But harder trials were in reserve for us. We missed the best of the many inns at Liskeard, and went to the very worst. What a place was our house of public entertainment for a great sinner to repent10 in, or for a melancholy11 recluse12 to retreat to! Not a human being appeared in the street where this tavern13 of despair frowned amid congenial desolation. Nobody welcomed us at the door — the sign creaked dolefully, as the wind swung it on its rusty hinges. We walked in, and discovered a low-spirited little man sitting at an empty “bar,” and hiding himself, as it were, from all mortal inspection14 behind the full sheet of a dirty provincial15 newspaper. Doleful was our petition to this secluded16 publican for shelter and food; and doubly doleful was his answer to our appeal. Beds he believed he had — food there was none in the house, saving a piece of corned beef, which the family had dined on, and which he proposed that we should partake of before it got quite cold. Having said thus much, he suddenly retired17 behind his newspaper, and spoke18 no word more.
In a few minutes the landlady19 appeared, looking very thin and care-worn, and clad in mourning weeds. She smiled sadly upon us; and desired to know how we liked corned beef? We acknowledged a preference for fresh meat, especially in large market towns like Liskeard, where butchers’ shops abounded20. The landlady was willing to see what she could get; and in the meantime, begged to be allowed to show us into a private room. She succeeded in incarcerating21 us in the most thoroughly22 private room that could be found out of a model prison. It was situated23 far away at the back of the house, and looked out upon a very small yard entirely24 circumscribed25 by empty stables. The one little window was shut down tight, and we were desired not to open it, for fear of a smell from these stables. The ornaments26 of the place consisted of hymn-books, spelling-books, and a china statue of Napoleon in a light green waistcoat and a sky-blue coat. There was not even a fly in the room to intrude27 on us in our privacy; there were no cocks and hens in the yard to cackle on us in our privacy; nobody walked past the outer passage, or made any noise in any part of the house, to startle us in our privacy; and a steady rain was falling propitiously28 to keep us in our privacy. We dined in our retired situation on some rugged29 lumps of broiled30 flesh, which the landlady called chops, and the servant steaks. We broke out of prison after dinner, and roamed the streets. We returned to solitary31 confinement32 in the evening, and were instantly conducted to another cell.
This second private apartment appeared to be about forty feet long; six immense wooden tables, painted of a ghastly yellow colour, were ranged down it side by side. Nothing was placed on any of them — they looked like dissecting-tables waiting for “subjects.” There was yet another and a seventh table — a round one, half lost in a corner, to which we retreated for refuge — it was covered with crape and bombazine, half made up into mourning garments proper to the first and intensest stage of grief. The servant brought us one small candle to cheer the scene; and desired to be informed whether we wanted two sheets apiece to our beds, or whether we could do with a sheet at top and a blanket at bottom, as other people did? This question cowed us at once into gloomy submission33 to our fate. We just hinted that we had contracted bad habits of sleeping between two sheets, and left the rest to chance; reckless how we slept, or where we slept, whether we passed the night on the top of one of the six dissecting-tables, or with a blanket at bottom, as other people passed it. Soon the servant returned to tell us that we had got our two sheets each, and to send us to bed — snatching up the landlady’s mourning garments, while she spoke, with a scared, suspicious look, as if she thought that the next outrageous35 luxury we should require would be a nightgown apiece of crape and bombazine.
Reflecting on our lamentable36 situation the last thing at night, we derived37 some consolation38 from remembering that we should leave our quarters early the next morning. It was not Liskeard that we had come to see, but the country around Liskeard — the famous curiosities of Nature and Art that are to be found some six or eight miles away from the town. Accordingly, we were astir betimes on the morrow. The sky was fair; the breeze was exhilarating. Once past the doleful doorway39 of the inn, we found ourselves departing under the fairest auspices40 for a pilgrimage to the ruins of St. Cleer’s Well, and to the granite41 piles and Druid remains42, now entitled the “Cheese–Wring” and “Hurler” rocks.
On leaving the town, our way lay to the northward44, up rising ground. For the first two miles, the scenery differed little from what we had already beheld45 in Cornwall. The lanes were still sunk down between high banks, like dry ditches; all varieties of ferns grew in exquisite46 beauty and luxuriance on either side of us; the trees were small in size, and thickly clothed with leaves; and the views were generally narrowed to a few well-cultivated fields, with sturdy little granite-built cottages now and then rising beyond. It was only when we had reached what must have been a considerable elevation47, that any change appeared in the face of the country. Five minutes more of walking, and a single turn in the road, brought us suddenly to the limits of trees, meadows, and cottages; and displayed before us, with almost startling abruptness49, the magnificent prospect50 of a Cornish Moor51.
The expanse of open plain that we now beheld stretched away uninterruptedly on the right hand, as far as the distant hills. Towards the left, the view was broken and varied52 by some rough stone walls, a narrow road, and a dip in the earth beyond. Wherever we looked, far or near, we saw masses of granite of all shapes and sizes, heaped irregularly on the ground among dark clusters of heath. An old furze-cutter was the only human figure that appeared on the desolate53 scene. Approaching him to ask our way to St. Cleer’s Well — no signs of which could be discerned on the wilderness54 before us — we found the old fellow, though he was eighty years of age, working away with all the vigour55 of youth. On this wild moor he had lived and laboured from childhood; and he began to talk proudly of its great length and breadth, and of the wonderful sights that were to be seen on different parts of it, the moment we addressed him. He described to us, in his own homely56 forcible way, the awful storms that he had beheld, the fearful rattling57 and roaring of thunder over the great unsheltered plain before us — the hail and sleet58 driven so fiercely before the hurricane, that a man was half-blinded if he turned his face towards it for a moment — the forked lightning shooting from pitch-dark clouds, leaping and running fearfully over the level ground, blackening, splitting, tearing from their places the stoutest59 rocks on the moor. Three masses of granite lay heaped together near the spot where we had halted — the furze-cutter pointed60 to them with his bill-hook, and told us that what we now looked on was once one great rock, which he had seen riven in an instant by the lightning into the fragmentary form that it now presented. If we mounted the highest of these three masses, he declared that we might find out our own way to St. Cleer’s Well by merely looking around us. We followed his directions. Towards the east, far away over the magnificent sweep of moorland, and on the slope of the hill that bounded it, appeared the tall chimneys and engine-houses of the Great Caraton Copper62 Mine — the only objects raised by the hand of man that were to be seen on this part of the view. Towards the west, much nearer at hand, four grey turrets63 were just visible beyond some rising ground. These turrets belonged to the tower of St. Cleer’s Church, and the Well was close by it.
Taking leave of the furze-cutter, we followed the path at once that led to St. Cleer’s. Half an hour’s walking brought us to the village, a straggling, picturesque64 place, hidden in so deep a hollow as to be quite invisible from any distance. All the little cottage-girls whom we met, carrying their jugs66 and pitchers67 of water, curtseyed and wished us good morning with the prettiest air of bashfulness and good humour imaginable. One of them, a rosy68, beautiful child, who proudly informed us that she was six years old, put down her jug65 at a cottage-gate and ran on before to show us the way, delighted to be singled out from her companions for so important an office. We passed the grey walls of the old church, walked down a lane, and soon came in sight of the Well, the position of which was marked by a ruined Oratory69, situated on some open ground close at the side of the public pathway.
St. Cleer, or — as the name is generally spelt out of Cornwall — St. Clare, the patron saint of the Well, was born in Italy, in the twelfth century — and born to a fair heritage of this world’s honours and this world’s possessions. But she voluntarily abandoned, at an early age, all that was alluring70 in the earthly career awaiting her, to devote herself entirely to the interests of her religion and the service of Heaven. She was the first woman who sat at the feet of St. Francis as his disciple71, who humbly72 practised the self-mortification, and resolutely73 performed the vow74 of perpetual poverty, which her preceptor’s harshest doctrines75 imposed on his followers76. She soon became Abbess of the Benedictine Nuns77 with whom she was associated by the saint; and afterwards founded an order of her own — the order of “Poor Clares.” The fame of her piety78 and humility79, of her devotion to the cause of the sick, the afflicted80, and the poor, spread far and wide. The most illustrious of the ecclesiastics81 of her time attended at her convent as at a holy shrine82. Pope Innocent the Fourth visited her, as a testimony83 of his respect for her virtues84; and paid homage85 to her memory when her blameless existence had closed, by making one among the mourners who followed her to the grave. Her name had been derived from the Latin word that signifies purity; and from first to last, her life had kept the promise of her name.
Poor St. Clare! If she could look back, with the thoughts and interests of the days of her mortality, to the world that she has quitted for ever, how sadly would she now contemplate86 the Holy Well which was once hallowed in her name and for her sake! But one arched wall, thickly overgrown with ivy87, still remains erect88 in the place that the old Oratory occupied. Fragments of its roof, its cornices, and the mouldings of its windows lie scattered89 on the ground, half hidden by the grasses and ferns twining prettily90 around them. A double cross of stone stands, sloping towards the earth, at a little distance off — soon perhaps to share the fate of the prostrate91 ruins about it. How changed the scene here, since the time when the rural christening procession left the church, to proceed down the quiet pathway to the Holy Well — when children were baptized in the pure spring; and vows92 were offered up under the roof of the Oratory, and prayers were repeated before the sacred cross! These were the pious93 usages of a past age; these were the ceremonies of an ancient church, whose innocent and reverent94 custom it was to connect closer together the beauty of Nature and the beauty of Religion, by such means as the consecration95 of a spring, or the erection of a roadside cross. There has been something of sacrifice as well as of glory, in the effort by which we, in our time, have freed ourselves from what was superstitious96 and tyrannical in the faith of the times of old — it has cost us the loss of much of the better part of that faith which was not superstition97, and of more which was not tyranny. The spring of St. Clare is nothing to the cottager of our day but a place to draw water from; the village lads now lounge whistling on the fallen stones, once the consecrated98 arches under which their humble99 ancestors paused on the pilgrimage, or knelt in prayer. Wherever the eye turns, all around it speaks the melancholy language of desolation and decay — all but the water of the Holy Well. Still the little pool remains the fitting type of its patron saint — pure and tranquil100 as in the bygone days, when the name of St. Clare was something more than the title to a village legend, and the spring of St. Clare something better than a sight for the passing tourist among the Cornish moors101.1
We happened to arrive at the well at the period when the villagers were going home to dinner. After the first quarter of an hour, we were left almost alone among the ruins. The only person who approached to speak to us was a poor old woman, bent102 and tottering103 with age, who lived in a little cottage hard by. She brought us a glass, thinking we might wish to taste the water of the spring; and presented me with a rose out of her garden. Such small scraps104 of information as she had gathered together about the well, she repeated to us in low, reverential tones, as if its former religious uses still made it an object of veneration105 in her eyes. After a time, she too quitted us; and we were then left quite alone by the side of the spring.
It was a bright, sunshiny day; a pure air was abroad; nothing sounded audibly but the singing of birds at some distance, and the rustling106 of the few leaves that clothed one or two young trees in a neighbouring garden. Unoccupied though I was, the minutes passed away as quickly and as unheeded with me, as with my companion who was busily engaged in sketching107. The ruins of the ancient Oratory, viewed amid the pastoral repose109 of all things around them, began imperceptibly to exert over me that mysterious power of mingling110 the impressions of the present with the memories of the past, which all ruins possess. While I sat looking idly into the water of the well, and thinking of the groups that had gathered round it in years long gone by, recollections began to rise vividly111 on my mind of other ruins that I had seen in other countries, with friends, some scattered, some gone now — of pleasant pilgrimages, in boyish days, along the storied shores of Bai?, or through the desolate streets of the Dead City under Vesuvius — of happy sketching excursions to the aqueducts on the plains of Rome, or to the temples and villas112 of Tivoli; during which, I had first learned to appreciate the beauties of Nature under guidance which, in this world, I can never resume; and had seen the lovely prospects113 of Italian landscape pictured by a hand now powerless in death. Remembrances such as these, of pleasures which remembrance only can recall as they were, made time fly fast for me by the brink114 of the holy well. I could have sat there all day, and should not have felt, at night, that the day had been ill spent.
But the sunlight began to warn us that noon was long past. We had some distance yet to walk, and many things more to see. Shortly after my friend had completed his sketch108, therefore, we reluctantly left St. Clare’s Well, and went on our way briskly, up the little valley, and out again on the wide surface of the moor.
It was now our object to steer115 a course over the wide plain around us, leading directly to the “Cheese–Wring” rocks (so called from their supposed resemblance to a Cornish cheese-press or “wring”). On our road to this curiosity, about a mile and a half from St. Clare’s Well, we stopped to look at one of the most perfect and remarkable116 of the ancient British monuments in Cornwall. It is called Trevethey Stone, and consists of six large upright slabs118 of granite, overlaid by a seventh, which covers them in the form of a rude, slanting119 roof. These slabs are so irregular in form as to look quite unhewn. They all vary in size and thickness. The whole structure rises to a height, probably, of fourteen feet; and, standing as it does on elevated ground, in a barren country, with no stones of a similar kind erected120 near it, presents an appearance of rugged grandeur121 and aboriginal122 simplicity123, which renders it an impressive, almost a startling object to look on. Antiquaries have discovered that its name signifies The Place of Graves; and have discovered no more. No inscription124 appears on it; the date of its erection is lost in the darkest of the dark periods of English history.
Our path had been gradually rising all the way from St. Clare’s Well; and, when we left Trevethey Stone, we still continued to ascend125, proceeding126 along the tram-way leading to the Caraton Mine. Soon the scene presented another abrupt48 and extraordinary change. We had been walking hitherto amid almost invariable silence and solitude; but now, with each succeeding minute, strange, mingled127, unintermitting noises began to grow louder and louder around us. We followed a sharp curve in the tram-way, and immediately found ourselves saluted129 by an entirely new prospect, and surrounded by an utterly130 bewildering noise. All about us monstrous131 wheels were turning slowly; machinery132 was clanking and groaning133 in the hoarsest134 discords135; invisible waters were pouring onward136 with a rushing sound; high above our heads, on skeleton platforms, iron chains clattered137 fast and fiercely over iron pulleys, and huge steam pumps puffed138 and gasped139, and slowly raised and depressed140 their heavy black beams of wood. Far beneath the embankment on which we stood, men, women, and children were breaking and washing ore in a perfect marsh141 of copper-coloured mud and copper-coloured water. We had penetrated142 to the very centre of the noise, the bustle143, and the population on the surface of a great mine.
When we walked forward again, we passed through a thick plantation144 of young firs; and then, the sounds behind us became slowly and solemnly deadened the further we went on. When we had arrived at the extremity145 of the line of trees, they ceased softly and suddenly. It was like a change in a dream.
We now left the tram-way, and stood again on the moor — on a wilder and lonelier part of it than we had yet beheld. The Cheese–Wring and its adjacent rocks were visible a mile and a half away, on the summit of a steep hill. Wherever we looked, the horizon was bounded by the long, dark, undulating edges of the moor. The ground rose and fell in little hillocks and hollows, tufted with dry grass and furze, and strewn throughout with fragments of granite. The whole plain appeared like the site of an ancient city of palaces, overthrown146 and crumbled147 into atoms by an earthquake. Here and there, some cows were feeding; and sometimes a large crow winged his way lazily before us, lessening148 and lessening slowly in the open distance, until he was lost to sight. No human beings were discernible anywhere; the majestic149 loneliness and stillness of the scene were almost oppressive both to eye and ear. Above us, immense fleecy masses of brilliant white cloud, wind-driven from the Atlantic, soared up grandly, higher and higher over the bright blue sky. Everywhere, the view had an impressively stern, simple, aboriginal look. Here were tracts150 of solitary country which had sturdily retained their ancient character through centuries of revolution and change; plains pathless and desolate even now, as when Druid processions passed over them by night to the place of the secret sacrifice, and skin-clad warriors151 of old Britain halted on them in council, or hurried across them to the fight.
On we went, up and down, in a very zig-zag course, now looking forward towards the Cheese–Wring from the top of a rock, now losing sight of it altogether in the depths of a hollow. By the time we had advanced about half way over the distance it was necessary for us to walk, we observed, towards the left hand, a wide circle of detached upright rooks. These we knew, from descriptions and engravings, to be the “Hurlers”— so we turned aside at once to look at them from a nearer point of view.
There are two very different histories of these rocks; the antiquarian account of them is straightforward152 and practical enough, simply asserting that they are the remains of a Druid temple, the whole region about them having been one of the principal stations of the Druids in Cornwall. The popular account of the Hurlers (from which their name is derived) is very different. It is contended, on the part of the people, that once upon a time (nobody knows how long ago), these rocks were Cornish men, who profanely153 went out (nobody knows from what place), to enjoy the national sport of hurling155 the ball on one fine “Sabbath morning,” and were suddenly turned into pillars of stone, as a judgment156 on their own wickedness, and a warning to all their companions as well.
Having to choose between the antiquarian hypothesis and the popular legend on the very spot to which both referred, a common susceptibility to the charms of romance at once determined157 us to pin our faith on the legend. Looking at the Hurlers, therefore, in the peculiar158 spirit of the story attached to them, as really and truly petrified159 ball-players, we observed, with great interest, that some of them must have been a little above, and others a little below our own height, in their lifetime; that some must have been very corpulent, and others very thin persons; that one of them, having a protuberance on his head remarkably160 like a night-cap in stone, was possibly a sluggard161 as well as a Sabbath-breaker, and might have got out of his bed just in time to “hurl43;” that another, with some faint resemblance left of a fat grinning human face, leaned considerably162 out of the perpendicular163, and was, in all probability, a hurler of intemperate164 habits. At some distance off we remarked a high stone standing entirely by itself, which, in the absence of any positive information on the subject, we presumed to consider as the petrified effigy165 of a tall man who ran after the ball. In the opposite direction other stones were dotted about irregularly, which we could only imagine to represent certain misguided wretches166 who had attended as spectators of the sports, and had therefore incurred167 the same penalty as the hurlers themselves. These humble results of observations taken on the spot, may possibly be useful, as tending to offer some startling facts from ancient history to the next pious layman168 in the legislature who gets up to propose the next series of Sabbath prohibitions169 for the benefit of the profane154 laymen170 in the nation.
Abandoning any more minute observation of the Hurlers than that already recorded, in order to husband the little time still left to us, we soon shaped our course again in the direction of the Cheese–Wring. We arrived at the base of the hill on which it stands, in a short time and without any difficulty; and beheld above us a perfect chaos171 of rocks piled up the entire surface of the eminence172. All the granite we had seen before was as nothing compared with the granite we now looked on. The masses were at one place heaped up in great irregular cairns — at another, scattered confusedly over the ground; poured all along in close, craggy lumps; flung about hither and thither173, as if in reckless sport, by the hands of giants. Above the whole, rose the weird174 fantastic form of the Cheese–Wring, the wildest and most wondrous175 of all the wild and wondrous structures in the rock architecture of the scene.
If a man dreamt of a great pile of stones in a nightmare, he would dream of such a pile as the Cheese–Wring. All the heaviest and largest of the seven thick slabs of which it is composed are at the top; all the lightest and smallest at the bottom. It rises perpendicularly176 to a height of thirty-two feet, without lateral177 support of any kind. The fifth and sixth rocks are of immense size and thickness, and overhang fearfully, all round, the four lower rocks which support them. All are perfectly178 irregular; the projections179 of one do not fit into the interstices of another; they are heaped up loosely in their extraordinary top-heavy form, on slanting ground half-way down a steep hill. Look at them from whatever point you choose, there is still all that is heaviest, largest, strongest, at the summit, and all that is lightest, smallest, weakest, at the base. When you first see the Cheese–Wring, you instinctively180 shrink from walking under it. Beholding181 the tons on tons of stone balanced to a hair’s breadth on the mere61 fragments beneath, you think that with a pole in your hand, with one push against the top rocks, you could hurl down the hill in an instant a pile which has stood for centuries, unshaken by the fiercest hurricane that ever blew, rushing from the great void of an ocean over the naked surface of a moor.
Of course, theories advanced by learned men are not wanting to explain such a phenomenon as the Cheese–Wring. Certain antiquaries have undertaken to solve this curious problem of Nature in a very off-hand manner, by asserting that the rocks were heaped up as they now appear, by the Druids, with the intention of astonishing their contemporaries and all posterity182 by a striking exhibition of their architectural skill. (If any of these antiquarian gentlemen be still living, I would not recommend them to attempt a practical illustration of their theory by building miniature Cheese–Wrings out of the contents of their coal-scuttles!) The second explanation of the extraordinary position of the rocks is a geological explanation, and is apparently183 the true one. It is assumed on this latter hypothesis, that the Cheese–Wring, and all the adjacent masses of stone, were once covered, or nearly covered, by earth, and were thus supported in an upright form; that the wear and tear of storms gradually washed away all this earth, from between the rocks, down the hill, and then left such heaps of stones as were accidentally complete in their balance on each other, to stand erect, and such as were not, to fall flat on the surface of the hill in all the various positions in which they now appear. Accepting this theory as the right one, it still seems strange that there should be only one Cheese–Wring on the hill — but so it is. Plenty of rocks are to be seen there piled one on another; but none of them are piled in the same extraordinary manner as the Cheese–Wring, which stands alone in its grandeur, a curiosity that even science may wonder at, a sight which is worth a visit to Cornwall, if Cornwall presented nothing else to see.
Besides the astonishment184 which the rock scenery on the hill was calculated to excite, we found in its neighbourhood an additional cause for surprise of a very different description. Just as we were preparing to ascend the eminence, the silence of the great waste around us was broken by a long and hearty185 cheer. The Hurlers themselves, if they had suddenly returned to a state of flesh and blood, and resumed their interrupted game, could hardly have made more noise, or exhibited a greater joviality186 of disposition187, than did some three or four tradesmen of the town of Liskeard, who had been enjoying a pic-nic under the Cheese–Wring, had seen us approaching over the plain, and now darted188 out of their ambush189 to welcome us, flourishing porter-bottles in their hands as olive branches of peace, amity190, and good-will. My companion skilfully191 contrived192 to make his escape; but I was stopped and surrounded in an instant. One benevolent193 stranger held a glass in a very slanting position, while a brother philanthropist violently uncorked a bottle and directed half of its contents in a magnificent jet of light brown froth all over everybody, before he found the way into the tumbler. It was of no use to decline imbibing194 the remainder of the light brown froth —“There was the Cheese–Wring (cried all the benevolent strangers in chorus), and here was the porter —I must drink all their good healths, and they would all drink mine — this was Cornish hospitality, and Cornish hospitality was notoriously the finest thing in the world! As for my friend there, who was drawing, they bore him no ill-will because he wouldn’t drink — they would buy his drawing, and one of the commercial gentlemen, who was a stationer, would publish a hundred, two hundred, five hundred, a thousand copies of it, on sheets of letter-paper, price one penny! What had I got to say to that? — If that wasn’t hospitality, what the devil was?”
All this might have been very amusing, and our new friends might have proved excellent companions, under a different set of circumstances. But, as things were, we neither of us felt at all sorry when their manners subsequently exhibited a slight change, under the influence of further potations of porter. Soon, they began to look stolid195 and suspicious — suddenly, they discovered that we were not quite such good company as they had thought us at first — finally, they took their departure in solemn silence, leaving us free at last to mount the hill, and look out uninterruptedly on the glorious view from the summit, which extended over a circumference196 of a hundred miles.
Turning our faces towards the north-east, and standing now on the topmost rock of one of the most elevated situations in Cornwall, we were able to discern the sea on either side of us. Two faint lines of the softest, haziest197 blue, indicated the Bristol Channel on the one hand, and the English Channel on the other. Before us lay a wide region of downs and fields, all mapped out in every variety of form by their different divisions of wall and hedge-row — while, farther away yet, darker and more indefinite, appeared the Dartmoor forest and the Dartmoor hills. It was just that hour before the evening, at which the atmosphere acquires a more mellow198 purity, a more perfect serenity199 and warmth, than at earlier periods of the day. The shadows of great clouds lay in vast lovely shapes of purple blue over the whole visible tract34 of country, contrasting in exquisite beauty with the sunny glimpses of landscape shining between them. Beneath us, the picturesque confusion of rocks, topped by the quaint form of the Cheese–Wring, seemed to fade away mysteriously into the grass of the moorland; beyond which, high up where the hills rose again, a little lake, called Dosmery Pool, shone in the sunlight with dazzling, diamond brightness. In the opposite direction, towards the west, the immediate128 prospect was formed by the rugged granite ridges200, towering one behind the other, of Sharp Torr and Kilmarth — the long hazy201 outlines of the plains and hill-tops of southern and inland Cornwall closing grandly the distant view.
All that we had hitherto seen on and around the spot where we now stood, had not yet exhausted202 its objects of attraction for strangers. Descending203 the rocks in a new direction, after taking a last look at the noble prospect visible from their summit, we proceeded to a particular spot near the base of the hill, where the granite was scattered in remarkable abundance. Our purpose here was to examine some stones which are well known to all the quarrymen in the district, as associated with an extraordinary story and an extraordinary man.
During the earlier half of the last century, there lived in one of the villages on the outskirts204 of the moor on which the Cheese–Wring stands, a stonecutter named Daniel Gumb. This man was noted205 among his companions for his taciturn eccentric character, and for his attachment206 to mathematical studies. Such leisure time as he had at his command he devoted207 to pondering over the problems of Euclid: he was always drawing mysterious complications of angles, triangles, and parallelograms, on pieces of slate208, and on the blank leaves of such few books as he possessed209. But he made very slow progress in his studies. Poverty and hard work increased with the increase of his family, and obliged him to give up his mathematics altogether. He laboured early and laboured late; he hacked210 and hewed211 at the hard material out of which he was doomed212 to cut a livelihood213, with unremitting diligence; but times went so ill with him, that in despair of ever finding them better, he took a sudden resolution of altering his manner of living, and retreating from the difficulties that he could not overcome. He went to the hill on which the Cheese–Wring stands, and looked about among the rocks until he found some that had accidentally formed themselves into a sort of rude cavern214. He widened this recess215; he propped216 up a great wide slab117, to make its roof: he cut out in a rock that rose above this, what he called his bed-room — a mere longitudinal slit217 in the stone, the length and breadth of his body, into which he could roll himself sideways when he wanted to enter it. After he had completed this last piece of work, he scratched the date of the year of his extraordinary labours (1735) on the rock; and then removed his wife and family from their cottage, and lodged218 them in the cavity he had made — never to return during his lifetime to the dwellings220 of men!
Here he lived and here he worked, when he could get work. He paid no rent now: he wanted no furniture; he struggled no longer to appear to the world as his equals appeared; he required no more money than would procure221 for his family and himself the barest necessaries of life; he suffered no interruptions from his fellow-workmen, who thought him a madman, and kept out of his way; and — most precious privilege of his new position — he could at last shorten his hours of labour, and lengthen222 his hours of study, with impunity223. Having no temptations to spend money, no hard demands of an inexorable landlord to answer, he could now work with his brains as well as his hands; he could toil224 at his problems, scratching them upon the tops of rocks, under the open sky, amid the silence of the great moor. Henceforth, nothing moved, nothing depressed him. The storms of winter rushed over his unsheltered dwelling219, but failed to dislodge him. He taught his family to brave solitude and cold in the cavern among the rocks, as he braved them. In the cell that he had scooped226 out for his wife (the roof of which has now fallen in) some of his children died, and others were born. They point out the rock where he used to sit on calm summer evenings, absorbed over his tattered227 copy of Euclid. A geometrical “puzzle,” traced by his hand, still appears on the stone. When he died, what became of his family, no one can tell. Nothing more is known of him than that he never quitted the wild place of his exile; that he continued to the day of his death to live contentedly228 with his wife and children, amid a civilized229 nation, under such a shelter as would hardly serve the first savage230 tribes of the most savage country — to live, starving out poverty and want on a barren wild; forsaking231 all things enduring all things for the love of Knowledge, which he could still nobly follow through trials and extremities232, without encouragement of fame or profit, without vantage ground of station or wealth, for its own dear sake. Beyond this, nothing but conjecture233 is left. The cell, the bed-place, the lines traced on the rocks, the inscription of the year in which he hewed his habitation out of them, are all the memorials that remain of Daniel Gumb.
We lingered about the wild habitation of the stonemason and his family, until sunset. Long shadows of rocks lay over the moor, the breeze had freshened and was already growing chill, when we set forth225, at last, to trace our way back to Liskeard. It was too late now to think of proceeding on our journey, and sleeping at the next town on our line of route.
Returning in a new direction, we found ourselves once more walking on a high road, just as the sun had gone down, and the grey twilight234 was falling softly over the landscape. Stopping near a lonely farm-house, we went into a field to look at another old British monument to which our attention had been directed. We saw a square stone column — now broken into two pieces — ornamented235 with a curiously236 carved pattern, and exhibiting an inscription cut in irregular, mysterious characters. Those who have deciphered them, have discovered that the column is nearly a thousand years old; that it was raised as a sepulchral237 monument over the body of Dungerth King of Cornwall; and that the letters carved on it form some Latin words, which may be thus translated:—“PRAY FOR THE SOUL OF DUNGERTH.” Seen in the dim light of the last quiet hour of evening, there was something solemn and impressive about the appearance of the old tombstone — simple though it was. After leaving it, we soon entered once more into regions of fertility. Cottages, cornfields, and trees surrounded us again. We passed through pleasant little valleys; over brooks238 crossed by quaint wooden bridges; up and down long lanes, where tall hedges and clustering trees darkened the way — where the stag-beetle flew slowly by, winding239 “his small but sullen240 horn,” and glow-worms glimmered241 brightly in the long, dewy grass by the roadside. The moon, rising at first red and dull in a misty242 sky, brightened as we went on, and lighted us brilliantly along all that remained of our night-walk back to the town.
I have only to add, that, when we arrived at Liskeard, the lachrymose243 landlady of the inn benevolently244 offered us for supper the identical piece of cold “corned beef” which she had offered us for dinner the day before; and further proposed that we should feast at our ease in the private dungeon245 dining-room at the back of the house. But one mode of escape was left — we decamped at once to the large and comfortable hotel of the town; and there our pleasant day’s pilgrimage to the moors of Cornwall concluded as agreeably as it had begun.
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1
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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5
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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6
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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7
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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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10
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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12
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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13
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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14
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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15
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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16
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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17
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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19
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
incarcerating
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| vt.监禁，禁闭（incarcerate的现在分词形式） | |
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22
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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23
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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24
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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25
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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26
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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27
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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propitiously
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29
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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30
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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31
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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32
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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33
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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34
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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35
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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36
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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37
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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38
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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39
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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40
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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41
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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42
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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43
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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44
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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45
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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46
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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47
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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48
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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49
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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50
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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51
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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52
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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53
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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54
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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55
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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56
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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57
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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58
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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59
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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60
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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62
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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63
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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64
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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65
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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66
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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67
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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68
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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69
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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70
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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71
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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72
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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73
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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74
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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75
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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78
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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79
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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80
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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81
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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82
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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83
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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84
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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85
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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86
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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87
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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88
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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89
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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90
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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91
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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92
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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93
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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94
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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95
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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96
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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98
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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99
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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100
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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101
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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103
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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104
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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105
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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106
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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107
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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108
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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109
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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110
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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111
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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112
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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113
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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114
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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115
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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116
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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117
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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118
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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119
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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120
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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121
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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122
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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123
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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124
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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125
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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126
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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127
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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128
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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129
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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130
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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131
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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132
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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133
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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134
hoarsest
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| （指声音）粗哑的，嘶哑的( hoarse的最高级 ) | |
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135
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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136
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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137
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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138
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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139
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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140
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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141
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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142
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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143
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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144
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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145
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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146
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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147
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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148
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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149
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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150
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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151
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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152
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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153
profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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154
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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155
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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156
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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157
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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158
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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159
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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160
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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161
sluggard
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| n.懒人；adj.懒惰的 | |
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162
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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163
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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164
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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165
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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166
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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167
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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168
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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169
prohibitions
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| 禁令，禁律( prohibition的名词复数 )； 禁酒； 禁例 | |
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170
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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171
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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172
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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173
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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174
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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175
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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176
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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177
lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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178
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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179
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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180
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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181
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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182
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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183
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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184
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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185
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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186
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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187
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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188
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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189
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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190
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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191
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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192
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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193
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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194
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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195
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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196
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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197
haziest
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| 有薄雾的( hazy的最高级 )； 模糊的； 不清楚的； 糊涂的 | |
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198
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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199
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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200
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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201
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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202
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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203
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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204
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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205
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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206
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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207
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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208
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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209
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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210
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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211
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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212
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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213
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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214
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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215
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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216
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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217
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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218
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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219
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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220
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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221
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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222
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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223
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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224
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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225
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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226
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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227
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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228
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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229
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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230
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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231
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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232
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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233
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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234
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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235
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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237
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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238
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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239
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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240
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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241
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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243
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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244
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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245
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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