The second veto for canvassers which was printed on the little card said that you must not persuade any one to personate a voter. I have no idea what it means. To dress up as an average voter seems a little vague. There is no well-recognised uniform, as far as I know, with civic14 waistcoat and patriotic whiskers. The enterprise resolves itself into one somewhat similar to the enterprise of a rich friend of mine who went to a fancy-dress ball dressed up as a gentleman. Perhaps it means that there is a practice of personating some individual voter. The canvasser creeps to the house of his fellow-conspirator carrying a make-up in a bag. He produces from it a pair of white moustaches and a single eyeglass, which are sufficient to give the most common-place person a startling resemblance to the Colonel at No. 80. Or he hurriedly affixes15 to his friend that large nose and that bald head which are all that is essential to an illusion of the presence of Professor Budger. I do not undertake to unravel16 these knots. I can only say that when I was a canvasser I was told by the little card, with every circumstance of seriousness and authority, that I was not to persuade anybody to personate a voter: and I can lay my hand upon my heart and affirm that I never did.
The third injunction on the card was one which seemed to me, if interpreted exactly and according to its words, to undermine the very foundations of our politics. It told me that I must not "threaten a voter with any consequence whatever." No doubt this was intended to apply to threats of a personal and illegitimate character; as, for instance, if a wealthy candidate were to threaten to raise all the rents, or to put up a statue of himself. But as verbally and grammatically expressed, it certainly would cover those general threats of disaster to the whole community which are the main matter of political discussion. When a canvasser says that if the opposition17 candidate gets in the country will be ruined, he is threatening the voters with certain consequences. When the Free Trader says that if Tariffs18 are adopted the people in Brompton or Bayswater will crawl about eating grass, he is threatening them with consequences. When the Tariff19 Reformer says that if Free Trade exists for another year St. Paul's Cathedral will be a ruin and Ludgate Hill as deserted20 as Stonehenge, he is also threatening. And what is the good of being a Tariff Reformer if you can't say that? What is the use of being a politician or a Parliamentary candidate at all if one cannot tell the people that if the other man gets in, England will be instantly invaded and enslaved, blood be pouring down the Strand21, and all the English ladies carried off into harems. But these things are, after all, consequences, so to speak.
The majority of refined persons in our day may generally be heard abusing the practice of canvassing. In the same way the majority of refined persons (commonly the same refined persons) may be heard abusing the practice of interviewing celebrities22. It seems a very singular thing to me that this refined world reserves all its indignation for the comparatively open and innocent element in both walks of life. There is really a vast amount of corruption24 and hypocrisy25 in our election politics; about the most honest thing in the whole mess is the canvassing. A man has not got a right to "nurse" a constituency with aggressive charities, to buy it with great presents of parks and libraries, to open vague vistas26 of future benevolence27; all this, which goes on unrebuked, is bribery28 and nothing else. But a man has got the right to go to another free man and ask him with civility whether he will vote for him. The information can be asked, granted, or refused without any loss of dignity on either side, which is more than can be said of a park. It is the same with the place of interviewing in journalism29. In a trade where there are labyrinths30 of insincerity, interviewing is about the most simple and the most sincere thing there is. The canvasser, when he wants to know a man's opinions, goes and asks him. It may be a bore; but it is about as plain and straight a thing as he could do. So the interviewer, when he wants to know a man's opinions, goes and asks him. Again, it may be a bore; but again, it is about as plain and straight as anything could be. But all the other real and systematic31 cynicisms of our journalism pass without being vituperated and even without being known—the financial motives32 of policy, the misleading posters, the suppression of just letters of complaint. A statement about a man may be infamously33 untrue, but it is read calmly. But a statement by a man to an interviewer is felt as indefensibly vulgar. That the paper should misrepresent him is nothing; that he should represent himself is bad taste. The whole error in both cases lies in the fact that the refined persons are attacking politics and journalism on the ground of vulgarity. Of course, politics and journalism are, as it happens, very vulgar. But their vulgarity is not the worst thing about them. Things are so bad with both that by this time their vulgarity is the best thing about them. Their vulgarity is at least a noisy thing; and their great danger is that silence that always comes before decay. The conversational34 persuasion35 at elections is perfectly36 human and rational; it is the silent persuasions37 that are utterly38 damnable.
If it is true that the Commons' House will not hold all the Commons, it is a very good example of what we call the anomalies of the English Constitution. It is also, I think, a very good example of how highly undesirable39 those anomalies really are. Most Englishmen say that these anomalies do not matter; they are not ashamed of being illogical; they are proud of being illogical. Lord Macaulay (a very typical Englishman, romantic, prejudiced, poetical), Lord Macaulay said that he would not lift his hand to get rid of an anomaly that was not also a grievance41. Many other sturdy romantic Englishmen say the same. They boast of our anomalies; they boast of our illogicality; they say it shows what a practical people we are. They are utterly wrong. Lord Macaulay was in this matter, as in a few others, utterly wrong. Anomalies do matter very much, and do a great deal of harm; abstract illogicalities do matter a great deal, and do a great deal of harm. And this for a reason that any one at all acquainted with human nature can see for himself. All injustice42 begins in the mind. And anomalies accustom43 the mind to the idea of unreason and untruth. Suppose I had by some prehistoric44 law the power of forcing every man in Battersea to nod his head three times before he got out of bed. The practical politicians might say that this power was a harmless anomaly; that it was not a grievance. It could do my subjects no harm; it could do me no good. The people of Battersea, they would say, might safely submit to it. But the people of Battersea could not safely submit to it, for all that. If I had nodded their heads for them for fifty years I could cut off their heads for them at the end of it with immeasurably greater ease. For there would have permanently45 sunk into every man's mind the notion that it was a natural thing for me to have a fantastic and irrational46 power. They would have grown accustomed to insanity47.
For, in order that men should resist injustice, something more is necessary than that they should think injustice unpleasant. They must think injustice absurd; above all, they must think it startling. They must retain the violence of a virgin48 astonishment49. That is the explanation of the singular fact which must have struck many people in the relations of philosophy and reform. It is the fact (I mean) that optimists50 are more practical reformers than pessimists53. Superficially, one would imagine that the railer would be the reformer; that the man who thought that everything was wrong would be the man to put everything right. In historical practice the thing is quite the other way; curiously54 enough, it is the man who likes things as they are who really makes them better. The optimist51 Dickens has achieved more reforms than the pessimist52 Gissing. A man like Rousseau has far too rosy55 a theory of human nature; but he produces a revolution. A man like David Hume thinks that almost all things are depressing; but he is a Conservative, and wishes to keep them as they are. A man like Godwin believes existence to be kindly56; but he is a rebel. A man like Carlyle believes existence to be cruel; but he is a Tory. Everywhere the man who alters things begins by liking57 things. And the real explanation of this success of the optimistic reformer, of this failure of the pessimistic reformer, is, after all, an explanation of sufficient simplicity58. It is because the optimist can look at wrong not only with indignation, but with a startled indignation. When the pessimist looks at any infamy59, it is to him, after all, only a repetition of the infamy of existence. The Court of Chancery is indefensible—like mankind. The Inquisition is abominable—like the universe. But the optimist sees injustice as something discordant60 and unexpected, and it stings him into action. The pessimist can be enraged61 at wrong; but only the optimist can be surprised at it.
And it is the same with the relations of an anomaly to the logical mind. The pessimist resents evil (like Lord Macaulay) solely62 because it is a grievance. The optimist resents it also, because it is an anomaly; a contradiction to his conception of the course of things. And it is not at all unimportant, but on the contrary most important, that this course of things in politics and elsewhere should be lucid63, explicable and defensible. When people have got used to unreason they can no longer be startled at injustice. When people have grown familiar with an anomaly, they are prepared to that extent for a grievance; they may think the grievance grievous, but they can no longer think it strange. Take, if only as an excellent example, the very matter alluded64 to before; I mean the seats, or rather the lack of seats, in the House of Commons. Perhaps it is true that under the best conditions it would never happen that every member turned up. Perhaps a complete attendance would never actually be. But who can tell how much influence in keeping members away may have been exerted by this calm assumption that they would stop away? How can any man be expected to help to make a full attendance when he knows that a full attendance is actually forbidden? How can the men who make up the Chamber65 do their duty reasonably when the very men who built the House have not done theirs reasonably? If the trumpet66 give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself for the battle? And what if the remarks of the trumpet take this form, "I charge you as you love your King and country to come to this Council. And I know you won't."
CONCEIT67 AND CARICATURE
If a man must needs be conceited68, it is certainly better that he should be conceited about some merits or talents that he does not really possess. For then his vanity remains69 more or less superficial; it remains a mere70 mistake of fact, like that of a man who thinks he inherits the royal blood or thinks he has an infallible system for Monte Carlo. Because the merit is an unreal merit, it does not corrupt23 or sophisticate his real merits. He is vain about the virtue71 he has not got; but he may be humble72 about the virtues73 that he has got. His truly honourable74 qualities remain in their primordial75 innocence76; he cannot see them and he cannot spoil them. If a man's mind is erroneously possessed77 with the idea that he is a great violinist, that need not prevent his being a gentleman and an honest man. But if once his mind is possessed in any strong degree with the knowledge that he is a gentleman, he will soon cease to be one.
But there is a third kind of satisfaction of which I have noticed one or two examples lately—another kind of satisfaction which is neither a pleasure in the virtues that we do possess nor a pleasure in the virtues we do not possess. It is the pleasure which a man takes in the presence or absence of certain things in himself without ever adequately asking himself whether in his case they constitute virtues at all. A man will plume78 himself because he is not bad in some particular way, when the truth is that he is not good enough to be bad in that particular way. Some priggish little clerk will say, "I have reason to congratulate myself that I am a civilised person, and not so bloodthirsty as the Mad Mullah." Somebody ought to say to him, "A really good man would be less bloodthirsty than the Mullah. But you are less bloodthirsty, not because you are more of a good man, but because you are a great deal less of a man. You are not bloodthirsty, not because you would spare your enemy, but because you would run away from him." Or again, some Puritan with a sullen79 type of piety80 would say, "I have reason to congratulate myself that I do not worship graven images like the old heathen Greeks." And again somebody ought to say to him, "The best religion may not worship graven images, because it may see beyond them. But if you do not worship graven images, it is only because you are mentally and morally quite incapable81 of graving them. True religion, perhaps, is above idolatry. But you are below idolatry. You are not holy enough yet to worship a lump of stone."
Mr. F. C. Gould, the brilliant and felicitous82 caricaturist, recently delivered a most interesting speech upon the nature and atmosphere of our modern English caricature. I think there is really very little to congratulate oneself about in the condition of English caricature. There are few causes for pride; probably the greatest cause for pride is Mr. F. C. Gould. But Mr. F. C. Gould, forbidden by modesty83 to adduce this excellent ground for optimism, fell back upon saying a thing which is said by numbers of other people, but has not perhaps been said lately with the full authority of an eminent84 cartoonist. He said that he thought "that they might congratulate themselves that the style of caricature which found acceptation nowadays was very different from the lampoon85 of the old days." Continuing, he said, according to the newspaper report, "On looking back to the political lampoons86 of Rowlandson's and Gilray's time they would find them coarse and brutal87. In some countries abroad still, 'even in America,' the method of political caricature was of the bludgeon kind. The fact was we had passed the bludgeon stage. If they were brutal in attacking a man, even for political reasons, they roused sympathy for the man who was attacked. What they had to do was to rub in the point they wanted to emphasise88 as gently as they could." (Laughter and applause.)
Anybody reading these words, and anybody who heard them, will certainly feel that there is in them a great deal of truth, as well as a great deal of geniality89. But along with that truth and with that geniality there is a streak90 of that erroneous type of optimism which is founded on the fallacy of which I have spoken above. Before we congratulate ourselves upon the absence of certain faults from our nation or society, we ought to ask ourselves why it is that these faults are absent. Are we without the fault because we have the opposite virtue? Or are we without the fault because we have the opposite fault? It is a good thing assuredly, to be innocent of any excess; but let us be sure that we are not innocent of excess merely by being guilty of defect. Is it really true that our English political satire91 is so moderate because it is so magnanimous, so forgiving, so saintly? Is it penetrated92 through and through with a mystical charity, with a psychological tenderness? Do we spare the feelings of the Cabinet Minister because we pierce through all his apparent crimes and follies93 down to the dark virtues of which his own soul is unaware94? Do we temper the wind to the Leader of the Opposition because in our all-embracing heart we pity and cherish the struggling spirit of the Leader of the Opposition? Briefly95, have we left off being brutal because we are too grand and generous to be brutal? Is it really true that we are better than brutality96? Is it really true that we have passed the bludgeon stage?
I fear that there is, to say the least of it, another side to the matter. Is it not only too probable that the mildness of our political satire, when compared with the political satire of our fathers, arises simply from the profound unreality of our current politics? Rowlandson and Gilray did not fight merely because they were naturally pothouse pugilists; they fought because they had something to fight about. It is easy enough to be refined about things that do not matter; but men kicked and plunged97 a little in that portentous98 wrestle99 in which swung to and fro, alike dizzy with danger, the independence of England, the independence of Ireland, the independence of France. If we wish for a proof of this fact that the lack of refinement100 did not come from mere brutality, the proof is easy. The proof is that in that struggle no personalities101 were more brutal than the really refined personalities. None were more violent and intolerant than those who were by nature polished and sensitive. Nelson, for instance, had the nerves and good manners of a woman: nobody in his senses, I suppose, would call Nelson "brutal." But when he was touched upon the national matter, there sprang out of him a spout102 of oaths, and he could only tell men to "Kill! kill! kill the d----d Frenchmen." It would be as easy to take examples on the other side. Camille Desmoulins was a man of much the same type, not only elegant and sweet in temper, but almost tremulously tender and humanitarian103. But he was ready, he said, "to embrace Liberty upon a pile of corpses104." In Ireland there were even more instances. Robert Emmet was only one famous example of a whole family of men at once sensitive and savage105. I think that Mr. F.C. Gould is altogether wrong in talking of this political ferocity as if it were some sort of survival from ruder conditions, like a flint axe106 or a hairy man. Cruelty is, perhaps, the worst kind of sin. Intellectual cruelty is certainly the worst kind of cruelty. But there is nothing in the least barbaric or ignorant about intellectual cruelty. The great Renaissance107 artists who mixed colours exquisitely108 mixed poisons equally exquisitely; the great Renaissance princes who designed instruments of music also designed instruments of torture. Barbarity, malignity109, the desire to hurt men, are the evil things generated in atmospheres of intense reality when great nations or great causes are at war. We may, perhaps, be glad that we have not got them: but it is somewhat dangerous to be proud that we have not got them. Perhaps we are hardly great enough to have them. Perhaps some great virtues have to be generated, as in men like Nelson or Emmet, before we can have these vices110 at all, even as temptations. I, for one, believe that if our caricaturists do not hate their enemies, it is not because they are too big to hate them, but because their enemies are not big enough to hate. I do not think we have passed the bludgeon stage. I believe we have not come to the bludgeon stage. We must be better, braver, and purer men than we are before we come to the bludgeon stage.
Let us then, by all means, be proud of the virtues that we have not got; but let us not be too arrogant111 about the virtues that we cannot help having. It may be that a man living on a desert island has a right to congratulate himself upon the fact that he can meditate112 at his ease. But he must not congratulate himself on the fact that he is on a desert island, and at the same time congratulate himself on the self-restraint he shows in not going to a ball every night. Similarly our England may have a right to congratulate itself upon the fact that her politics are very quiet, amicable113, and humdrum114. But she must not congratulate herself upon that fact and also congratulate herself upon the self-restraint she shows in not tearing herself and her citizens into rags. Between two English Privy115 Councillors polite language is a mark of civilisation116, but really not a mark of magnanimity.
Allied117 to this question is the kindred question on which we so often hear an innocent British boast—the fact that our statesmen are privately118 on very friendly relations, although in Parliament they sit on opposite sides of the House. Here, again, it is as well to have no illusions. Our statesmen are not monsters of mystical generosity119 or insane logic40, who are really able to hate a man from three to twelve and to love him from twelve to three. If our social relations are more peaceful than those of France or America or the England of a hundred years ago, it is simply because our politics are more peaceful; not improbably because our politics are more fictitious120. If our statesmen agree more in private, it is for the very simple reason that they agree more in public. And the reason they agree so much in both cases is really that they belong to one social class; and therefore the dining life is the real life. Tory and Liberal statesmen like each other, but it is not because they are both expansive; it is because they are both exclusive.
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canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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canvasser
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| n.挨户推销商品的推销员 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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bribing
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| 贿赂 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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affixes
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| v.附加( affix的第三人称单数 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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tariffs
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| 关税制度； 关税( tariff的名词复数 )； 关税表； （旅馆或饭店等的）收费表； 量刑标准 | |
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tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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infamously
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| 不名誉地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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optimists
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| n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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lampoon
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| n.讽刺文章；v.讽刺 | |
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lampoons
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| n.讽刺文章或言辞( lampoon的名词复数 )v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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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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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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103
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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104
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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105
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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106
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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107
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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108
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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109
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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112
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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113
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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114
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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115
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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116
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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117
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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118
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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119
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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120
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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