do to the poor. You cannot reason with them, as with the poor. They have too much pride. It can only be by educating all around them, that you can reach them. When they feel the effect of the education of the poor, their pride will compel them to educate their children. This will be one of the many good results that will flow from the education of the poor in the back settlements of England. Let us, then, direct the stream of knowledge into the remotest of these obscure places. If the penny periodicals were, by some means, made to circulate there, as they circulate in towns—the Penny Magazine, and Saturday Magazine, with their host of wood-cuts and useful facts; and Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, with its more refined and poetical spirit,—they would work a great change. Prints and cuts from good originals would awaken a better taste; higher ideas of the beauty of created forms: for I say with Rogers,
Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill
That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will;
And cheaply circulates through distant climes,
We blame our populace for not possessing the same refined taste as the French and Italians; for being brutal88 and destructive; that parks, public walks, and public buildings, cannot be thrown open to them without receiving injury. We ought not to blame them for this; for is not this the English spirit that has been praised in Parliament? for the encouragement of which, bull-baitings, dog-fightings, cock-fightings, and boxings have been pleaded for by senators, as its proper aliment? and the Romans,[220] with their gladiatorial shows, quoted as good precedents309? Forgetting that while the Romans were a growing and conquering people, they were a simple and domestic people. When they had their amphitheatres and their bloody310 shows of battling-men and beasts, they fell under imperial despotism, and thence into national destruction. If we will have a better spirit, we must take better means to produce it. We can never make our rural population too well informed. Ireland, with all manner of horrible outrages311, England with its rick-burnings, and Scotland with its orderly peasantry, all point towards the evils of ignorance and oppression, and the national advantage and individual happiness that are to be reaped from the spread of sound knowledge through our rural districts.
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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eminences
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| 卓越( eminence的名词复数 )； 著名； 高地； 山丘 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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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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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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39
churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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40
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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41
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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42
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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43
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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44
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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45
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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46
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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47
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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49
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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50
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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51
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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52
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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53
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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54
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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55
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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56
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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57
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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58
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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59
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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60
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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61
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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62
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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63
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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64
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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65
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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66
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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67
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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68
shackled
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| 给（某人）带上手铐或脚镣( shackle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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72
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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73
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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74
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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75
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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76
scathe
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| v.损伤；n.伤害 | |
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77
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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78
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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79
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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80
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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81
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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82
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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83
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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84
desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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85
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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86
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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87
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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88
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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89
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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90
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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91
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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92
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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93
ravaging
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| 毁坏( ravage的现在分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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94
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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95
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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96
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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97
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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98
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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99
subsidies
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| n.补贴，津贴，补助金( subsidy的名词复数 ) | |
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100
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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101
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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102
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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103
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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104
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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105
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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106
hems
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| 布的褶边，贴边( hem的名词复数 )； 短促的咳嗽 | |
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107
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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108
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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109
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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111
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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112
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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113
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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114
enactments
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| n.演出( enactment的名词复数 )；展现；规定；通过 | |
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115
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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117
pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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118
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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119
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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120
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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121
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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122
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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123
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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124
reverencing
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的现在分词 )；敬礼 | |
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125
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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126
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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127
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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128
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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129
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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130
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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131
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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132
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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133
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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134
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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135
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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136
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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137
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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138
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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139
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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140
avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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141
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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142
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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143
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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144
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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145
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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146
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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147
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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148
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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149
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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150
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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151
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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152
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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153
imbuing
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的现在分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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154
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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155
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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156
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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157
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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158
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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159
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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160
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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161
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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162
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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163
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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164
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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165
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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166
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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167
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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168
droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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169
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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170
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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171
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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172
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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173
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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174
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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175
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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176
naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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177
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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178
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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179
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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180
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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181
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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182
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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183
provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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184
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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185
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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186
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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187
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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188
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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189
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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190
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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191
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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192
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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193
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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194
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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195
regenerating
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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196
infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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197
inanities
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| n.空洞( inanity的名词复数 )；浅薄；愚蠢；空洞的言行 | |
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198
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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199
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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200
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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201
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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202
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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203
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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204
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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205
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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206
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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208
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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209
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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210
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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211
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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212
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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213
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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214
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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215
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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216
counteracting
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的现在分词 ) | |
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217
emulative
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| adj.好胜 | |
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218
vying
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| adj.竞争的；比赛的 | |
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219
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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220
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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221
clouted
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|
| adj.缀补的，凝固的v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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222
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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223
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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224
penuriousness
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225
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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226
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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227
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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228
obsequious
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|
| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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229
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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230
secluded
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|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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231
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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232
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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233
prescriptions
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| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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234
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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235
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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236
grudgingly
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237
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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238
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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239
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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240
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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241
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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242
celebrated
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|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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243
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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244
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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245
enjoyments
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|
| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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246
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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247
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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248
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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249
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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250
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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251
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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252
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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253
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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254
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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255
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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256
squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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257
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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258
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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259
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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260
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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261
voracity
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| n.贪食，贪婪 | |
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262
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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263
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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264
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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265
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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266
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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267
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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268
barters
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| n.物物交换，易货( barter的名词复数 )v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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269
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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270
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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271
slinging
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| 抛( sling的现在分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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272
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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274
outlasted
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| v.比…长久，比…活得长( outlast的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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276
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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277
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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278
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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279
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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280
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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281
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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282
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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283
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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284
overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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285
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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286
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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287
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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288
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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289
decanting
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| n.滗析（手续）v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的现在分词 ) | |
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290
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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291
incision
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| n．切口，切开 | |
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292
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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293
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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294
shuffles
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| n.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的名词复数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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295
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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296
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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297
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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298
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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299
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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300
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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301
reprieved
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| v.缓期执行（死刑）( reprieve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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303
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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304
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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305
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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306
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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307
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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308
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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309
precedents
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| 引用单元； 范例( precedent的名词复数 )； 先前出现的事例； 前例； 先例 | |
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310
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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311
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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