About this time Mr. Tollady began to give Arthur his first lessons in the art of printing, on which occasion he addressed to him a few words in a more serious strain than he had hitherto ever made use of to the boy. It was shortly after one New Year’s Day, as the two were sitting in the back parlour after supper, listening to a furious storm which seemed ever and anon to shake the foundations of the house. The printer had been unusually sad that day, and as Arthur glanced up at him occasionally from gazing thoughtfully at the live coals, he thought he had never seen him looking so old.
“Arthur,” said Mr. Tollady, suddenly, “do you think I am a rich man?”
“Not — not exactly rich,” began Arthur, after some slight hesitation7. “But — but, indeed, I have never thought about it at all.”
“I dare say you never have, for you are still in the happy years, Arthur, when the thoughts run but little on riches or poverty. Should you be surprised if I told you that I was a poor man — a very poor man?”
“I should be surprised if you told me you were very poor, sir.”
“You would?” repeated the other, smiling. “Would you be sorry to hear it?”
“Very sorry, for I am sure you do not deserve to be poor, sir,” replied the boy with a proud firmness of tone beyond his years.
There was silence for a few moments, when the printer began again in a grave tone.
“I am indeed very poor, Arthur; so poor, that even the slightest expenses beyond our mere8 necessaries are a great burden to me. Do you remember how many newspapers you used to take out each morning when first you came to me?”
“I think about fifty, sir.”
“Just so. And how many do you take out now?”
“Twenty-three, sir.”
“Just so. Can you see why I ask you that, Arthur?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, sinking his head and speaking sadly.
“The papers used to be the best part of my business,” pursued the old man; “but it was to the office that I looked for the greater part of my income. But that, too, has fallen off sadly during the last few years. Do you notice that James has not been here since Christmas?”
James was the printer whom Mr. Tollady had long employed in his office. Arthur replied in the affirmative.
“I have been obliged to do without him, though it grieved me sincerely to part with him. I had no longer business enough to keep him at work, Arthur. I can manage it all myself now-a-days, with your help.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, sir.”
There was again silence for several minutes, when Arthur suddenly broke out.
“Then why do you let me be a burden to you, sir? I’m sure I don’t anything like earn my food and the money you give me; I have thought so for a long time, and wished to speak to you about it, but I was afraid you might be offended. Pray let me find some work somewhere! I am sure I could earn fifteen shillings a week, sir, and — and that would be a little help — though not much.”
He added the last words blushingly, as he met Mr. Tollady’s eye fixed9 upon him with its kindly10 smile.
“Don’t be ashamed of your generous nature, Arthur,” replied the latter. “No doubt you could earn what you say, and more; but it would be very much against my wish. I fear I have done wrong in telling you all this; you will distress11 yourself about it. No; I said that all expenses beyond those necessary for our support were a burden; but I am glad to say that there is still no difficulty in providing what we absolutely need, and, I trust, never will be. This is the reason I spoke12 to you about such things. You are now beginning to learn a business, one that has supported me for the greater part of my life, and which, if you master it thoroughly13, will always stand you in good stead, for a first-class printer can always find employment. Now the very best way you can help me, Arthur, is to become a good compositor as soon as possible. Then you will be able to take James’s place, and who knows but what you may bring us good luck. I am afraid I am getting too old to push ahead, as I ought to.”
“You shall have no reason to complain of me, sir,” replied Arthur. “I shall not sleep till morning for eagerness to begin.”
“I wish you could bestow14 on me a little of your life and energy, Arthur,” said Mr. Tollady, with a sigh. “It often rather grieves me to be able to provide no better field for their exercise than this musty old shop and office. But keep well in mind what I have said to you, my boy. I teach you to become a printer because I think that in so doing I shall best fulfil my duty towards you; I shall have given you knowledge by which you can always live. Do not suppose that I think you capable of nothing higher; had I the means I would spare nothing to give you the best advantages in whatever profession you should choose; but you see how it is with me. Have you done any more at your drawing today?”
Arthur started to his feet with a joyful15 look, and ran to a corner of the room where a large and much-worn portfolio16 was leaning upright against the wall. This he carried to the table, and then laid it open. It contained a large number of drawings, on paper of various shapes and sizes, but at the top lay one on which Arthur was at present engaged.
For he had not forgotten the old fondness which had first been awakened17 by the mendicant18 lodger19 at Mike Rumball’s. Very shortly after he had begun to live at Mr. Tollady’s he had recommenced his rude attempts on any scraps21 of paper which he found lying about, and this time, when he was at length discovered, he met with every encouragement to cultivate his taste. The printer was himself not without some facility in the use of the pencil; or at all events such had once been the case; and he now brought out several old sketch-books which he had filled years ago, and showed them to the delighted boy. Henceforth Arthur divided his leisure time pretty impartially23 between his books and his drawings, and with Mr. Tollady’s occasional suggestions to aid his natural instincts, he made perceptible progress in the art. With what scorn would he now have viewed that portrait of the parrot which he had laboured at so earnestly, and which he had offered with so much pride to his goddess, little Lizzie Clinkscales! For, indeed, he began to acquire not a little facility in copying from pictures, or from objects which the printer set before him as models. One copy of a cut in an old Illustrated24 London News Mr. Tollady had liked well enough to have framed, and it now hung over the parlour mantelpiece — a group of horses with legs a trifle too tong, and manes of astonishing luxuriance. The drawing which he now brought forth22 from the portfolio was a more ambitious attempt. It was a copy in pencil of Giotto’s portrait of Dante, which he had found engraved25 in one of Mr. Tollady’s books. The profoundly sad, and somewhat weird26 expression of the face was very finely caught, and expressed in a few bold lines which gave considerable promise for the future skill of the hand which drew them.
Mr. Tollady sighed as he looked at the drawing. He was wishing that he had it in his power to provide adequate instruction for such exceptional talent. As he held it up in his hand, Arthur had left the room, and in a moment returned, holding something out of sight behind his back. He came and stood before Mr. Tollady with a smile on his face.
“What have you got there, my boy?” asked the latter, answering the smile.
“Something that I am half afraid to show you, sir,” replied Arthur. “I know it is very bad, but it is only a first trial. You won’t make fun of it?”
“You know it is not my habit to make fun of anything well meant, Arthur.”
The boy drew his hand from behind his back and brought forward a small piece of paper on which he had made his first attempt in colours. It was a copy from nature of a sprig of holly27, thickly clustered with berries.
“Ha! Water-colours!” exclaimed Mr. Tollady. “Bravo, Arthur! very good, upon my word, very good! When did you do it?”
“This morning, sir.”
“Very well. Persevere28, Arthur, and you will do something worth putting in the window yet. Where did you find your colours?”
“I bought a blue, yellow, and red for twopence, sir.”
“Why did you choose these three?” asked Mr. Tollady, smiling.
“I read the article on ‘Colours’ in your Cyclop?dia, sir, and found that those were the three out of which all the others were made.”
“Very well, Arthur. Try one or two more little things like this, and we will see whether we can find you a box of colours somewhere or other.”
So the days went on. Arthur had worked away at case, and was making evident progress in the art of printing. Not that be took any pleasure in the work for its own sake; being merely manual dexterity29 he very soon grew disgusted with it. But he never failed to fulfil his hours destined30 to this employment conscientiously31, for he knew that in so doing he was affording pleasure to his master, and had, moreover, the expectation of being very shortly absolutely useful to him.
He had grown to be a tall, handsome boy, with blue eyes full of light, and a countenance32 open and glad. His surroundings were by no means of a joyous33 character, and yet such is the natural ardour of youth, and especially of youth animated34 by the celestial35 gift of genius, that his life at this time was, as it were, a continual hymn36 of gladness, the joyful exuberance37 of a lofty soul breathed upwards38, under unseen impulses, to the eternal source of life and light which we feel, but know not. The miserable39 little outcast of Whitecross Street had, thanks to the strivings of his inborn40 spirit, assisted by the never-ceasing teaching of his friend and guardian41, developed into a youth of rich promise, his mind already stored with no despicable harvest of knowledge, his heart throbbing42 with generous sympathy with all that is most beautiful in the world of nature or Imagination. As he grew older he felt within himself the stirrings of a double life, the one, due to his natural gifts, comprehending all the instincts, the hopes, the ambitions of the artist; the other, originating in the outward circumstances of his childhood, and not a little in the instruction directly afforded him by Mr. Tollady, or indirectly43 caught from the conversation of such men as Mark Challenger and John Pether, which urged him on to the labours of the philanthropist, showing him in the terribly distinct reflex of his own imagination the ever-multiplying miseries44 of the poor amongst whom he lived, and painting in entrancing hues45 the glories of such a life as his master’s, self-denying even to a fault, bent46 solely47 on the one object of making the world less wretched, even though he died in the effort. These two distinct impulses seemed to grow within Arthur Golding’s mind with equal force and rigidity48; he experienced neither of them any the less for being more and more convinced, as he grew in self-knowledge, that their coexistence was incompatible49 with the perfection of either. To which of the two should he wholly devote himself? As he drew on towards his eighteenth year he spent many and many an hour in vain efforts to decide. Already he began to feel that this would be the struggle of his life, that upon the solution of this inward problem would depend the happiness of his existence.
At times he was wholly the artist, especially when he had been working long at one of his drawings, or when he had been reading one of his favourite books on art, to procure50 him which Mr. Tollady had subscribed51 to a circulating library. His favourites were Cunningham’s “Lives of British Artists,” and Vasari’s “Lives of the Painters.” These he read and reread with an enthusiasm which set at defiance52 the weariness of nature and made night tributary53 to the supply of hours of which the day had too few.
The second half of his nature grew strongest at those times when he took his weekly walk in Mr. Tollady’s company. Sunday evening was invariably spent thus, when, that is to say, the weather was not so intolerably bad as altogether to forbid outdoor exercise. Starting from the shop about four o’clock, they would walk in a direction already agreed upon, and, by fetching a lengthy54 compass, regain55 home towards nine. On such occasions Mr. Tollady was more talkative than at other times. The exercise appeared to do him good, and not unfrequently in his flow of talk he would make mention of scenes and events which led Arthur to think that in his early days the printer must have seen a great deal of the world. But on his putting questions on this subject, or indeed on any other in the least personal to his companion, the result invariably was to turn the conversation immediately into other channels. Arthur soon observed this, and carefully avoided touching56 upon such points, but he nevertheless nourished a great curiosity to know more of Mr. Tollady’s life, feeling sure that it must be interesting far beyond ordinary life stories.
One of these walks Arthur ever after remembered, partly on account of the energy and freedom with which Mr. Tollady that evening gave utterance57 to his opinions, partly from an event which followed upon the walk, and which we shall have shortly to relate. The direction they had taken was City-wards. After crossing Smithfield Market, they passed along Little Britain, and over Aldersgate Street into Barbican. When in Smithfield, Mr. Tollady said, looking round with a peculiar58 smile —
“You remember the associations connected with this place, Arthur don’t you?”
“The burning of the martyrs59, you mean!”
“Just so. When you read history, don’t fall into the error of skipping over those parts affecting religion as too uninteresting to hold your attention. To my mind, Arthur, history of religious beliefs has always been at once the saddest and the most interesting of studies. It is nothing less than the struggle of the human mind from the black depths of ignorance and brutish fear up towards that glorious heritage of freedom to which, I cannot but believe, it is one day destined to attain60. You can afford to smile at those writers who would have you reckon religious creeds61 among the influences which tend to exalt62 humanity. Never believe it! These faiths, one and all, great and small, from the most grovelling63 superstition64 of the cannibal to the purest phase of devotion nurtured65 in the mind of a Christian66, trust me, they are nothing but remnants of the primeval darkness, clinging to man as he toils67 laboriously68 upwards, clinging in spite of all his efforts to shake them off. And woe69 to such as hug the darkness to their bosom70!”
“Can you, then, feel no admiration for those men who suffered such fearful agonies in the cause they considered holy?”
“Admiration — no, Arthur; profound pity, if you like. Why should I admire a man because he knits up his bodily frame to the patient endurance of suffering, and all for the sake of error? Shake off that prejudice, I beg of you. Admiration! It is only the body that is in question, and how can I spare admiration for the body? As well ask me to admire the porter who carries easily upon his head a weight which would crush me or you to the ground. That, too, is a wonderful exertion71 of bodily force. You will say, perhaps: ‘Never mind whether their belief was right or wrong; admire it because it was so unshakable.’ I tell you, nonsense! There is no abstract merit in that. Call it pig-headedness, and will you admire it then?”
“But,” interrupted Arthur, “you do not actually despise them for the part they took?”
“Do not misunderstand me,” pursued the other, eagerly. “I argue merely against the absurd claim for admiration and reverence72. Despise them! No, certainly not. I despise absolutely no man, and simply because I esteem73 all alike as involuntary agents in the hands of a great power which most call Providence75, but which I prefer to call the inexplicable76 spirit of the world. History pursues its path, using us as its agents for the working out of prescribed ends. To think that we men can modify those ends is the delusion77 of ignorance or of madness. Why then should I despise the martyrs? They performed their part in history, and could not otherwise. But do not ask me to actually admire them. Admiration I can only spare for those whom fate has ordained78 as instruments to advance humanity. Those who are so unfortunate as to represent the retarding79 forces in the life of man, I can only infinitely80 pity them.”
“Does not this lead to a state of mind in which one despairs of being able to benefit the world, and let one’s hands lie idle out of mere fear of doing harm? For you hold that we are merely agents, that we have no power to direct the course of human life.”
“Wrong, Arthur. I did not say that we had no power to direct the course of human life; but, that we have no power to direct it otherwise than in a certain path which has been fore-ordained, and which experience proves to us it will most certainly pursue.”
“Yes; but if we are sure the world is going to pursue this path, why trouble ourselves to help it on, why not sit and watch?”
“I will tell you, Arthur; because we cannot! The course of the world includes the course of each man’s thoughts. These pursue a path which is fore-ordained in each individual case; how, I d9 not pretend to say. Now, you who propose to me to sit down and watch, could you follow your own counsel?”
“I certainly could not.”
“No, I am sure of it. If you could — well, that would be your part in the world, to be an obstruction81, and even then you could not otherwise. You feel within you something that says: ‘Rise up, and do so and so.’ You may choose your own way of doing it, mark; and this is what we mean by freewill; but further than that you have no choice. This is quite distinct from the petty conventional distinctions of right and wrong, which, as the vulgar say, tempt20 one alternately. It is quite possible for a man to do wrong, in that conventional sense, and yet to be helping82 on in the noblest manner, and very likely unconsciously, the spirit of mankind!”
“Then is this inward feeling of a duty all that we have to guide our actions?”
“Not all. We have experience. The feeling which urges you to advance the world, at the same time takes the form of a craving83 for knowledge; thus affording you materials for judging as to the best of many courses for fulfilling your life-task. In the history of the past you read the history of the future, and learn to judge of the significance of cause and effect.”
Talking thus earnestly they had passed out of Barbican into Beech84 Street, and so to the foot of Whitecross Street. Here Arthur suddenly stood still.
“You asked me what Smithfield was memorable85 for,” he said, with a peculiar smile. “Can you tell me the association connected with Whitecross Street?”
“Do you mean the Debtor’s Prison?” asked Mr. Tollady.
“By no means. I think I have never told you, but this was the place where several of my earliest years were spent.”
Mr. Tollady looked into the young lad’s face with a look at once of pity and curiosity.
“Let us turn up here,” said Arthur; and they walked up the street.
It was a moderately fine summer’s evening, and in front of all the doors, and in the mouths of the courts and alleys86, groups of people were standing87 talking, driven by the warmth out of the pestilential air of their houses. Along the middle of the narrow street hundreds of children were playing, making the air resound88 with their laughter, shouts and screams.
“I must have been like one of those,” said Arthur; “and listen! Ha! what remembrances that brings to my mind.”
Coming towards them was a band of little girls, hand in hand, who, as they skipped along, joined in a chorus, and the words were:
There is a happy land, far, far away.
Mr. Tollady, surprised at the broken tones in which his companion had spoken, looked up into his face and saw tears starting to his eyes.
“Aye, aye!” said the old man, sighing. “There had need be a happy land somewhere, for it is but little happiness that these poor creatures are fated to meet with on earth. ‘Far, far away!’ Alas89! how far!”
They had come to the entrance of Adam and Eve Court, the appearance of which was fouler90 than that of any they had yet seen. Dirty whitewash92 covered the lower half of the houses, such at least, as the narrowness of the court would permit of being seen. The stench which reeked93 into the outer street was overpowering.
“There, there!” exclaimed Arthur, excitedly. “In that very court, that very house, the last you can see, my father died!”
Mr. Tollady said nothing, but turned away and walked on rapidly. His features were working violently with an inward emotion he could scarcely suppress. Arthur, hurrying on by his side, gave vent1 to one audible sob94. On issuing into the more open neighbourhood of Old Street, they paused and looked around them once more.
“Let us stand here for a moment,” said Mr. Tollady, “and watch the faces of these people who go past. Is there one upon which vice95 and crime are not written as legibly as if put there in words? Do not only look at their faces, look at their bodies also. Look at that old woman, scarcely three feet high. What a monster of deformity! What generations of toil-worn, vice blasted, hunger-nipped wretches96 has it taken to produce a scion97 such as that. Do you notice the faces? That lad, now. He is more than half drunk, but never mind. It gives him an advantage if anything. Have you not seen many a dog with a far more intelligent face? Look at the brutal98 cast of his nose and lips, the hideous99 protuberance of his jaw-bones. Or that young girl, about fifteen years old, I suppose. Is it possible to imagine a more perfectly100 hideous countenance? See the cat-like green eyes, swelling101 over with unutterable infamy103; see the hair, coarse and foul91 as mud-growth. Listen, oh, for the sake of humanity, listen to her words! Nay104, do not be ashamed, Arthur! Better men than we are, are not ashamed to employ thousands of such, and sigh at the most, when they hear their talk. Look at that puppy, with a cigar in his mouth which will make him sick before he reaches the end of the street! He is a draper’s clerk, or something of the kind, and that girl with him is a miserable slave-of-all-work from next door, whom he is bent on seducing105. Would the brains in that boy’s head weigh as much as those of a cat, or be of equal reflecting power? Never believe it. Oh, Arthur, I could die of pity for them all! You have the hand and the eye of an artist. Paint a faithful picture of this crowd we have watched, be a successor of Hogarth, and give us the true image of our social dress, as he did of those of his own day. Paint them as you see them, and get your picture hung in the Academy. It would be a moral lesson to all who looked upon it, surpassing in value every sermon that fanaticism106 has ever concocted107!”
They turned homewards, and so exhausted108 was Mr. Tollady by the force of his emotions that for some distance he was obliged to lean upon Arthur’s arm.
“Is it not hideous,” he continued, after proceeding109 a few moments in silence, “that half a nation should travel from the cradle to the grave in a gross darkness of ignorance and bodily misery110 such as is not surpassed by the condition of an old hack111 that toils its life away in the depths of a coal-mine! Let us disregard for the moment the absolute want of education for the millions of wretched children whose parents are either too poor or too careless to send them to school. [There were no school boards as yet in England.] Let us assume, what one is tempted112 to believe in places such as this, that they have no intellects, and only bodily wants. Is it not hideous, I say, that places such as those courts off Whitecross Street should be suffered to exist, places where not even a litter of pigs could grow up healthy? Is it not a disgrace to humanity that generations of servitude, as real and degrading as that of the negroes, should be suffered to produce in the centre of our proudest cities a breed of men and women such as those we have been observing, absolute Calibans, for the most part, in respect of a pure type of human strength and beauty? All my life I have given way to bursts of indignation at these monstrous113 scenes, and my reward has always been laughter and ridicule114. ‘What is the use of your railing thus?’ they tell me. These things are an absolute necessity; it is as absurd to charge any human being with the fault, as it would be to throw upon mankind the blame of a droughty summer or a severe winter. Even you, Arthur, are perhaps saying in your mind that I am inconsistent, inasmuch as I one moment advocate the powerlessness of man to alter the course of history, and the next moment rail at the existing state of affairs, and protest that it might be better. But it is not so. Who is it effects the changes of history, if not man himself, acting115, as I insist, in obedience116 to a law of which he knows not the author, but which he cannot resist? Now the mere fact that indignation, such as this, subsists117 in my bosom, and in the bosoms118, I am glad to say, of thousands of my countrymen, is itself a sure sign that what we yearn119 for will ere long come about. We are the makers120 of history, Arthur, and it is the shooting of the seeds of future events which makes us restless. Only when the past is concerned is it foolish to say: ‘That should have happened otherwise,’ for otherwise it could not happen. The future is our and if we truly follow out those impulses which make our hearts burst with their impetuosity, we may be sure that we are truly working out the will of fate. There may be men at this day who long for a return to the despotism of the Inquisition as fiercely as I do for unlimited121 freedom of conscience. Well, let them strive their best to gain their ends. It is their allotted122 part. I shall oppose them to the utmost, for I know that to do so is my allotted part; but even in opposing them I shall understand them — a fact which I flatter myself will conduce to some degree of charity on my side. No! Let them maintain that these horrors are a necessary condition of the present moment, if they please; but never that we have it not in our power to alter them! What is a Government, forsooth? Will any one attempt to persuade me that the duties of a Government are composed in the narrow bounds of paltry123 diplomacy124; that the etiquette125 of courts should take precedence in the minds of statesmen of a people’s wail126 for food, food for body and food for mind; that the only status of the poor, from our ruler’s point of view, should be that of so much horse-power, to be employed either in the production of luxuries for the wealthy, or in the slaughter127 of hostile wretches, poor and ignorant as themselves? But if we despair of Governments, so long inured128 to views such as these, and scarcely capable of shaking them off till they feel the fierce fingers of the maddened populace tearing at their very throats, what shall we say of private wealth and influence, rotting in pestilential idleness, or active only in schemes for the still further brutalisation of the mob? Did you ever reflect that there are men in England whose private wealth would suffice to buy up every one of the vile129 slums we have just been traversing, and build fresh, healthy streets in their place, and the men still remain wealthy? To me it is one of the most fearful marvels130 of the time, that among such countless131 millionaires scarcely one arises in a generation actuated with the faintest shade of philanthropic motives132, and not one worthy133 of the name of a true philanthropist. It is in the air they breathe, Arthur! These gold-cradled monsters — monsters, verily, from a human point of view — have every seed of benevolent134 or large-viewed impulse crushed in their hearts by the weight of barbarous luxury heaped upon them from the hour of their births. By the eternal truth, what opportunities do these men cast aside and neglect? Suppose a Rothschild, with his millions, actuated only by the purest love for his fellow-creatures, only waking to do good, and going to rest to devise fresh plans of philanthropy for the morrow! Imagine such a man calling into his counsels the wisest, the noblest, the bravest of a nation, and sitting down with them to devise schemes for the amelioration of his country! Do not ask what such a man could perform, ask rather what he could not! He could not make mankind wise, or learned, or good, in an instant, but what aid could he give them in their united struggle towards wisdom, learning, goodness! What help could he afford in a million cases to struggling, suffering, despairing merit; how could he lessen135 the inmates136 of hospital, gaol137, asylum138; what glorious service would he perform in the cause of humanity by the mere spectacle of such enlightened benevolence139! And your preachers! I declare, I wonder how our preachers can walk the streets at the present day and not shrink in confusion and shame from the sights which meet their eyes on every hand. How many of them are there who in their sermons dare to speak out to the rich members of their congregation and rebuke140 them manfully for neglect of their opportunities? Jesus of Nazareth dared to do it; but then He received no payment for His sermons; and they would tell you that He was a god, which clearly explains why He could be bolder than ordinary men! If I needed any proof, beyond that afforded by my reason, of the emptiness of their pretensions141, this listlessness and incapacity of theirs in the face of such problems as press upon us today, would be quite sufficient. Priests of the Almighty142, forsooth! Nay, rather the hypocritical augurs143 of a wasting superstition, the very wrecks144 of which will in a few more centuries be hidden amidst the undistinguishable chaos145 of things that were.”
During the rest of the walk both were silent. Twilight146 was just verging147 into the darkness of a summer’s night as they entered the house. Mr. Tollady preceded Arthur into the parlour, and was just taking up a box of matches off the table to strike a light when the latter, in the dim light which still came through the window, saw him suddenly press his hand against his left side and fall back, with a slight sigh, into an arm chair. Arthur called to him, but received no answer. Hastily striking a match and lighting148 a candle, he approached the light to the old man’s face, and saw that it was deadly pale. The fit lasted but for a minute; then Mr. Tollady’s eyes again opened, and with a slight effort he rose to his feet.
“You are ill, sir,” exclaimed Arthur, insensibly falling back into the expressions of earlier days in his anxiety.
“Nothing, Arthur, nothing!” replied the other. “Give me a glass of water, my dear boy. There, that’s all right again. It was nothing.”
Arthur saw that he was unwilling149 to speak of the incident, and accordingly maintained silence, but nevertheless it made him very uneasy. The action of pressing the hands to the heart previous to the fainting-fit had impressed itself on his mind, and gave him much matter for anxious thought during that night and for days after. But for the moment the weakness seemed to have passed. The old man appeared perfectly recovered and ate a little supper in his usual manner before retiring. They then parted, and Arthur went upstairs to his little bedroom.
The brightness of the full moon rendered it unnecessary for him to strike a light, and throwing open his window, for it was a little close in the house, he sat down to breathe the fresh air for a few moments. It was rather later than usual for him to be out of bed; the clock at the Middlesex Hospital was just striking eleven. His brain had been excited by the unwonted energy of Mr. Tollady’s conversation, and by the circumstances of the latter’s fainting, and the cool breath of the night air was grateful to his forehead. For more than an hour he sat thus, thinking of a multitude of things. First he thought of the old man, of his apparently150 failing health, and of what would happen in the event of his dying; and his eyes brimmed over with tears of affection as his heart warmed at the thought of all he owed to this noble benefactor151. He reflected how little he used to understand Mr. Tollady in the earlier years of their acquaintance; how, little by little, an appreciation152 of the beauty and serenity153 of his character had grown upon him, till to-night he had obtained a more complete knowledge than ever of all the wonderful purity and lofty dignity concealed154 beneath the everyday details of that simple life. Then his thoughts wandered to the features of his own mind and character, and for some minutes he indulged in that self-examination which is beyond the power of ignoble155 natures. He thought of his beloved art, and wondered whether he was in reality born with the genius of a great painter, or whether it was mere talent which led him to pursue that course so eagerly. Rapidly emerging from such reflections he passed into his wonted current of thoughts, surveying in his mind a long panorama156 of glorious pictures which he firmly hoped one day to execute, and the very imagination of which made his blood leap in its courses, and his heart swell102 almost to bursting with the fervid157 yearnings of a noble ambition. Then his dream was checked, as such dreams always had been of late, by the thought of the far different aims to which Mr. Tollady was always directing his attention, whose end was a life of quiet usefulness, sacrificing all the claims of self to active exertion for the benefit of one’s fellows. Was such a life consistent with the tumultuous aspirations158 of the artist which so often filled his mind? A vague fear seized him lest the two should be utterly159 incompatible. Yet not so, if he followed Mr. Tollady’s advice and used his art for the purposes of social reform. Was not that a way out of the difficulty? He tried to think so, but felt in the depths of his soul that it was not, for the art to which he was devoted160 was not the same in which Hogarth had excelled. He felt that it would be impossible for him to take up his pencil for the delineation161 of such varieties of hideousness162. Beauty was the goddess that he worshipped at the inmost shrine163 of his being, and to the bodying forth of visible shapes of beauty his life must be devoted, or he must cast aside the pencil for ever. Not the most inspired productions of human genius satisfied the criterion of excellence164 which he had established for himself, not the majesty165 of Angelo, the purity of Raphael, the glow of Titian approached that celestial ideal of the beautiful which was ever before his thoughts; and how should he go for his models to the slums and the hovels amidst which his wretched childhood had been passed? So it was with a sigh of despair that he rose from the mental conflict, postponing166 the decision, as he had so often done before, to a time when riper wisdom and experience should have come to his assistance. Nevertheless he was unable totally to destroy an apprehension167 that the decision might never be reached, that the doubt and hesitation would form the burden of his life, and that a future entered upon without the ardour of conviction could not fail to teem74 with perplexity and suffering.
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1
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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2
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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3
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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7
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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8
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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12
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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13
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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14
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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16
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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17
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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18
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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22
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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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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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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26
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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27
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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28
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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29
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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30
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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31
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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34
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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37
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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38
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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39
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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40
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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41
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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42
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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43
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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44
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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45
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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46
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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47
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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48
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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49
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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50
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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51
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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52
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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53
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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54
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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55
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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58
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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59
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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60
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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61
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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62
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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63
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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64
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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65
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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66
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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67
toils
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| 网 | |
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68
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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69
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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70
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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71
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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72
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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73
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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74
teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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75
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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76
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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77
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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78
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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79
retarding
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| 使减速( retard的现在分词 )； 妨碍； 阻止； 推迟 | |
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80
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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81
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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82
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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83
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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84
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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85
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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86
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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87
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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88
resound
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| v.回响 | |
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89
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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90
fouler
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的比较级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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91
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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92
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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93
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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94
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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95
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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96
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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97
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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98
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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99
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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100
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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101
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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102
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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103
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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104
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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105
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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106
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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107
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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108
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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109
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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110
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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111
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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112
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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113
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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114
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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115
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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116
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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117
subsists
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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119
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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120
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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121
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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122
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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124
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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125
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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126
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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127
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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128
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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129
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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130
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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132
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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133
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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134
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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135
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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136
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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137
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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138
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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139
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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140
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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141
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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143
augurs
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| n.（古罗马的）占兆官( augur的名词复数 )；占卜师，预言者v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的第三人称单数 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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144
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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146
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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148
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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149
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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150
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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151
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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152
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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153
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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154
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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155
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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156
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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157
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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158
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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159
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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160
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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161
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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162
hideousness
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163
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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164
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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165
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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166
postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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167
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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