“The Small House at Allington,” “Can You Forgive Her?” “Rachel Ray,” And the “Fortnightly Review”
During the early months of 1862 Orley Farm was still being brought out in numbers, and at the same time Brown, Jones and Robinson was appearing in the Cornhill Magazine. In September, 1862, the Small House at Allington began its career in the same periodical. The work on North America had also come out in 1862. In August, 1863, the first number of Can You Forgive Her? was published as a separate serial1, and was continued through 1864. In 1863 a short novel was produced in the ordinary volume form, called Rachel Ray. In addition to these I published during the time two volumes of stories called The Tales of all Countries. In the early spring of 1865 Miss Mackenzie was issued in the same form as Rachel Ray; and in May of the same year The Belton Estate was commenced with the commencement of the Fortnightly Review, of which periodical I will say a few words in this chapter.
I quite admit that I crowded my wares2 into the market too quickly — because the reading world could not want such a quantity of matter from the hands of one author in so short a space of time. I had not been quite so fertile as the unfortunate gentleman who disgusted the publisher in Paternoster Row — in the story of whose productiveness I have always thought there was a touch of romance — but I had probably done enough to make both publishers and readers think that I was coming too often beneath their notice. Of publishers, however, I must speak collectively, as my sins were, I think, chiefly due to the encouragement which I received from them individually. What I wrote for the Cornhill Magazine, I always wrote at the instigation of Mr. Smith. My other works were published by Messrs. Chapman & Hall, in compliance3 with contracts made by me with them, and always made with their good-will. Could I have been two separate persons at one and the same time, of whom one might have been devoted4 to Cornhill and the other to the interests of the firm in Piccadilly, it might have been very well — but as I preserved my identity in both places, I myself became aware that my name was too frequent on titlepages.
Critics, if they ever trouble themselves with these pages, will, of course, say that in what I have now said I have ignored altogether the one great evil of rapid production — namely, that of inferior work. And of course if the work was inferior because of the too great rapidity of production, the critics would be right. Giving to the subject the best of my critical abilities, and judging of my own work as nearly as possible as I would that of another, I believe that the work which has been done quickest has been done the best. I have composed better stories — that is, have created better plots — than those of The Small House at Allington and Can You Forgive Her? and I have portrayed5 two or three better characters than are to be found in the pages of either of them; but taking these books all through, I do not think that I have ever done better work. Nor would these have been improved by any effort in the art of story telling, had each of these been the isolated6 labour of a couple of years. How short is the time devoted to the manipulation of a plot can be known only to those who have written plays and novels; I may say also, how very little time the brain is able to devote to such wearing work. There are usually some hours of agonising doubt, almost of despair — so at least it has been with me — or perhaps some days. And then, with nothing settled in my brain as to the final development of events, with no capability7 of settling anything, but with a most distinct conception of some character or characters, I have rushed at the work as a rider rushes at a fence which he does not see. Sometimes I have encountered what, in hunting language, we call a cropper. I had such a fall in two novels of mine, of which I have already spoken — The Bertrams and Castle Richmond. I shall have to speak of other such troubles. But these failures have not arisen from over-hurried work. When my work has been quicker done — and it has sometimes been done very quickly — the rapidity has been achieved by hot pressure, not in the conception, but in the telling of the story. Instead of writing eight pages a day, I have written sixteen; instead of working five days a week, I have worked seven. I have trebled my usual average, and have done so in circumstances which have enabled me to give up all my thoughts for the time to the book I have been writing. This has generally been done at some quiet spot among the mountains — where there has been no society, no hunting, no whist, no ordinary household duties. And I am sure that the work so done has had in it the best truth and the highest spirit that I have been able to produce. At such times I have been able to imbue8 myself thoroughly9 with the characters I have had in hand. I have wandered alone among the rocks and woods, crying at their grief, laughing at their absurdities10, and thoroughly enjoying their joy. I have been impregnated with my own creations till it has been my only excitement to sit with the pen in my hand, and drive my team before me at as quick a pace as I could make them travel.
The critics will again say that all this may be very well as to the rough work of the author’s own brain, but it will be very far from well in reference to the style in which that work has been given to the public. After all, the vehicle which a writer uses for conveying his thoughts to the public should not be less important to him than the thoughts themselves. An author can hardly hope to be popular unless he can use popular language. That is quite true; but then comes the question of achieving a popular — in other words, I may say, a good and lucid11 style. How may an author best acquire a mode of writing which shall be agreeable and easily intelligible12 to the reader? He must be correct, because without correctness he can be neither agreeable nor intelligible. Readers will expect him to obey those rules which they, consciously or unconsciously, have been taught to regard as binding13 on language; and unless he does obey them, he will disgust. Without much labour, no writer will achieve such a style. He has very much to learn; and, when he has learned that much, he has to acquire the habit of using what he has learned with ease. But all this must be learned and acquired — not while he is writing that which shall please, but long before. His language must come from him as music comes from the rapid touch of the great performer’s fingers; as words come from the mouth of the indignant orator14; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained compositor; as the syllables15 tinkled16 out by little bells form themselves to the ear of the telegraphist. A man who thinks much of his words as he writes them will generally leave behind him work that smells of oil. I speak here, of course, of prose; for in poetry we know what care is necessary, and we form our taste accordingly.
Rapid writing will no doubt give rise to inaccuracy — chiefly because the ear, quick and true as may be its operation, will occasionally break down under pressure, and, before a sentence be closed, will forget the nature of the composition with which it was commenced. A singular nominative will be disgraced by a plural17 verb, because other pluralities have intervened and have tempted18 the ear into plural tendencies. Tautologies19 will occur, because the ear, in demanding fresh emphasis, has forgotten that the desired force has been already expressed. I need not multiply these causes of error, which must have been stumbling-blocks indeed when men wrote in the long sentences of Gibbon, but which Macaulay, with his multiplicity of divisions, has done so much to enable us to avoid. A rapid writer will hardly avoid these errors altogether. Speaking of myself, I am ready to declare that, with much training, I have been unable to avoid them. But the writer for the press is rarely called upon — a writer of books should never be called upon — to send his manuscript hot from his hand to the printer. It has been my practice to read everything four times at least — thrice in manuscript and once in print. Very much of my work I have read twice in print. In spite of this I know that inaccuracies have crept through — not single spies, but in battalions20. From this I gather that the supervision21 has been insufficient22, not that the work itself has been done too fast. I am quite sure that those passages which have been written with the greatest stress of labour, and consequently with the greatest haste, have been the most effective and by no means the most inaccurate23.
The Small House at Allington redeemed24 my reputation with the spirited proprietor25 of the Cornhill, which must, I should think, have been damaged by Brown, Jones, and Robinson. In it appeared Lily Dale, one of the characters which readers of my novels have liked the best. In the love with which she has been greeted I have hardly joined with much enthusiasm, feeling that she is somewhat of a French prig. She became first engaged to a snob26, who jilted her; and then, though in truth she loved another man who was hardly good enough, she could not extricate27 herself sufficiently28 from the collapse29 of her first great misfortune to be able to make up her mind to be the wife of one whom, though she loved him, she did not altogether reverence31. Prig as she was, she made her way into the hearts of many readers, both young and old; so that, from that time to this, I have been continually honoured with letters, the purport32 of which has always been to beg me to marry Lily Dale to Johnny Eames. Had I done so, however, Lily would never have so endeared herself to these people as to induce them to write letters to the author concerning her fate. It was because she could not get over her troubles that they loved her. Outside Lily Dale and the chief interest of the novel, The Small House at Allington is, I think, good. The De Courcy family are alive, as is also Sir Raffle33 Buffle, who is a hero of the Civil Service. Sir Raffle was intended to represent a type, not a man; but the man for the picture was soon chosen, and I was often assured that the portrait was very like. I have never seen the gentleman with whom I am supposed to have taken the liberty. There is also an old squire34 down at Allington, whose life as a country gentleman with rather straitened means is, I think, well described.
Of Can you Forgive Her? I cannot speak with too great affection, though I do not know that of itself it did very much to increase my reputation. As regards the story, it was formed chiefly on that of the play which my friend Mr. Bartley had rejected long since, the circumstances of which the reader may perhaps remember. The play had been called The Noble Jilt; but I was afraid of the name for a novel, lest the critics might throw a doubt on the nobility. There was more of tentative humility35 in that which I at last adopted. The character of the girl is carried through with considerable strength, but is not attractive. The humorous characters, which are also taken from the play — a buxom36 widow who with her eyes open chooses the most scampish of two selfish suitors because he is the better looking — are well done. Mrs. Greenow, between Captain Bellfield and Mr. Cheeseacre, is very good fun — as far as the fun of novels is. But that which endears the book to me is the first presentation which I made in it of Plantagenet Palliser, with his wife, Lady Glencora.
By no amount of description or asseveration could I succeed in making any reader understand how much these characters with their belongings37 have been to me in my latter life; or how frequently I have used them for the expression of my political or social convictions. They have been as real to me as free trade was to Mr. Cobden, or the dominion38 of a party to Mr. Disraeli; and as I have not been able to speak from the benches of the House of Commons, or to thunder from platforms, or to be efficacious as a lecturer, they have served me as safety-valves by which to deliver my soul. Mr. Plantagenet Palliser had appeared in The Small House at Allington, but his birth had not been accompanied by many hopes. In the last pages of that novel he is made to seek a remedy for a foolish false step in life by marrying the grand heiress of the day — but the personage of the great heiress does not appear till she comes on the scene as a married woman in Can You Forgive Her? He is the nephew and heir to a duke — the Duke of Omnium — who was first introduced in Doctor Thorne, and afterwards in Framley Parsonage, and who is one of the belongings of whom I have spoken. In these personages and their friends, political and social, I have endeavoured to depict39 the faults and frailties40 and vices41 — as also the virtues42, the graces, and the strength of our highest classes; and if I have not made the strength and virtues predominant over the faults and vices, I have not painted the picture as I intended. Plantagenet Palliser I think to be a very noble gentleman — such a one as justifies43 to the nation the seeming anomaly of an hereditary44 peerage and of primogeniture. His wife is in all respects very inferior to him; but she, too, has, or has been intended to have, beneath the thin stratum45 of her follies46 a basis of good principle, which enabled her to live down the conviction of the original wrong which was done to her, and taught her to endeavour to do her duty in the position to which she was called. She had received a great wrong — having been made, when little more than a child, to marry a man for whom she cared nothing — when, however, though she was little more than a child, her love had been given elsewhere. She had very heavy troubles, but they did not overcome her.
As to the heaviest of these troubles, I will say a word in vindication47 of myself and of the way I handled it in my work. In the pages of Can You Forgive Her? the girl’s first love is introduced — beautiful, well-born, and utterly48 worthless. To save a girl from wasting herself, and an heiress from wasting her property on such a scamp, was certainly the duty of the girl’s friends. But it must ever be wrong to force a girl into a marriage with a man she does not love — and certainly the more so when there is another whom she does love. In my endeavour to teach this lesson I subjected the young wife to the terrible danger of overtures49 from the man to whom her heart had been given. I was walking no doubt on ticklish50 ground, leaving for a while a doubt on the question whether the lover might or might not succeed. Then there came to me a letter from a distinguished51 dignitary of our Church, a man whom all men honoured, treating me with severity for what I was doing. It had been one of the innocent joys of his life, said the clergyman, to have my novels read to him by his daughters. But now I was writing a book which caused him to bid them close it! Must I also turn away to vicious sensation such as this? Did I think that a wife contemplating52 adultery was a character fit for my pages? I asked him in return, whether from his pulpit, or at any rate from his communion-table, he did not denounce adultery to his audience; and if so, why should it not be open to me to preach the same doctrine53 to mine. I made known nothing which the purest girl could not but have learned, and ought not to have learned, elsewhere, and I certainly lent no attraction to the sin which I indicated. His rejoinder was full of grace, and enabled him to avoid the annoyance54 of argumentation without abandoning his cause. He said that the subject was so much too long for letters; that he hoped I would go and stay a week with him in the country — so that we might have it out. That opportunity, however, has never yet arrived.
Lady Glencora overcomes that trouble, and is brought, partly by her own sense of right and wrong, and partly by the genuine nobility of her husband’s conduct, to attach herself to him after a certain fashion. The romance of her life is gone, but there remains55 a rich reality of which she is fully56 able to taste the flavour. She loves her rank and becomes ambitious, first of social, and then of political ascendancy57. He is thoroughly true to her, after his thorough nature, and she, after her less perfect nature, is imperfectly true to him.
In conducting these characters from one story to another I realised the necessity, not only of consistency58 — which, had it been maintained by a hard exactitude, would have been untrue to nature — but also of those changes which time always produces. There, are, perhaps, but few of us who, after the lapse30 of ten years, will be found to have changed our chief characteristics. The selfish man will still be selfish, and the false man false. But our manner of showing or of hiding these characteristics will be changed — as also our power of adding to or diminishing their intensity59. It was my study that these people, as they grew in years, should encounter the changes which come upon us all; and I think that I have succeeded. The Duchess of Omnium, when she is playing the part of Prime Minister’s wife, is the same woman as that Lady Glencora who almost longs to go off with Burgo Fitzgerald, but yet knows that she will never do so; and the Prime Minister Duke, with his wounded pride and sore spirit, is he who, for his wife’s sake, left power and place when they were first offered to him — but they have undergone the changes which a life so stirring as theirs would naturally produce. To do all this thoroughly was in my heart from first to last; but I do not know that the game has been worth the candle.
To carry out my scheme I have had to spread my picture over so wide a canvas that I cannot expect that any lover of such art should trouble himself to look at it as a whole. Who will read Can You Forgive Her? Phineas Finn, Phineas Redux, and The Prime Minister consecutively60, in order that they may understand the characters of the Duke of Omnium, of Plantagenet Palliser, and of Lady Glencora? Who will ever know that they should be so read? But in the performance of the work I had much gratification, and was enabled from time to time to have in this way that fling at the political doings of the day which every man likes to take, if not in one fashion then in another. I look upon this string of characters — carried sometimes into other novels than those just named — as the best work of my life. Taking him altogether, I think that Plantagenet Palliser stands more firmly on the ground than any other personage I have created.
On Christmas day, 1863, we were startled by the news of Thackeray’s death. He had then for many months given up the editorship of the Cornhill Magazine — a position for which he was hardly fitted either by his habits or temperament61 — but was still employed in writing for its pages. I had known him only for four years, but had grown into much intimacy62 with him and his family. I regard him as one of the most tender-hearted human beings I ever knew, who, with an exaggerated contempt for the foibles of the world at large, would entertain an almost equally exaggerated sympathy with the joys and troubles of individuals around him. He had been unfortunate in early life — unfortunate in regard to money — unfortunate with an afflicted63 wife — unfortunate in having his home broken up before his children were fit to be his companions. This threw him too much upon clubs, and taught him to dislike general society. But it never affected64 his heart, or clouded his imagination. He could still revel65 in the pangs66 and joys of fictitious67 life, and could still feel — as he did to the very last — the duty of showing to his readers the evil consequences of evil conduct. It was perhaps his chief fault as a writer that he could never abstain68 from that dash of satire69 which he felt to be demanded by the weaknesses which he saw around him. The satirist70 who writes nothing but satire should write but little — or it will seem that his satire springs rather from his own caustic71 nature than from the sins of the world in which he lives. I myself regard Esmond as the greatest novel in the English language, basing that judgment72 upon the excellence73 of its language, on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of its delineations in regard to the tine selected, and on its great pathos74. There are also in it a few scenes so told that even Scott has never equalled the telling. Let any one who doubts this read the passage in which Lady Castlewood induces the Duke of Hamilton to think that his nuptials75 with Beatrice will be honoured if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. When he went from us he left behind living novelists with great names; but I think that they who best understood the matter felt that the greatest master of fiction of this age had gone.
Rachel Ray underwent a fate which no other novel of mine has encountered. Some years before this a periodical called Good Words had been established under the editorship of my friend Dr. Norman Macleod, a well-known Presbyterian pastor76 in Glasgow. In 1863 he asked me to write a novel for his magazine, explaining to me that his principles did not teach him to confine his matter to religious subjects, and paying me the compliment of saying that he would feel himself quite safe in my hands. In reply I told him I thought he was wrong in his choice; that though he might wish to give a novel to the readers of Good Words, a novel from me would hardly be what he wanted, and that I could not undertake to write either with any specially77 religious tendency, or in any fashion different from that which was usual to me. As worldly and — if any one thought me wicked — as wicked as I had heretofore been, I must still be, should I write for Good Words. He persisted in his request, and I came to terms as to a story for the periodical. I wrote it and sent it to him, and shortly afterwards received it back — a considerable portion having been printed — with an intimation that it would not do. A letter more full of wailing78 and repentance79 no man ever wrote. It was, he said, all his own fault. He should have taken my advice. He should have known better. But the story, such as it was, he could not give to his readers in the pages of Good Words. Would I forgive him? Any pecuniary80 loss to which his decision might subject me the owner of the publication would willingly make good. There was some loss — or rather would have been — and that money I exacted, feeling that the fault had in truth been with the editor. There is the tale now to speak for itself. It is not brilliant nor in any way very excellent; but it certainly is not very wicked. There is some dancing in one of the early chapters, described, no doubt, with that approval of the amusement which I have always entertained; and it was this to which my friend demurred81. It is more true of novels than perhaps of anything else, that one man’s food is another man’s poison.
Miss Mackenzie was written with a desire to prove that a novel may be produced without any love; but even in this attempt it breaks down before the conclusion. In order that I might be strong in my purpose, I took for my heroine a very unattractive old maid, who was overwhelmed with money troubles; but even she was in love before the end of the book, and made a romantic marriage with an old man. There is in this story an attack upon charitable bazaars82, made with a violence which will, I think, convince any reader that such attempts at raising money were at the time very odious83 to me. I beg to say that since that I have had no occasion to alter my opinion. Miss Mackenzie was published in the early spring of 1865.
At the same time I was engaged with others in establishing a periodical Review, in which some of us trusted much, and from which we expected great things. There was, however, in truth so little combination of idea among us, that we were not justified84 in our trust or in our expectations. And yet we were honest in our purpose, and have, I think, done some good by our honesty. The matter on which we were all agreed was freedom of speech, combined with personal responsibility. We would be neither conservative nor liberal, neither religious nor free-thinking, neither popular nor exclusive — but we would let any man who had a thing to say, and knew how to say it, speak freely. But he should always speak with the responsibility of his name attached. In the very beginning I militated against this impossible negation85 of principles — and did so most irrationally86, seeing that I had agreed to the negation of principles — by declaring that nothing should appear denying or questioning the divinity of Christ. It was a most preposterous87 claim to make for such a publication as we proposed, and it at once drove from us one or two who had proposed to join us. But we went on, and our company — limited — was formed. We subscribed88, I think, ￡1250 each. I at least subscribed that amount, and — having agreed to bring out our publication every fortnight, after the manner of the well-known French publication — we called it The Fortnightly. We secured the services of G. H. Lewes as our editor. We agreed to manage our finances by a Board, which was to meet once a fortnight, and of which I was the Chairman. And we determined89 that the payments for our literature should be made on a liberal and strictly90 ready-money system. We carried out our principles till our money was all gone, and then we sold the copyright to Messrs. Chapman & Hall for a trifle. But before we parted with our property we found that a fortnightly issue was not popular with the trade through whose hands the work must reach the public; and, as our periodical had not become sufficiently popular itself to bear down such opposition91, we succumbed92, and brought it out once a month. Still it was The Fortnightly, and still it is The Fortnightly. Of all the serial publications of the day, it probably is the most serious, the most earnest, the least devoted to amusement, the least flippant, the least jocose93 — and yet it has the face to show itself month after month to the world, with so absurd a misnomer94! It is, as all who know the laws of modern literature are aware, a very serious thing to change the name of a periodical. By doing so you begin an altogether new enterprise. Therefore should the name be well chosen — whereas this was very ill chosen, a fault for which I alone was responsible.
That theory of eclecticism95 was altogether impracticable. It was as though a gentleman should go into the House of Commons determined to support no party, but to serve his country by individual utterances96. Such gentlemen have gone into the House of Commons, but they have not served their country much. Of course the project broke down. Liberalism, freethinking, and open inquiry97 will never object to appear in company with their opposites, because they have the conceit98 to think that they can quell99 those opposites; but the opposites will not appear in conjunction with liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. As a natural consequence, our new publication became an organ of liberalism, free-thinking, and open inquiry. The result has been good; and though there is much in the now established principles of The Fortnightly with which I do not myself agree, I may safely say that the publication has assured an individuality, and asserted for itself a position in our periodical literature, which is well understood and highly respected.
As to myself and my own hopes in the matter — I was craving100 after some increase in literary honesty, which I think is still desirable but which is hardly to be attained101 by the means which then recommended themselves to me. In one of the early numbers I wrote a paper advocating the signature of the authors to periodical writing, admitting that the system should not be extended to journalistic articles on political subjects. I think that I made the best of my case; but further consideration has caused me to doubt whether the reasons which induced me to make an exception in favour of political writing do not extend themselves also to writing on other subjects. Much of the literary criticism which we now have is very bad indeed —. so bad as to be open to the charge both of dishonesty and incapacity. Books are criticised without being read — are criticised by favour — and are trusted by editors to the criticism of the incompetent102. If the names of the critics were demanded, editors would be more careful. But I fear the effect would be that we should get but little criticism, and that the public would put but little trust in that little. An ordinary reader would not care to have his books recommended to him by Jones; but the recommendation of the great unknown comes to him with all the weight of the Times, the Spectator, or the Saturday.
Though I admit so much, I am not a recreant103 from the doctrine I then preached. I think that the name of the author does tend to honesty, and that the knowledge that it will be inserted adds much to the author’s industry and care. It debars him also from illegitimate license104 and dishonest assertions. A man should never be ashamed to acknowledge that which he is not ashamed to publish. In The Fortnightly everything has been signed, and in this way good has, I think, been done. Signatures to articles in other periodicals have become much more common since The Fortnightly was commenced.
After a time Mr. Lewes retired105 from the editorship, feeling that the work pressed too severely106 on his moderate strength. Our loss in him was very great, and there was considerable difficulty in finding a successor. I must say that the present proprietor has been fortunate in the choice he did make. Mr. John Morley has done the work with admirable patience, zeal107, and capacity. Of course he has got around him a set of contributors whose modes of thought are what we may call much advanced; he being “much advanced” himself, would not work with other aids. The periodical has a peculiar108 tone of its own; but it holds its own with ability, and though there are many who perhaps hate it, there are none who despise it. When the company sold it, having spent about ￡9000 on it, it was worth little or nothing. Now I believe it to be a good property.
My own last personal concern with it was on a matter, of fox-hunting. 9 There came out in it an article from the pen of Mr. Freeman the historian, condemning109 the amusement, which I love, on the grounds of cruelty and general brutality110. Was it possible, asked Mr. Freeman, quoting from Cicero, that any educated man should find delight in so coarse a pursuit? Always bearing in mind my own connection with The Fortnightly, I regarded this almost as a rising of a child against the father. I felt at any rate bound to answer Mr. Freeman in the same columns, and I obtained Mr. Morley’s permission to do so. I wrote my defence of fox-hunting, and there it is. In regard to the charge of cruelty, Mr. Freeman seems to assert that nothing unpleasant should be done to any of God’s creatures except f or a useful purpose. The protection of a lady’s shoulders from the cold is a useful purpose; and therefore a dozen fur-bearing animals may be snared111 in the snow and left to starve to death in the wires, in order that the lady may have the tippet — though a tippet of wool would serve the purpose as well as a tippet of fur. But the congregation and healthful amusement of one or two hundred persons, on whose behalf a single fox may or may not be killed, is not a useful purpose. I think that Mr. Freeman has failed to perceive that amusement is as needful and almost as necessary as food and raiment. The absurdity112 of the further charge as to the general brutality of the pursuit, and its consequent unfitness for an educated man, is to be attributed to Mr. Freeman’s ignorance of what is really done and said in the hunting-field — perhaps to his misunderstanding of Cicero’s words. There was a rejoinder to my answer, and I asked for space for further remarks. I could have it, the editor said, if I much wished it; but he preferred that the subject should be closed. Of course I was silent. His sympathies were all with Mr. Freeman — and against the foxes, who, but for fox-hunting, would cease to exist in England. And I felt that The Fortnighty was hardly the place for the defence of the sport. Afterwards Mr. Freeman kindly113 suggested to me that he would be glad to publish my article in a little book to be put out by him condemnatory114 of fox-hunting generally. He was to have the last word and the first word, and that power of picking to pieces which he is known to use in so masterly a manner, without any reply from me! This I was obliged to decline. If he would give me the last word, as be would have the first, then, I told him, I should be proud to join him in the book. This offer did not however meet his views.
9 I have written various articles for it since, especially two on Cicero, to which I devoted great labour.
It had been decided115 by the Board of Management, somewhat in opposition to my own ideas on the subject, that the Fortnightly Review should always contain a novel. It was of course natural that I should write the first novel, and I wrote The Belton Estate. It is similar in its attributes to Rachel Ray and to Miss Mackenzie. It is readable, and contains scenes which are true to life; but it has no peculiar merits, and will add nothing to my reputation as a novelist. I have not looked at it since it was published; and now turning back to it in my memory, I seem to remember almost less of it than of any book that I have written.
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wares
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compliance
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devoted
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portrayed
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isolated
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capability
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thoroughly
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absurdities
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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17
plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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tautologies
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| n.同义反复，赘述( tautology的名词复数 )；恒真命题 | |
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battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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22
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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26
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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27
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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28
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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29
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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30
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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34
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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35
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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36
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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41
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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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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47
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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48
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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50
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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53
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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54
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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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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57
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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58
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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61
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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62
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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65
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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66
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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67
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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68
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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69
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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71
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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72
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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73
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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74
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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75
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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76
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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77
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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78
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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79
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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80
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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81
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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83
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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84
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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85
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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86
irrationally
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| ad.不理性地 | |
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87
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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88
subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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91
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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92
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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93
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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94
misnomer
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| n.误称 | |
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95
eclecticism
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| n.折衷主义 | |
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96
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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97
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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98
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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99
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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100
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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101
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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102
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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103
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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104
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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105
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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106
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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107
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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108
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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109
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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110
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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111
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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113
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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114
condemnatory
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| adj. 非难的，处罚的 | |
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115
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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