Actors and actresses also have made much money. Amongst the money-making men may emphatically be placed David Garrick, who was fond of money, and careful about it to the last. Some of our earlier circus people seem to have made much money.—Batty was reputed to have died worth half a million.—Ducrow gave himself extraordinary airs. When p. 168the Master Cutler and Town Council of Sheffield paid Ducrow a visit, with the principal manufacturers and their families, Ducrow sent word that he only waited on crowned heads, and not upon a set of dirty knife-grinders.—Philip Astley was born in 1742, at Newcastle-under-Lyme, where his father carried on the business of a cabinet-maker18. He received little or no education, and after working a few years with his father, enlisted19 in a cavalry20 regiment21. His imposing22 appearance, being over six feet in height, with the proportions of a Hercules, and the voice of a Stentor, attracted attention to him; and his capture of a standard at the battle of Emsdorff made him one of the celebrities23 of his regiment. While serving in the army, he learned some feats24 of horsemanship from an itinerant25 equestrian26 named Johnson, perhaps the man under whose management Price introduced equestrian performances at Sadler’s Wells, and often exhibited them for the amusement of his comrades. On his discharge from the army, he was presented by General Elliot with a horse, and thereupon he bought another in Smithfield, and commenced those open-air performances in Lambeth which have already been noticed.
After a time he built a rude circus upon a piece of ground near Westminster Bridge, which had been used as a timber-yard, being the site of the theatre which has been known by his name for nearly a century. Only the seats were roofed over, the ring in which he performed being open to the air. One of his horses, which he had taught to perform a variety of tricks, he soon began to exhibit, at an earlier period of each day, in a large room in Piccadilly, where the entertainment was eked27 out with conjuring28 and ombres Chinoises—a kind of shadow pantomine.
Having saved some money out of these performances, Astley erected29 his amphitheatre. At the same time he had to contend with a fierce competition from what was then the Royal Circus, which afterwards was called the Surrey Theatre. Astley’s, however, soon became the popular place of amusement, and as such was visited and described by Horace Walpole. The fame of the place received a further illustration in the remark of Dr. Johnson, who, speaking of the popularity of certain preachers, and the ease with which they get a crowd to hear them, said, “Were Astley to preach a sermon standing30 on his head, or on a horse’s back, he would collect a p. 169multitude to hear him, but no wise man would say he had made a better sermon for that.”
Let us now turn to a master of homely31 English—a man whose name was, at one time, in every one’s mouth, and an author, whose books, at one time, every one read. His moral works excel in descriptive power. In politics his savage32 personalities33 encircle sarcasm34; his faculty35 for inventing national nick-names, and mastery of a Saxon style of inimitable raciness, have given his writings historical reputation. He has never been equalled among political writers in his capacity of explaining what he understood. He was the first journalist who called attention to the condition of the working classes, I mean William Cobbett.
William Cobbett was born at Farnham, in Surrey, in 1776. His father was a very poor farmer, who knew enough to teach his boys to read, and had enough of intellectual originality36 to think that the triumph of Washington in the American War of Independence was just. William began as a mere37 child to do something towards earning his own livelihood38, and took great delight in the flowers which, while weeding in great folks’ gardens, he saw. When eleven years old, he heard some one speak of the splendid flowers in the Royal Gardens at Kew. Without a word of announcement, and with sixpence-halfpenny in his pocket, he set off to seek employment in that irresistible40 Paradise. When he reached Richmond his funds were reduced to threepence, and he was very hungry. In a shop-window, however, he saw the “Tale of a Tub,” price threepence. Mind triumphed over body; he bought the tale; and sat under a hay-stack reading it till he fell asleep. He was delighted beyond measure with the piece, and continued to read and re-read it for many years. The circumstance was not of happy omen41. Swift’s terrible tale we should pronounce to be as well-fitted to sap the moral and religious principles of a lad as any book in the English language; and lack of moral principle was the fatal defect of Cobbett throughout life.
He found employment at Kew, and no doubt gloated over the floral splendours which he had come to see; but he returned to Farnham, and grew up in his father’s house. He made an appointment one day to meet some young friends and accompany them to Guildford Fair; but coming upon the high road as the London coach was passing in full career, p. 170he made up his mind on the spur of the moment to start for London. He arrived at the foot of Ludgate Hill with half-a-crown in his pocket. An honest hop-seller, who knew his father, took him by the hand, and he found work as an Attorney’s clerk. He speaks with unlimited43 abhorrence44 of the roguery he witnessed and the misery45 he endured in this place. “No part of my life,” he says, “has been totally unattended with pleasure except the eight or nine months I passed in Gray’s Inn. The office—for so the dungeon46 was called where I wrote—was so dark that on cloudy days we were obliged to burn candles. I worked like a galley-slave from five in the morning till eight or nine at night, and sometimes all night long. * * * When I think of the saids and so forths, and the counts of tautology47 that I scribbled48 over—when I think of those sheets of seventy-two words, and those lines of two inches apart—my brain turns. Gracious Heaven! if I am doomed49 to be wretched, bury me beneath Iceland snows, and let me feed on blubber; stretch me under the burning Line, and deny me Thy propitious50 dews; nay51, if it be Thy will, suffocate52 me with the infected and pestilential air of a democratic club-room; but save me, save me from the desk of an attorney!” Anything seemed better than this. William, acting53 again on the spur of the moment, enlisted. For more than a year he did duty at Chatham. Here he mastered grammar—an acquisition which he always regarded as the basis of his fortunes. He read also in a circulating library, swallowing enormous quantities of useful or useless knowledge, and laying it up in a memory of great tenacity54. His father meanwhile was treated by him with heartless neglect. The old man had been offended by his running away, and appears to have made no effort to release him from the bondage55 of the attorney’s office. When he enlisted, however, his father relented, and wrote saying that the last hay-rick or pocket of hops56 at Farnham would be sold off to buy his discharge. But William vouchsafed57 no reply.
Cobbett’s regiment was ordered to Canada, and he accompanied it to St. John’s, New Brunswick. Here his conduct as a soldier was exemplary. His talent and activity made him conspicuous58, and he became sergeant-major, raised, though he was still but about twenty, over the heads of thirty sergeants59. In 1791 the regiment returned to England, and he procured60 p. 171his discharge “in consideration of his good behaviour, and the services he had rendered his regiment.” Then occurred one of the most strange and ambiguous episodes in his life. He lodged62 charges of pecuniary63 defalcation64 against four of his late officers. A day was appointed for their trial by court-martial. The functionaries65 met, the accused were present, all was ready for commencement, when it transpired66 that Cobbett was missing. As he was the accuser, the trial was adjourned67 to a stated day in order that an opportunity might be afforded him to appear. The court again met; he was again absent; the accused officers, accordingly, were acquitted68. They made some show of a wish to proceed against Cobbett, and what looks very like a feint of arresting him in his refuge at Farnham. But the upshot was that he escaped to France, and passed from France, when the revolutionary atmosphere became too hot for him, to America. Mr. Watson very properly devotes a good deal of attention to these circumstances, and we are bound to say that we agree with him in thinking that Cobbett was bribed70 with a good round sum to suppress his charges. It was, of course, an act of flagrant and base dishonesty; but there is nothing in Cobbett’s life to prove that he shrank from dishonesty, or was superior to temptation. He was a most affectionate husband and father, and many of his advices to young men and to the poor are excellent. His talent was of a coarse kind, but very great. His activity and indomitable spirit deserve all admiration71. He boasted, probably with truth, that he had never passed an idle day.
Cobbett first distinguished72 himself in America by publishing a fierce pamphlet against Priestley. He was soon a noted73 political writer, taking the side of ultra-Toryism, and denouncing with furious emphasis all that savoured of Radicalism74 or Republicanism. His talent was indubitable; and as vehement75 and able rhetoric76 on the Church-and-King side was then in demand, he attracted attention. On returning to England, he was welcomed by the authorities as an out-and-out Tory, and became the most violent, uncompromising, and popular of writers on the ministerial side. It is worthy77 of recollection that William Cobbett had his windows broken by the mob for the vehemence79 of his anti-popular utterances80. According to his own account he met Pitt at dinner in Mr. Windham’s house; and the fact is not impossible, so highly p. 172did ministers at that time prize the aid of any one who could fight for them against the patriots81.
By what steps it is needless to trace, Cobbett gradually sidled round, and left the cause of the king for that of the mob. His circumstances became embarrassed, and he fled to America, leaving behind him debts to the value of upwards82 of £33,000. He resided at Long Island, near New York, and continued to edit his Register. In a few years the irrepressible giant—he stood six foot two, with shoulders and chest and girth to match—returned to England. He had once denounced Tom Paine as a miscreant83 whom no words could blacken. He now brought Tom Paine’s bones with him, bent84 upon having a grand monument built over them in England. In this instance he signally misunderstood his countrymen. The dead man’s bones were laughed at, and declared to be those of an old nigger. Cobbett proposed to sell 20,000 hair-rings at a sovereign a-piece, with some of Paine’s hair in each; and he was reminded that when Paine died he was almost bald. Cobbett had at last to shuffle85 the bones underground, no one knows where. His own eloquence86 and sarcasm made him popular, and procured him a seat in parliament. He was now the fiercest of democrats87. He assailed88 Protestantism and detested89 ministers of religion. His quackery90 grew worse and worse until he died in 1835.
Sir Francis Chantrey was a poor lad. He began his career by being a carver on wood. Rogers used to say—“One day Chantrey said to him, ‘Do you recollect78 that about twenty-five years ago a journeyman came to your house from the wood-carver employed by you and Mr. Hope, to talk about these ornaments91 (pointing to some on a mahogany sideboard), and that you gave him a drawing to execute them by.’ Rogers replied that he recollected92 it well. ‘Well,’ said Chantrey, ‘I was that journeyman.’” Chantrey practised portrait-painting both at Sheffield and after he came to London. It was in allusion93 to him that Lawrence said—“A broken-down painter will make a very good sculptor94.”
In 1823, London society was much exercised on the subject of literary gains. Miss Wynn writes in her “Diaries of a Lady of Quality”—“I heard to-day from Mr. Rogers that Constable95, the bookseller, told him last May that he paid the author of ‘Waverley’ the sum of £110,000. To that may now be added the produce of ‘Red Gauntlet,’ and ‘St. p. 173Ronan’s Well;’ for I fancy Quentin Durward’ was at least printed, if not published. I asked whether the ‘Tales of my Landlord,’ which do not bear the same name, were taken into calculation, and was told they were, but of course the poems were not. All this has been done in twenty years.” In 1803, an unknown Mr. Scott’s name was found as the author of three very good ballads96 in Lewis’s “Tales of Wonder.” This was his first publication.—Pope, who until now had been considered as the poet who had made the most by his works, died worth about £800 a-year.—Johnson, for his last and best work, his “Lives of the Poets,” published after the “Rambler” and the “Dictionary” had established his fame, got two hundred guineas, to which was added one hundred more. Mr. Hayward, in a note, adds—“‘Waverley’ having been published in 1814, the sum mentioned by Constable was earned in nine years, by eleven novels in three volumes each, and three series of ‘Tales of my Landlord,’ making nine volumes more; eight novels twenty-four volumes, being yet to come. Scott’s first publication, ‘Translations from the German,’ was in 1796. During the whole of his literary life he was profitably engaged in miscellaneous writing and editing; and whatever the expectations raised by has continued popularity and great profits, they were surpassed by the sale of the collected and illustrated97 edition of the novels commenced under his own revision in 1829. Altogether, the aggregate98 amount gained by Scott in his lifetime, very far exceeds any sum hitherto named as accruing99 to any other man from authorship. Pope inherited a fortune, saved and speculated; and we must come at once to modern times to find plausible100 subjects of comparison. T. Moore’s profits, spread over his life, yield but a moderate income. Byron’s did not exceed £20,000. Talfourd once showed me a calculation, by which he made out that Dickens, soon after the commencement of ‘Nicholas Nickleby,’ ought to have been in the receipt of £10,000 a-year. Thackeray never got enough to live handsomely and lay by. Sir E. B. Lytton is said to have made altogether from £80,000 to £100,000 by his writings’. We hear of 500,000 francs (£20,000) having been given in France for Histories—to MM. Thiers and Lamartine for example; but the largest single payment ever made to an author for a book, was the cheque for £20,000, on account, paid by Messrs. Longman to Macaulay soon after the appearance p. 174of the third and fourth volumes of his History, the terms being that he should receive three-fourths of the net profits.” This note of Mr. Hayward’s, it should be remembered, was written in 1864. Macaulay cleared a fine sum by his History, and so did the publishers. During the nine years, ending with the 25th of June, 1857, Messrs. Longman disposed of 30,978 copies of the first volume of the History; 50,783 copies during the nine years ending with June, 1866; and 52,392 copies during the nine years ending with June, 1875. Within a generation of its first appearance, upwards of 150,000 copies of the History will have been printed and sold in the United Kingdom alone.
It is to be questioned, when her life comes to be written, whether any author has been more successful, in a pecuniary point of new, than Miss Braddon, whose “Lady Audley’s Secret” at once placed her on the pinnacle101 of fame and fortune, and yet she began the world as a ballet-girl.
Few Irishmen, in a literary and political point of view, did better than the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker. In his “Memoirs,” Charles Mayne Young thus speaks of his rise and progress:—
“I suspect few people now alive are aware of the commencement of Croker’s career in London. Horace Smith, James’s brother, and one of the joint102 authors of ‘Rejected Addresses,’ told me that he, his brother, and Cumberland, formed the staff of the Morning Post when Colonel Mellish was its sole proprietor103. On a certain quarter-day, when he was in the habit of meeting them at the office and paying them their salary, he took occasion to pass them unqualified commendation for the great ability they had brought to bear upon his journal. He assured them that the circulation of the paper had quadrupled since their connection with it; ‘but—but—that he was, nevertheless, under the necessity of dispensing104 with their pens for the future.’ The two Smiths were so utterly105 unprepared for such a declaration, that they were tongue-tied. Not so the testy106 Cumberland, who took care to make himself as clearly understood as if he had been the veritable Sir Fretful Plagiary.
“‘What,’ he asked his employer, ‘the d—l do you mean? In the same breath in which you laud107 your servants to the skies, and express your sense of obligation to them, you discharge them oven without the usual month’s warning!’
p. 175“Mellish, quite unmoved, replied—‘You must know, good sirs, that I care for my paper, not for its principles, but as an investment; and it stands to reason, that the heavier my outgoings, the less my profits. I do, as I have said, value your merits highly; but not as highly as you charge me for them. Now, in future, I can command the services of one man, who will do the work of three for the wage of one.’
“‘The deuce you can,’ said Cumberland. ‘He must be a phœnix. Where, pray, may this omniscient108 genius be met with?’
“‘In the next room! I will send him to you.’
“As he left, a young man entered, with a well-developed skull109, a searching eye, and a dauntless address.
“‘So, sir,’ screamed out Cumberland, ‘you must have an uncommon110 good opinion of yourself! You consider yourself, I am told, three times as able as any one of us; for you undertake to do an amount of work, single-handed, which we have found enough for us all.’ ‘I am not afraid,’ said the young man, with imperturbable111 sang froid, ‘of doing all that is required of me.’ They all three then warned him of the tact112, discretion113, and knowledge of books and men required—of the difficulties of which he must expect to find an enterprise of such magnitude beset114, &c., &c. They began then to sound his depth; but on politics, belles115 lettres, political economy, even the drama, they found him far from shallow. Cumberland, transported out of himself by his modest assurance, snatched up his hat, smashed it on his head, rammed116 snuff incontinently up his nose, and then rushed by Mellish, who was in the adjoining room, swearing, and saying as he left, ‘Confound the potato. He’s so tough, there’s no peeling him!’ The tough potato was John Wilson Croker.”
That Charles Dickens made a great deal of money, all the world is well aware. That in the tale of “David Copperfield,” a little of his childish life was outlined, was known, or rather suspected; but till his life appeared, no one had the least idea how low down in the world he and his family were, and how much more creditable to him was his rise.
If it is good for a man to bear the yoke117 in his youth, Dickens certainly had this advantage. We have seldom read a more touching118 picture than that which is given of the life of the neglected, untaught, half-starved boy at this time. It is tragic119 and affecting enough in itself, but it is still more p. 176impressive as suggesting the possible lot of hundreds and thousands in this great London of ours. The one boy, by means of marvellous genius, forces his way to the front; but who is to tell the story of the obscure multitude who perish in the struggle? What imagination has ever pictured scenes as tragic as the following experiences?—
“It is wonderful to me how I could have been so easily cast away at such an age. It is wonderful to me, that even after my descent into the poor little drudge120 I had been since we came to London, no one had compassion121 enough on me—a child of singular abilities, quick, eager, delicate, and soon hurt, bodily or mentally—to suggest that something might have been spared, as certainly it might have been, to place me at any common school. Our friends, I take it, were tired out. No one made any sign. My father and mother were quite satisfied. They could hardly have been more so if I had been twenty years of age, distinguished at a grammar-school, and going to Cambridge.
“The blacking warehouse122 was the last house on the left-hand side of the way, at old Hungerford-stairs. It was a crazy, tumble-down old house, abutting123 of course on the river, and literally124 overrun with rats. Its wainscotted rooms, and its rotten floors and staircase, and the old grey rats swarming125 down in the cellars, and the sound of their squeaking126 and scuffling coming up the stairs at all times, and the dirt and decay of the place, rose up visibly before me, as if I were there again. The counting-house was on the first floor, looking over the coal-barges and the river. There was a recess127 in it, in which I was to sit and work. My work was to cover the pots of paste-blacking; first, with a piece of oilpaper, and then with a piece of blue paper; to tie them round with a string; and then to clip the paper close and neat, all round, until it looked as smart as a pot of ointment42 from an apothecary’s shop. When a certain number of grosses of pots had attained128 this pitch of perfection, I was to paste on each a printed label; and then go on again with more pots. Two or three other boys were kept at similar duty down stairs on similar wages. One of them came up, in a ragged129 apron130 and paper cap, on the first Monday morning, to show me the trick of using the string and tying the knot. His name was Bob Fagin; and I took the liberty of using his name, long afterwards, in ‘Oliver Twist.’
p. 177“Our relative had kindly131 arranged to teach me something in the dinner-hour—from twelve to one, I think it was—every day. But an arrangement so incompatible132 with counting-house business soon died away, from no fault of his or mine; and for the same reason, my small work-table, and my grosses of pots, my papers, string, scissors, paste-pot, and labels, by little and little, vanished out of the recess in the counting-house, and kept company with the other small work-tables, grosses of pots, papers, string, scissors, and paste-pots, down stairs. It was not long before Bob Fagin and I, and another boy whose name was Paul Green, but who was currently believed to have been christened Poll (a belief which I transferred, long afterwards, again to Mr. Sweedlepipe, in ‘Martin Chuzzlewit’), worked generally side by side. Bob Fagin was an orphan133, and lived with his brother-in law, a waterman. Poll Green’s father had the additional distinction of being a fireman, and was employed at Drury-lane Theatre; where another relation of Poll’s, I think his little sister, did imps134 in the pantomimes.
“No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sank into this companionship; compared these every-day associates with those of my happier childhood; and felt my early hopes of growing up to be a learned and distinguished man, crushed in my breast. The deep remembrance of the sense I had of being utterly neglected and hopeless—of the shame I felt in my position—of the misery it was to my young heart to believe that, day by day, what I had learned, and thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy and my emulation135 up by, was passing away from me, never to be brought back any more—cannot be written. My whole nature was so penetrated136 with the grief and humiliation137 of such considerations, that even now, famous and caressed138 and happy, I often forget in my dreams that I have a dear wife and children—even that I am a man—and wander desolately139 back to that time of my life.
“My mother and my brothers and sisters (excepting Fanny in the Royal Academy of Music) were still encamped, with a young servant-girl from Chatham workhouse, in the two parlours in the emptied house in Gower Street North. It was a long way to go and return within the dinner-hour; and, usually, I either carried my dinner with me, or went and bought it at some neighbouring shop. In the latter case it p. 178was commonly a saveloy and a penny loaf; sometimes, a four-penny plate of beef from a cook’s shop; sometimes a plate of bread and cheese, and a glass of beer, from a miserable140 old public-house over the way—the ‘Swan,’ if I remember right, or the ‘Swan’ and something else that I have forgotten. Once I remember tucking my own bread (which I had brought from home in the morning) under my arm, wrapped up in a piece of paper like a book, and going into the best dining-room in Johnson’s alamode-beef-house in Charles Court, Drury Lane, and magnificently ordering a small plate of alamode-beef to eat with it. What the waiter thought of such a strange little apparition141, coming in all alone, I don’t know; but I can see him now, staring at me as I ate my dinner, and bringing up the other waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny, and I wish, now, that he hadn’t taken it.”
It was thus Dickens was trained to fight the battle of life. After this one feels inclined to say, “How great are the blessings142 of poverty!” What an impulse it gives the man to raise himself above it, somehow or other. Hazlitt used to say that “the want of money often places a man in a very ridiculous position.” There is no doubt about that. It is also equally clear, that, without money, there can be little comfort, little independence of thought or action, little real manliness143. Poverty is a wonderful tonic144. Volumes might be written in its praise. Almost all the wonderful things that have been done in the world have been accomplished145 by men who were born and bred in poverty. She is the nurse of genius, the mother of heroes. She has garlanded the world with gold. Luxury and wealth have ever been the ruin alike of individuals and nations. The world’s greatest benefactors146 have been the money-getting men. Of course there are a few exceptions; but they are the exceptions that confirm the rule.adversity, and of the splendid courage of the working classes); “for notwithstanding that not a few of them are not unacquainted with the claims, reasonable and unreasonable147, of poor relations, these qualities are not in such constant exercise, and riches seem, in so many cases, to smother148 the manliness of their possessors, that their sympathies become not so much narrowed as, so to speak, stratified; they are reserved for the sufferings of their own class, and also the woes149 of those above them. They seldom tend downwards150 much, and they are far more likely to admire an act of high courage, like that of the engine-driver who saved his passengers lately from an awful collision by cool courage, than to admire the constantly-exercised fortitude151 and the tenderness which are the daily characteristics of a British workman’s life.
“You may doubt this. I should once have done so myself; but I have shared their lot; I have lived with them. For months and months I lived in one of the model lodging152-houses, p. 146established mainly by the efforts of Lord Shaftesbury. There is one in Fetter153 Lane, another in Hatton Garden; and, indeed, they are scattered154 all over London. I went there simply because I could not afford a better lodging. I have had to make seven shillings and ninepence halfpenny (three shillings of which I paid for my lodging) last me a whole week, and did it. It is astonishing how little you can live on when you divest155 yourself of all fancied needs. I had plenty of good wheaten bread to eat all the week, and the half of a herring for a relish156 (less will do if you can’t afford half, for it is a splendid fish), and good coffee to drink; and I know how much, or rather how little, roast shoulder-of-mutton you can get for twopence for your Sunday’s dinner. Don’t suppose I went there from choice; I went from stern necessity (and this was promotion157 too), and I went with strong shrinking, with a sense of suffering great humiliation, regarding my being there as a thing to be kept carefully secret from all my old friends. In a word, I considered it only less degrading than spunging upon my friends, or borrowing what I saw no chance of ever being able to pay.
“Now, what did I see there? I found the workmen considerate for each other. I found that they would go out (those who were out of employment), day after day, and patiently trudge158 miles and miles seeking employment, returning, night after night, unsuccessful and dispirited. They would walk incredibly long distances to places where they heard of a job of work, and this not for a few days, but for very many days. And I have seen such a man sit down wearily by the fire (we had a common room for sitting, and cooking, and everything), with a hungry despondent159 look—he had not tasted food all day—and accosted160 by another scarcely less poor than himself, with—‘Here, mate, get this into thee,’ handing him, at the same time, a piece of bread and some cold meat, and afterwards some coffee; and adding, ‘Better luck to-morrow—keep up your pecker;’ and all this without any idea that they were practising the most splendid patience, fortitude, courage, and generosity I had ever seen. You would hear them talk of absent wife and children sometimes—there in a distant workhouse—trade was very bad then—with expressions of affection, and the hope of seeing them again, although the one was irreverently alluded161 to as my old woman, and the latter as the kids. I p. 147very soon got rid of miserable self-pity there, and came to reflect that Dr. Livingstone would probably be thankful for good wheaten bread; and if the bed was of flock and hay, and the sheets of cotton, that better men than I in the Crimea (the war was then going on) would think themselves very lucky to have as good; and then, too, I began to reflect, that when you come to think of it, such as these men were, so were the vast majority of the working classes; that the idle and the drunken we see about public-houses, are but a small minority of them made to appear more—because public-houses are all put in such places; that the great bulk are at home; for the man who has to be up at six in the morning can’t stay up at night; he is in bed early, and is as I found my fellow inmates162. * * * Well, it was impossible to indulge in self-pity in circumstances like these; and emulous of the genuine manhood all around me, I set to work again; for what might not be done with youth and health; and simply by preparing myself rather more thoroughly163 for my business than had previously164 been considered necessary, I was soon strong enough to live more in accordance with my previous life, and am now able to speak a true word for the genuine men I left behind, simply because my dear parents had given me greater advantages than these men had.” In this confession165 we see the secrets of Mr. Plimsoll’s ultimate success—the better education his parents had given him, and the courage infused into him by the example of men lower down in the social scale. Under these circumstances he again went to work, and the result was fame and fortune.
The great railway king, Mr. G. Hudson, was, for a time, a money-making M.P., who rose from the linendraper’s shop at York, to be the observed of all observers, the lion of the day, to whom, while his money lasted, the oldest and the proudest aristocracy in the world stood cap in hand. Alas166! however, he outlived his wealth. It took to itself wings, and flew away.
The mother of Joseph Hume, M.P., kept a small crockery shop at Montrose; and yet her son went out to India, made a large fortune, and came back to his native land to be a distinguished member of parliament, and a leader in political and economical reform.
Mr. I. Holden, when M.P. for the eastern division of the West Riding of Yorkshire, told a large meeting of the electors at Leeds about his earlier years. “I began life,” he said, p. 148“as an operative. I was a worker in a cotton-mill, and when I had worked fourteen hours a-day, I spent two in the evening school. I educated myself by that means till I was able to continue my education by assisting in the education of others; and I sometimes remember with intense emotion, entering, upon a stage-coach, the town of Leeds, unknown, and a perfect stranger, at twenty years of age, in order to be the mathematical master in one of the first schools then in Yorkshire, and almost one of the first in England. I spent many happy months in the town of Leeds.” When he began to take an interest in politics, he watched the course of the two great parties on the subject of Catholic emancipation167 and the emancipation of the slaves, and became a Liberal.
Edward Baines, who became M.P. for Leeds, and the proprietor of one of the most valuable newspaper properties in the kingdom, the Leeds Mercury, set off to make his fortune in 1793. His son writes:—“There was at that time no public conveyance168 on the direct route from Preston to Leeds, and the journey by coach, through Manchester, would have occupied two days. The frugal169 apprentice, stout170 of heart and limb, performed the journey on foot, with his bundle on his arm. A friend accompanied him to Clithero; but he crossed the hill into Yorkshire with no companion but his staff, and all his worldly wealth in his pocket. Wayworn he entered the town of Leeds, and, finding the shop of Messrs. Binns and Brown, he inquired if they had room for an apprentice to finish his time. The stranger was carelessly referred to the foreman; and, as he entered the Mercury office, he internally resolved that, if he should obtain admission there, he would never leave it.” And he kept his word. A man does what he wills. To succeed in life—to be even a rich man or an M.P.—is mainly the result of the effort of the indomitable will of a resolute171 and persevering172 man.
Mr. Baines succeeded because his maxim173 was, that what was worth doing, was worth doing well. “He laid the foundations of future success,” writes his son, “as a master, in the thorough knowledge and performance of the duties of a workman. Whilst still receiving weekly wages, he practised a prudent174 economy. He was anxious to improve his condition, and he took the only effectual means to do it by saving as much as he could of the fruits of his industry. His tastes were simple, his habits strictly175 temperate176, and his companionships p. 149virtuous. Always maintaining respectability of appearance, he was superior to personal display. He lodged with a worthy family; but on a scale of expense suited to his circumstances.” An early marriage seems to have increased his business energy. “At five o’clock in the morning, and, when occasion required, at four or three, was the young printer out of bed; and whatever neighbour rose early was sure to find him in his office. He was above no kind of work that belonged to his trade. He not only directed others, but worked himself at case and press. He kept his own books, and they still remain to attest178 the regularity179 and neatness with which he kept them, though he had no training in that department. Not a penny went or came but had its record, either in his office or his domestic account-books. In consequence, he always knew the exact position of his affairs. His customers and friends steadily180 increased; for it was found that he was to be depended upon for whatever he undertook. With a spirit that stooped to no meanness, but with a nature that cheerfully yielded all respect and courtesy; with a temper as steady as it was sanguine181 and happy; with constant prudence182 and unfailing attention to duty, he won the confidence of every one that knew him. His punctuality and method were exemplary; he conducted his business, in all respects, in the best way. He not only took any employment for his press, however humble, that came, but he devised and suggested publications, and joined others in executing them. But,” adds the son, “it was necessary that energy in business should be seconded by economy at home. He began by laying down the rule that he would not spend more than half his income; and he acted upon it. Great was his resolution, and many the contrivances to carry out his purpose; but husband and wife being of the same mind, assiduous and equally prudent, the thing was done. For some time they kept but one servant. A main secret of his frugality183 was, that he created no artificial wants. He always drank water. He never smoked, justly thinking it a waste of time and money to gratify a taste which does not exist naturally, but has to be formed. He took no snuff. Neither tavern184 nor theatre saw his face. The circle of his visiting acquaintance was small and select. Yet he was not an earth-worm. He took an active part in the Benevolent185 or Strangers’ Friend Society, and was a man of public spirit. The pure joys of domestic p. 150life, the pleasures of industry, and the satisfaction of doing good, combined to make him as happy as he was useful.”
Thus it will be seen that the foundation of Mr. Baines’s success in life, and of his eminent186 usefulness, was laid in those homely virtues187 which are too often despised by the young and ardent188, but which are of incomparably greater value than the most shining qualities—in integrity, industry, perseverance189, prudence, frugality, temperance, self-denial, and courtesy. The young man who would use his harvest must plough with his heifer.
If there is a passage in all his life of which his descendants are and ought to be most proud, it is that lowly commencement, when virtuous177 habits were formed; when the temptations of youth were resisted; when life-long friendships were won; when domestic life began in love, and piety190, and prudence; when a venerable neighbour, Mr. Abraham Dickinson, used to remark, “Those young people are sure to get on, they are so industrious;” and when the same good man said to a young friend at his elbow—“C—, thou seest an example in thy neighbour Edward.”
“All’s well that ends well,” says the proverb. It is true; yet it is also of immense importance to begin well. Mr. Baines, some years since, was watching an apprentice, whose habits were not steady, fold up a newspaper. At the first fold there was a wrinkle, and at every succeeding fold the wrinkle grew worse, and more unmanageable. Mr. Baines said significantly to the lad—“Jim, its a bad thing to begin wrongly.” The poor fellow found it so; for he soon fell a victim to his vices61. His master had begun right, and every succeeding fold in life was easy and straight. The lesson is worth remembering.
Another illustration of money-making is to be found in the case of William James Chaplin, a native of Rochester, in Kent, whose history affords a remarkable191 example of the way in which a man rises from the humblest ranks, by talent and energy, to a place amongst the most influential192 and wealthy men of the day. Before railways were in operation, Mr. Chaplin had succeeded in becoming one of the largest coach proprietors193 in the kingdom. His establishment grew from small beginnings, until, just before the opening of the London and North-Western Railway, he was proprietor of sixty-four stage-coaches, worked by 1,500 horses, and returning p. 151yearly more than a million sterling194. A man who could build up such a business was not likely to let it sink under him; and, accordingly, we find that he moved his large capital from four-horse coaches into railway shares, and entered largely in foreign railways, especially in France and Holland. His greatest stake, however, was invested in the London and South-Western, of which he became director, and afterwards chairman. In 1845, he was Sheriff of London, when he took some pains to promote prison reform; and, in 1847, was elected M.P. for Salisbury, as a supporter of free trade and the ballot196. He was also a deputy-lieutenant of the county of Hants.
In 1825, a country lad arrived in London on the day before Good Friday. As he was born in 1806, he was about twenty years of age. He had served his apprenticeship197 with a linendraper at Wigton, where his master did not prosper198, and the young man determined199 to come to London in search of a fortune. It was a wearisome ride then from Carlisle to London, and took the coaches at least a couple of days; but it is a long journey that has no end to it. In due time the coach reached the “Swan with Two Necks,” in Lad Lane, Wood Street, and, after paying the coachman, the young man from the country took up his residence at the “Magpie and Platter.” As may be supposed, he felt rather lonely, and did not know what to do with himself. He was too much fatigued200, besides, to look after a situation; so on Good Friday, as he knew the Cumberland men held their annual wrestling match on that day, he made his way to Chelsea to observe the sports. When he arrived there he found a young Quaker friend from Torpenbow, who had won the belt at Keswick a few years before. The new-comer, inspired by the event, entered his name as a wrestler202. He was described by some, who were present on the occasion, “as very strong-looking, middle-sized, with a broad chest, and strongly-developed muscles;” his hair was dark and curly, and almost black; his eyes were brown, and glowed under excitement to a deeper brown; his face was redolent of health. The new-comer “peeled” and stepped into the ring. The first man he came against was a little bigger than himself; but he threw him so cleverly, that the questions were asked on every side—“Who’s that?” “Where does he come from?” “What’s his name?” His name was soon known; and as he wrestled203 again, and threw his man, he was hailed with cries of, “Weel done.” Again he succeeded; and though p. 156beaten at length by a noted champion wrestler from Cumberland, the young man from the country was hailed as the winner of the third prize. His name was George Moore, and it was thus he made his débût in London in the year 1825. It is needless to say that he was recognised by his countrymen, and treated to drink. It was the wish that he should have another wrestling bout17, and wagers204 were made on the subject; but to the credit of George Moore it must be stated, that when he saw some of the lads around him were taking more drink than was good for them, he made up his mind not to wrestle201 in the proposed match, and left his admirers indignant at his decision.
On his return, Moore learned that the inn—indeed, the very bed in which he had slept—had become notorious; for Thurtell, the well-known murderer, had been taken from it by the police some time before. Moore was horror-struck, and determined to seek fresh lodgings205. He was fortunate in finding very suitable ones in Wood Street, and thence he set out to find a situation. It was hard work the search. People laughed at his north-country accent, and rustic206 air and clothes. In one day he entered as many as thirty linendrapers’ shops. “The keenest cut of all I got,” Moore used to say, “was from Mr. Charles Meeking, of Holborn. He asked me if I wanted a porter’s situation. This almost broke my heart.” Fortunately, Mr. Ray, of Flint, Ray, and Co., had heard of the arrival of the Cumberland lad; indeed, he had been looking out for him, and he offered Moore £30 a-year, which the latter gratefully accepted. At that time Moore gave no promise of being worth much more. His first appearance is thus described:—“On incidentally looking over to the haberdashery counter, I saw an uncouth207, thick-set country lad, standing crying. In a minute or two a large deal chest, such as the Scotch208 servant-lasses use for their clothes, was brought in by a man and set down on the floor. After the lad had dried up his tears, the box was carried up-stairs to the bedroom where he was to sleep. After he had come down-stairs he began working, and he continued to be the hardest worker in the house until he left.”
The Moore family were not penniless. George Moore was not one of the men who came to London with half-a-crown, and with that half-a-crown swell209 out into Rothschilds. His father was a man of ancient descent, though of moderate p. 157means, and was one of the old Cumberland statesmen—a race of landed proprietors unfortunately fast vanishing away. His godfather left him a legacy210 of £100, and a hair-trunk studded with nails. His mother, who was a statesman’s daughter, died when he was six years old. At eight the boy was sent to school. The master was drunken and brutal211, and naturally the school was unattractive. Under a new master, however, the lad did better. When twelve, his father sent him to a finishing school at Blennerhasset, and he remained there for a quarter, at an expense of eight shillings. “The master,” he adds, “was a good writer, and a superior man—indeed, a sort of genius. For the first time I felt that there was some use in learning, and then I began to feel how ignorant I was. However, I never swerved212 from my resolve to go away from home. I had no tastes in common with my brother. I felt that I could not hang about half idle, with no better prospect213 before me than of being a farm servant. So I determined that I would leave home at thirteen, and fight the battle of life for myself.” It was while an apprentice that this feeling strengthened and matured. Card-playing had been to him a snare214; but he conquered the temptation, and became all the better for the struggle with inclination215, which appears to have been sharp and severe.
But let us return to Moore’s London life. After he had been six months at Grafton House, one day Moore observed a bright little girl come tripping into the warehouse, accompanied by her mother. “Who are they?” he asked. “Why, don’t you know?” was the reply. “That’s the governor’s wife and daughter.” “Well,” said George, “if ever I marry, that girl shall be my wife;” and he kept his word.
In 1826, somewhat disgusted with the retail216 trade (especially as, owing to a mistake of his own, his integrity had been called in question by one of the customers, a lady of title), Moore entered the house of Fisher, Stroud, and Robinson, Watling Street, then the first lace-house in the City of London. His salary was to be £40 a-year, and he wrote word to his father that he was now a made man. How came this to be so? In the first place, Moore had earned a good character at Grafton House; and, secondly217, Mr. Fisher, the head of the lace-house, was a Cumberland man. Provincial218 ties were stronger half a century back in London than they are now; but be that as it may, Moore had much to learn in p. 158his new place. He was inaccurate—he lacked briskness219 and promptitude. Mr. Fisher blamed his stupidity; he said he had seen many a stupid blockhead from Cumberland, but that he was the greatest of them all. This censure220 seems to have done Moore good. He set about educating himself. He was so ashamed of his ignorance, that he actually went into a night-school. It was at Fisher’s that Moore met with Mr. Crampton, afterwards his partner. The latter writes—“We became close companions. His friends were my friends, and so intimate were we, that I seemed to merge221 into a Cumberland lad. George was very patriotic222. All our friends were Cumberlanders; and though I was a Yorkshireman, I was almost induced to feign223 that I was Cumberland too. I was gayer than he, and he never failed to tell me of my faults. He was a strong, round-shouldered fellow. He was very cheerful and very willing. He worked hard, and seemed to be bent on improvement; but in other respects he did not strike me as anything remarkable. Among the amusements which we attended together were the wrestling matches at St. John’s Wood. The principal match was held on Good Friday. One day we went to the wrestling-field, and George entered his name. The competitors drew lots. George’s antagonist224 was a Life-Guardsman, over six feet high. I think I see Moore’s smile now as he stood opposite the giant. The giant smiled too. Then they went at it gat hod, and George was soon gently laid on his back. By this time he was out of practice, and I don’t think he ever wrestled again. Besides, he was soon so full of work as to have little time for amusement.”
After this Mr. Moore became traveller to the firm, and excelled, not only in increasing the business of his employers, but in the shortness of time in which he performed his journeys. He used afterwards to remark, that it was the best testing-work for a young man before his promotion to places of greater trust. At the inns which he frequented he was regarded as a sort of hero. To show the energy with which he carried on his business, it may be mentioned that on one occasion he arrived in Manchester, and after unpacking225 his goods, he called upon his first customer. He was informed that one of his opponents had reached the town the day before, and would remain there for a day or two more. “Then,” said Moore, “it is no use wasting my time with my p. 159competitor before me.” He returned to his hotel, called some of his friends about him to help him repack his stock, drove off to Liverpool, commenced business next day, and secured the greater part of the orders before the arrival of his opponent. It was while travelling in Ireland that Moore met Groucock, then travelling for a rival firm. They had a keen fight for trade, and Moore succeeded in regaining226 a good deal of it for his own firm. Groucock, convinced of Moore’s value, offered him £500 a-year (he was only getting £150 from Fisher) to travel for his firm. Moore’s reply was, “I will be a servant for no other house than Fisher’s; the only condition on which I will leave him is a partnership227.” At length Groucock gave way; and in 1830, at the age of twenty-three, Moore entered as partner in the firm of Groucock, Copestake, and Moore. The firm was originally established in 1825, and their first place of business was over a trunk-shop at No. 7, Cheapside. In 1834, the firm removed to Bow Churchyard. The capital contributed by George Moore was £670, supplied him by his father. His line was to travel for the firm, which he did with increased assiduity. Frequently he was up two nights in the week.
There are many amusing stories told of the way in which Moore got his orders. A draper in a Lancashire town refused to deal with him. The travellers at the hotel bet him five pounds that he could not get an order, and Moore started off. When the draper saw him entering the shop, he cried out, “All full, all full, Mr. Moore; I told you so before!” “Never mind,” said George, “you won’t object to a crack?” “Oh, no,” said the draper. They cracked about many things, and then George Moore, calling the draper’s attention to a new coat which he wore, asked what he thought of it? “It is a capital coat,” said the draper. “Yes; made in the best style, by a first-rate London tailor.” The draper looked at it again, and again admired it. “Why,” said George, “you are exactly my size; it’s quite new; I’ll sell it you.” “What’s the price?” “Twenty-five shillings.” “What? That’s very cheap.” “Yes, it’s a great bargain.” “Then I’ll buy it,” said the draper. George went back to his hotel, donned another suit, and sent the great bargain to the draper. George again calling, the draper offered to pay him. “No,” said George, “I’ll book it; you’ve opened an account.” Mr. Moore had sold the coat at a loss, but he was recouped by the p. 160£5 bet which he won, and he obtained an order besides. The draper afterwards became one of his best customers.
On another occasion, a draper at Newcastle-upon-Tyne was always called upon, many times without a result. He was always full; in fact, he had no intention of opening an account with the new firm. Mr. Moore got to know that he was fond of a particular kind of snuff—rappee, with a touch of beggar’s brown in it. He provided himself with a box in London, and had it filled with the snuff. When at Newcastle he called upon the draper, but was met, as usual, with the remark, “Quite full, quite full, sir.” “Well,” said Mr. Moore, “I scarcely expected an order, but I called upon you for a reference.” “Oh, by all means.” In the course of conversation George took out his snuff-box, took a pinch, and put if in his pocket. After a short interval228 he took it out again, took another pinch, and said, “I suppose you are not guilty of this bad habit?” “Sometimes,” said the draper. George handed him the box; he took a pinch with zest229, and said through the snuff, “Well, that’s very fine.” George had him now. He said, “Let me present you with the box; I have plenty more.” The draper accepted the box; no order was asked, but the next time George called upon him he got his first order. No wonder Moore succeeded; and it was well he did. Times were bad; and it was his opinion, that had he been laid up for three months the firm would have stopped payment. At the end of three years Moore was made equal as a partner with the rest.
In 1840, after one refusal, Moore led his first love to the altar; and in 1841 he partially230 abandoned travelling; but the change from travelling to office-work at first materially told upon his health. To remedy this he took to fox-hunting, and went to America, partly on business and partly on pleasure. One of the results of his visit to the great republic, was the establishment of a branch of the firm at Nottingham, and the erection of a lace factory in that town. After this he became a director of the Commercial Travellers’ Benevolent Institution, and one of the most ardent supporters of the Cumberland Benevolent Society, and of the Commercial Travellers’ Schools. From the first he was the treasurer231 of the latter institution. His partners were glad to see him thus employed. They called them his safety-valves. His holidays were spent in Cumberland, a county p. 161for which his love was strong till the last, and to the schools of which he was ever a liberal contributor. Indeed, educational reform in that county may be said to be almost entirely232 due to him. In 1852, Mr. Moore was nominated by the Lord Mayor of London as Sheriff; but his time was so occupied that he paid the fine of £400 rather than serve. For the same reason, also, he declined to be an alderman, though twice pressed to fill that honourable233 post. He said, “I once thought that to be Sheriff of London, or Lord Mayor, would have been the height of my ambition; but now I have neither ambition nor the inclination to serve in either office. To men who have not gained a mercantile position, corporation honours are much sought after; but to those who have acquired a prominent place in commerce, such honours are not appreciated. At the same time, I am bound to say that I have always received the most marked courtesy and consideration from the corporation, even although I did not feel inclined to join it.” Dr. Smiles reprints this without note or comment; but surely it betrays a spirit not to be commended. Great city merchants might well be proud to serve in such a corporation as that of London, not as a stepping-stone for themselves, but as an honour of which the proudest may well be proud. As regards parliament, that is another matter. Mr. Moore always refused to be a candidate for parliamentary honours, on the plea that parliament should be composed of the best, wisest, and most highly educated men in the country. In this respect it is to be regretted that a large number of M.P.’s are not of Mr. Moore’s way of thinking. In politics it may be mentioned that Mr. Moore was a Moderate-Liberal, and a strong Free-Trader from the very first. He was an ardent admirer of Lord John Russell, and had much to do with his return for the City in 1857.
In 1854, Mr. Moore removed to his mansion234 in Kensington Palace Gardens. “Although,” he writes, “I had built the house at the solicitation235 of Mrs. Moore, I was mortified236 at my extravagance, and thought it both wicked and aggrandising, mere ostentation237 and vain show to build such a house. It was long before I felt at home in it, nor did it at all add to our happiness. I felt that I had acted foolishly. But, strange to say, a gentleman offered to take the house off my hands, and to give me 3,000 guineas profit. I made up my mind to accept this offer; but my dear wife had taken p. 162such an interest in the house that we could not decide to sell it.” He accordingly declined the offer. But the house-warming was at any rate characteristic. He determined that the young men and women should be the first guests, and accordingly they were, to the number of 300. A second ball was given to all the porters and their wives, the drivers, and the female servants, to the number of about 200. Afterwards they had, at different times, about 800 of their friends and acquaintances to dinner. But this was abandoned. “Happiness,” wrote Mr. Moore, “does not flow in such a channel. Promiscuous238 company takes one’s mind away from God and His dealings with men, and there is no lasting239 pleasure in the excitement.” Mrs. Moore did not long enjoy her new home; she died in 1858. At that time Mr. Moore had become a decidedly religious man. He had a serious illness in 1850, which seems to have had great effect, and more than ever he gave himself up to philanthropic work—such as aiding in the establishment of a Reformatory for Discharged Prisoners, of the Royal Hospital for Incurables240, of the London General Porters’ Benevolent Association, and the Warehousemen and Clerks’ School, &c., &c. At Kilburn he said, “If the world only knew half the happiness that a man has in doing good, he would do a great deal more.” George Moore lived under the increasing consciousness of this every year. He wrote in his pocket-book:—
“What I spent I had,
What I saved I lost,
What I gave I have.”
At this time, Mr. Moore seems to have made special efforts for the spiritual improvement of the young men and women in his employment in London, and to have retained the services of the Rev69. Thomas Richardson as chaplain. And then, as was natural, his thoughts reverted241 to his native county of Cumberland, for which already he had done so much, and for which he felt inclined to do much more on his becoming the purchaser of the Whitehall estate, very near the parish of Mealsgate, in which he was born.
Mr. Moore was a great beggar as well as a great giver. With his friends he was often very abrupt242. When he entered their offices they knew what he was about—they saw it in his face. “What is it now, Mr. Moore?” “Well, I am p. 163on a begging expedition.” “Oh, I knew that very well. What is it?” “It’s for the Royal Free Hospital, an hospital free to all without any letters of recommendation; I want twenty guineas.” “It is a large sum.” “Well, it is the sum I have set down for you to give; you must help me. Look sharp!” The cheque was got, and away he started on a fresh expedition. Sometimes, however, he met with rebuff after rebuff from men rolling in wealth, who had never given a farthing to a charitable institution. This sickened him for the day. However, he would say, “I must not be discouraged. I am doing Christ’s work.” In another way Mr. Moore was specially195 helpful. He was the constant resort of young men wanting situations. If he could not provide for them in his own warehouse, he endeavoured to find situations for them among his friends. He took no end of trouble about this business. After his young friends had obtained situations he continued to look after them. He took down their names and addresses in a special red book kept for the purpose, and repeatedly asked them to dine with him on Sunday afternoons. He usually requested that they should go to some church or chapel243 in the evening. In his diary are repeatedly such entries as the following; “Dined twenty-two of the boys that I had got situations for, besides the people that were staying in the house. I never forget that I had none to invite me to their homes when I first came to London.” How much good such kindness did it is impossible to tell; for the want of it many a young man in the City goes to the bad.
Mr. Moore’s second marriage, in 1881, seems rather to have increased than diminished his philanthropic zeal244. A wedding trip of two months in Italy and elsewhere was but a brief interval of holiday, to be followed by still harder work in the cause of his Lord and Master; and then came an illness which rendered necessary for him more rest of brain and more healthy exercise for his body. In his knowledge of London he was unrivalled. He knew it by night as well as by day. Many a time he went down to St. George’s in the East and to Wapping to look after the poor. He accompanied the City missionaries245 into the lowest dens39; and as he felt that the only way of reformation was to get at the children, we cannot be surprised to learn that in 1866 he became treasurer of the Field Lane Ragged School, an institution p. 164at that time sorely in need of pecuniary help. But his happiest days were those he spent at his Border tower at Cumberland. There the house was always full of visitors, and there the poor were equally welcome as the rich. There also, he loved to act the part of a distinguished agriculturist and to preside at cattle shows. His guests were very varied246, and included bishops247, Scripture-readers, warehousemen, farmers, City missionaries, Sunday-school children, pensioners248, and statesmen. He rejoiced in hunting; but all the while he looked after the homes of the poor, and battled with the immorality249 which exists quite as much in the country as in town.
Mr. Moore was a great lover of the Bible, and distributed it by the thousand, far and near. He always insisted on its being read in schools. When the Middle-class schools were established in London, he offered a thousand pounds on condition that the Bible was read there; but he refused to give it till he found that actually such was the case. In the case of Christ’s Hospital, after Dr. Jacob’s sermon on the institution, he became an ardent reformer. As prime warden250 of the Fishmongers’, he distinguished himself by the vigour251 of his speeches. When Paris was in want, and its people destitute252 of bread, he flew to their relief; and no man was more active in giving relief for the destitute when the Northfleet was sunk. In 1872, he was proud to be the high sheriff of his native county. Among his last public works was to give a supper to the cabmen of London, and to attend the funeral of Dr. Livingstone. And he died as he lived—engaged in works of mercy. In November, 1876, he left his grand mansion in Cumberland to attend a meeting of the Nurses’ Institute in Carlisle. While he was standing opposite the Grey Coat Inn, two runaway253 horses, which had escaped from a livery stable, came galloping254 up. One of them knocked Mr. Moore down. He was taken up insensible. Sir William Gull255 was sent for; but from the first there was no chance, and in twenty hours he was dead. Great was the sorrow felt everywhere, and in London and Carlisle public meetings were held for a George Moore memorial fund. At that in London the Archbishop of Canterbury presided, and Mr. Samuel Morley was one of the speakers.
Friend of the church as he was at all times, and especially attached to the Evangelical clergy256, in one thing he p. 165differed from them. “The parsons,” he once said to a meeting of children at Wigton, “will tell you a good deal about money. They will tell you that it is the root of all evil; but my opinion is that it is a good thing to make plenty of money, provided you make a proper use of it.” Such was George Moore, and such were his views and works. We owe to Dr. Smiles a biography of him, which is as interesting and instructive as could well be imagined. It should be read by all City young men; it should be in every City library. The character therein portrayed257 ought to be studied, and revered258, and imitated in every home. Few of us can expect to realise his wealth, but his example is one to be held up to every City man.
“People who believe,” says a writer in the Daily News, “that genius is great natural power accidentally directed, may think that the career of the late Mr. George Moore justifies259 the well-known definition. Mr. Moore’s name was very well known, not in England only, but on the continent, by every one who was labouring to lighten the misery of the poor. The philanthropic schemes to which he gave the aid of his energy, his knowledge of men and of life, and his money, were too many to be numbered here. The French, in particular, cherish a grateful memory of his benevolent activity, of the help he extended to the victims in the war of 1870. To many who only heard of Mr. Moore in his later life, and in the full tide of his helpfulness and prosperity, it may have been unknown that he was the maker of the fortune which he distributed with a generous hand. The biography of him by Mr. Smiles, which has just been published, is a very interesting account of a career which began in a humble though honourable estate, and ended by a singular accident in the northern town where it may be said to have begun. The history of ‘Self-Help’ is not invariably edifying260. The chief end of man, after all, is not to get on in the world, to make a great deal of money, and to have paragraphs devoted261 to his glory. This is so far from being the case that one has even to overcome a slight natural prejudice against the strength which displays itself mainly in the acquisition of a fortune. In almost every rank of life leisure has its charms and good gifts, which a man who never takes rest must miss. The subject of Mr. Smiles’s book escapes from the vulgar renown262 of the self-made by his unselfishness. p. 166His energy, his ceaseless labours in his early life, were not the manifestations263 of a desire for wealth and for advancement264, but the natural expression of immense natural strength of mind and body. When success was secured, the same vigour spent itself in work for other people—for the poor, the weak, the helpless, the ignorant. Mr. Moore might have devoted himself to the joys of the collector, of the sportsman, of the ambitious parvenu265. Instead of doing so, he made amusement and enjoyment266 subordinate to work for the benefit of others. He had not the hardness and narrowness of people whose career has been one of victory over the natural pleasures and innocent impulses of an indolent race. ‘I don’t think I ever came across any other self-made man who had so entirely got the chill of poverty out of his bones,’ Dr. Percival wrote to Mr. Smiles. His geniality267 and unselfishness soften268 the edges of his iron will and determination. People may think that so much of the material and force that make greatness, might have been better employed in work of a nobler tone—in science, literature, law, or art. Mr. Moore took the only career that was open to him, the career that was most distinctly in contrast with the pastoral life to which he was bred. He had no education in his youth, none lay within his reach in the Cumbrian valley where he was born. With the chances of Dr. Whewell he might have been a Whewell. With an opening in the East, he might have been, if not a Clive, a Meadows Taylor. As it happened, the choice lay between the existence of a farm labourer and that of a tradesman.”
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1
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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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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legislate
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| vt.制定法律；n.法规，律例；立法 | |
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disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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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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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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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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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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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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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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34
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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43
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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44
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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47
tautology
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| n.无谓的重复；恒真命题 | |
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48
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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49
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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50
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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51
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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52
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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53
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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54
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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55
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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56
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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57
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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58
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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59
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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60
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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61
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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62
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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63
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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defalcation
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| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
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functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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66
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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67
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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69
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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70
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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71
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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72
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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75
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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77
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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78
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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81
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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82
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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87
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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88
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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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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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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100
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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101
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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104
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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105
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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106
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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107
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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108
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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109
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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110
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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111
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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112
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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113
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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114
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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115
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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116
rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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117
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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118
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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119
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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120
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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121
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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122
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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123
abutting
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| adj.邻接的v.（与…）邻接( abut的现在分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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124
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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125
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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126
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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127
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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128
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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129
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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130
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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131
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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132
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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133
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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134
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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135
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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136
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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137
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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138
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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140
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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141
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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142
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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143
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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144
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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145
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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146
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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147
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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148
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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149
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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150
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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151
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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152
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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153
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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154
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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155
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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156
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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157
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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158
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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159
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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160
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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161
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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163
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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164
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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165
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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166
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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167
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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168
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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169
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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171
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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172
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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173
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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174
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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175
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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176
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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177
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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178
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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179
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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180
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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181
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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182
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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183
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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184
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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185
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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186
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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187
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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188
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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189
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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190
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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191
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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192
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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193
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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194
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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195
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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196
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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197
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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198
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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199
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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200
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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201
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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202
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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203
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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204
wagers
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| n.赌注，用钱打赌( wager的名词复数 )v.在（某物）上赌钱，打赌( wager的第三人称单数 )；保证，担保 | |
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205
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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206
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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207
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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208
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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209
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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210
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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211
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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212
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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214
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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215
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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216
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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217
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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218
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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219
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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220
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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221
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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222
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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223
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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224
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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225
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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226
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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227
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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228
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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229
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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230
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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231
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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232
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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233
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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234
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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235
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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236
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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237
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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238
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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239
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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240
incurables
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| 无法治愈，不可救药( incurable的名词复数 ) | |
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241
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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242
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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243
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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244
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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245
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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246
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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247
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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248
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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249
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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250
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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251
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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252
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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253
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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254
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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255
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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256
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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257
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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258
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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259
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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260
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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261
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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262
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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263
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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264
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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265
parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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266
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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267
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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268
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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