At about three miles' distance from Newstead Abbey, and contiguous to its lands, is situated1 Annesley Hall, the old family mansion2 of the Chaworths. The families, like the estates, of the Byrons and Chaworths, were connected in former times, until the fatal duel3 between their two representatives. The feud4, however, which prevailed for a time, promised to be cancelled by the attachment5 of two youthful hearts. While Lord Byron was yet a boy, he beheld6 Mary Ann Chaworth, a beautiful girl, and the sole heiress of Annesley. With that susceptibility to female charms, which he evinced almost from childhood, he became almost immediately enamored of her. According to one of his biographers, it would appear that at first their attachment was mutual8, yet clandestine9. The father of Miss Chaworth was then living, and may have retained somewhat of the family hostility10, for we are told that the interviews of Lord Byron and the young lady were private, at a gate which opened from her father's grounds to those of Newstead. However, they were so young at the time that these meetings could not have been regarded as of any importance: they were little more than children in years; but, as Lord Byron says of himself, his feelings were beyond his age.
The passion thus early conceived was blown into a flame, during a six weeks' vacation which he passed with his mother at Nottingham. The father of Miss Chaworth was dead, and she resided with her mother at the old Hall of Annesley. During Byron's minority, the estate of Newstead was let to Lord Grey de Ruthen, but its youthful Lord was always a welcome guest at the Abbey. He would pass days at a time there, and make frequent visits thence to Annesley Hall. His visits were encouraged by Miss Chaworth's mother; she partook of none of the family feud, and probably looked with complacency upon an attachment that might heal old differences and unite two neighboring estates.
The six weeks' vacation passed as a dream amongst the beautiful flowers of Annesley. Byron was scarce fifteen years of age, Mary Chaworth was two years older; but his heart, as I have said, was beyond his age, and his tenderness for her was deep and passionate11. These early loves, like the first run of the uncrushed grape, are the sweetest and strongest gushings of the heart, and however they may be superseded12 by other attachments13 in after years, the memory will continually recur14 to them, and fondly dwell upon their recollections.
His love for Miss Chaworth, to use Lord Byron's own expression, was "the romance of the most romantic period of his life," and I think we can trace the effect of it throughout the whole course of his writings, coming up every now and then, like some lurking16 theme which runs through a complicated piece of music, and links it all in a pervading17 chain of melody.
How tenderly and mournfully does he recall, in after years, the feelings awakened19 in his youthful and inexperienced bosom21 by this impassioned, yet innocent attachment; feelings, he says, lost or hardened in the intercourse22 of life:
"The love of better things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is called the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise,
Which kindle23 manhood, but can ne'er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own,
Of which another's bosom is the zone."
Whether this love was really responded to by the object, is uncertain. Byron sometimes speaks as if he had met with kindness in return, at other times lie acknowledges that she never gave 'him reason to believe she loved him. It is probable, however, that at first she experienced some flutterings of the heart. She was of a susceptible25 age; had as yet formed no other attachments; her lover, though boyish in years, was a man in intellect, a poet in imagination, and had a countenance26 of remarkable27 beauty.
With the six weeks' vacation ended this brief romance. Byron returned to school deeply enamored, but if he had really made any impression on Miss Chaworth's heart, it was too slight to stand the test of absence. She was at that age when a female soon changes from the girl to a woman, and leaves her boyish lovers far behind her. While Byron was pursuing his school-boy studies, she was mingling28 with society, and met with a gentleman of the name of Musters29, remarkable, it is said, for manly30 beauty. A story is told of her having first seen him from the top of Annesley Hall, as he dashed through the park, with hound and horn, taking the lead of the whole field in a fox chase, and that she was struck by the spirit of his appearance, and his admirable horsemanship. Under such favorable auspices31, he wooed and won her, and when Lord Byron next met her, he learned to his dismay that she was the affianced bride of another.
With that pride of spirit—which always distinguished32 him, he controlled his feelings and maintained a serene33 countenance. He even affected34 to speak calmly on the subject of her approaching nuptials35. "The next time I see you," said he, "I suppose you will be Mrs. Chaworth" (for she was to retain her family name). Her reply was, "I hope so."
I have given these brief details preparatory to a sketch37 of a visit which I made to the scene of this youthful romance. Annesley Hall I understood was shut up, neglected, and almost in a state of desolation; for Mr. Musters rarely visited it, residing with his family in the neighborhood of Nottingham. I set out for the Hall on horseback, in company with Colonel Wildman, and followed by the great Newfoundland dog Boatswain. In the course of our ride we visited a spot memorable38 in the love story I have cited. It was the scene of this parting interview between Byron and Miss Chaworth, prior to her marriage. A long ridge39 of upland advances into the valley of Newstead, like a promontory40 into a lake, and was formerly41 crowned by a beautiful grove42, a landmark43 to the neighboring country. The grove and promontory are graphically44 described by Lord Byron in his "Dream," and an exquisite45 picture given of himself, and the lovely object of his boyish idolatry—
"I saw two beings to the hues46 of youth
Standing47 upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green, and of mild declivity48, the last
As 'twere the cape49 of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the ware50
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes51 of men.
Scattered52 at intervals53 and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic54 roofs;—the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar55 diadem56
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed57,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden58 and a youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were fair, and one was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not alike in youth:
As the sweet moon in the horizon's verge59,
The maid was on the verge of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown60 his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him."
I stood upon the spot consecrated61 by this memorable interview. Below me extended the "living landscape," once contemplated62 by the loving pair; the gentle valley of Newstead, diversified63 by woods and corn-fields, and village spires64, and gleams of water, and the distant towers and pinnacles65 of the venerable Abbey. The diadem of trees, however, was gone. The attention drawn66 to it by the poet, and the romantic manner in which he had associated it with his early passion for Mary Chaworth, had nettled67 the irritable68 feelings of her husband, who but ill brooked69 the poetic70 celebrity71 conferred on his wife by the enamored verses of another. The celebrated72 grove stood on his estate, and in a fit of spleen he ordered it to be levelled with the dust. At the time of my visit the mere73 roots of the trees were visible; but the hand that laid them low is execrated74 by every poetical75 pilgrim.
Descending76 the bill, we soon entered a part of what once was Annesley Park, and rode among time-worn and tempest-riven oaks and elms, with ivy77 clambering about their trunks, and rooks' nests among their branches. The park had been cut up by a post-road, crossing which, we came to the gate-house of Annesley Hall. It was an old brick building that might have served as an outpost or barbacan to the Hall during the civil wars, when every gentleman's house was liable to become a fortress78. Loopholes were still visible in its walls, but the peaceful ivy had mantled79 the sides, overrun the roof, and almost buried the ancient clock in front, that still marked the waning80 hours of its decay.
An arched way led through the centre of the gate-house, secured by grated doors of open iron work, wrought81 into flowers and flourishes. These being thrown open, we entered a paved court-yard, decorated with shrubs82 and antique flowerpots, with a ruined stone fountain in the centre. The whole approach resembled that of an old French chateau83.
On one side of the court-yard was a range of stables, now tenantless84, but which bore traces of the fox-hunting squire86; for there were stalls boxed up, into which the hunters might be turned loose when they came home from the chase.
At the lower end of the court, and immediately opposite the gate-house, extended the Hall itself; a rambling87, irregular pile, patched and pieced at various times, and in various tastes, with gable ends, stone balustrades, and enormous chimneys, that strutted88 out like buttresses89 from the walls. The whole front of the edifice90 was overrun with evergreens91.
We applied92 for admission at the front door, which was under a heavy porch. The portal was strongly barricaded93, and our knocking was echoed by waste and empty halls. Every thing bore an appearance of abandonment. After a time, however, our knocking summoned a solitary94 tenant85 from some remote corner of the pile. It was a decent-looking little dame95, who emerged from a side door at a distance, and seemed a worthy96 inmate97 of the antiquated98 mansion. She had, in fact, grown old with it. Her name, she said, was Nanny Marsden; if she lived until next August, she would be seventy-one; a great part of her life had been passed in the Hall, and when the family had removed to Nottingham, she had been left in charge of it. The front of the house had been thus warily100 barricaded in consequence of the late riots at Nottingham, in the course of which the dwelling101 of her master had been sacked by the mob. To guard against any attempt of the kind upon the Hall, she had put it in this state of defence; though I rather think she and a superannuated102 gardener comprised the whole garrison103. "You must be attached to the old building," said I, "after having lived so long in it." "Ah, sir!" replied she, "I am getting in years, and have a furnished cottage of my own in Annesley Wood, and begin to feel as if I should like to go and live in my own home."
Guided by the worthy little custodian104 of the fortress, we entered through the sally port by which she had issued forth105, and soon found ourselves in a spacious106, but somewhat gloomy hall, where the light was partially107 admitted through square stone-shafted windows, overhung with ivy. Everything around us had the air of an old-fashioned country squire's establishment. In the centre of the hall was a billiard-table, find about the walls were hung portraits of race-horses, hunters, and favorite dogs, mingled108 indiscriminately with family pictures.
Staircases led up from the hall to various apartments. In one of the rooms we were shown a couple of buff jerkins, and a pair of ancient jackboots, of the time of the cavaliers; relics109 which are often to be met with in the old English family mansions110. These, however, had peculiar value, for the good little dame assured us that they had belonged to Robin111 Hood7. As we were in the midst of the region over which that famous outlaw112 once bore ruffian sway, it was not for us to gainsay113 his claim to any of these venerable relics, though we might have demurred114 that the articles of dress here shown were of a date much later than his time. Every antiquity115, however, about Sherwood Forest is apt to be linked with the memory of Robin Hood and his gang.
As we were strolling about the mansion, our four-footed attendant, Boatswain, followed leisurely116, as if taking a survey of the premises117. I turned to rebuke118 him for his intrusion, but the moment the old housekeeper119 understood he had belonged to Lord Byron, her heart seemed to yearn120 toward him. "Nay121, nay," exclaimed she, "let him alone, let him go where he pleases. He's welcome. Ah, dear me! If he lived here I should take great care of him—he should want for nothing.—Well!" continued she, fondling him, "who would have thought that I should see a dog of Lord Byron in Annesley Hall!"
"I suppose, then," said I, "you recollect15 something of Lord Byron, when he used to visit here?" "Ah, bless him!" cried she, "that I do! He used to ride over here and stay three days at a time, and sleep in the blue room. Ah! poor fellow! He was very much taken with my young mistress; he used to walk about the garden and the terraces with her, and seemed to love the very ground she trod on. He used to call her his bright morning star of Annesley."
I felt the beautiful poetic phrase thrill through me.
"You appear to like the memory of Lord Byron," said I.
"Ah, sir! why should not I! He was always main good to me when he came here. Well, well, they say it is a pity he and my young lady did not make a match. Her mother would have liked it. He was always a welcome guest, and some think it would have been well for him to have had her; but it was not to be! He went away to school, and then Mr. Musters saw her, and so things took their course."
The simple soul now showed us into the favorite sitting-room122 of Miss Chaworth, with a small flower-garden under the windows, in which she had delighted. In this room Byron used to sit and listen to her as she played and sang, gazing upon her with the passionate, and almost painful devotion of a love-sick stripling. He himself gives us a glowing picture of his mute idolatry:
"He bad no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight.
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which colored all his objects; he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb123 and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony."
There was a little Welsh air, call "Mary Ann," which, from bearing her own name, he associated with herself, and often persuaded her to sing it over and over for him.
The chamber124, like all the other parts of the house, had a look of sadness and neglect; the flower-pots beneath the window, which once bloomed beneath the hand of Mary Chaworth, were overrun with weeds; and the piano, which had once vibrated to her touch, and thrilled the heart of her stripling lover, was now unstrung and out of tune125.
We continued our stroll about the waste apartments, of all shapes and sizes, and without much elegance126 of decoration. Some of them were hung with family portraits, among which was pointed127 out that of the Mr. Chaworth who was killed by the "wicked Lord Byron."
These dismal128 looking portraits had a powerful effect upon the imagination of the stripling poet, on his first visit to the hall. As they gazed down from the wall, he thought they scowled129 upon him, as if they had taken a grudge130 against him on account of the duel of his ancestor. He even gave this as a reason, though probably in jest, for not sleeping at the Hall, declaring that he feared they would come down from their frames at night to haunt him.
A feeling of the kind he has embodied131 in one of his stanzas132 of "Don
Juan:"
"The forms of the grim knights133 and pictured saints
Look living in the moon; and as you turn
Backward and forward to the echoes faint
Of your own footsteps—voices from the urn18
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint134
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stern,
As if to ask you how you dare to keep
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep."
Nor was the youthful poet singular in these fancies; the Hall, like most old English mansions that have ancient family portraits hanging about their dusky galleries and waste apartments, had its ghost story connected with these pale memorials of the dead. Our simple-hearted conductor stopped before the portrait of a lady, who had been a beauty in her time, and inhabited the hall in the heyday135 of her charms. Something mysterious or melancholy136 was connected with her story; she died young, but continued for a long time to haunt the ancient mansion, to the great dismay of the servants, and the occasional disquiet137 of the visitors, and it was with much difficulty her troubled spirit was conjured138 down and put to rest.
From the rear of the hall we walked out into the garden, about which Byron used to stroll and loiter in company with Miss Chaworth. It was laid out in the old French style. There was a long terraced walk, with heavy stone balustrades and sculptured urns139, overrun with ivy and evergreens. A neglected shrubbery bordered one side of the terrace, with a lofty grove inhabited by a venerable community of rooks. Great flights of steps led down from the terrace to a flower garden laid out in formal plots. The rear of the Hall, which overlooked the garden, had the weather stains of centuries, and its stone-shafted casements140 and an ancient sun-dial against its walls carried back the mind to days of yore.
The retired141 and quiet garden, once a little sequestered142 world of love and romance, was now all matted and wild, yet was beautiful, even in its decay. Its air of neglect and desolation was in unison143 with the fortune of the two beings who had once walked here in the freshness of youth, and life, and beauty. The garden, like their young hearts, had gone to waste and ruin.
Returning to the Hall we now visited a chamber built over the porch, or grand entrance. It was in a ruinous condition, the ceiling having fallen in and the floor given way. This, however, is a chamber rendered interesting by poetical associations. It is supposed to be the oratory144 alluded145 to by Lord Byron in his "Dream," wherein he pictures his departure from Annesley, after learning that Mary Chaworth was engaged to be married—
'There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned;
Within an antique oratory stood
The boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,
And pale and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate146 him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere
With a convulsion—then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,
The lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved,—she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came;
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Return'd, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles:—he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way,
And ne'er repassed that hoary147 threshold more."
In one of his journals, Lord Byron describes his feelings after thus leaving the oratory. Arriving on the summit of a hill, which commanded the last view of Annesley, he checked his horse, and gazed back with mingled pain and fondness upon the groves148 which embowered the Hall, and thought upon the lovely being that dwelt there, until his feelings were quite dissolved in tenderness. The conviction at length recurred149 that she never could be his, when, rousing himself from his reverie, he struck his spurs into his steed and dashed forward, as if by rapid motion to leave reflection behind him.
Yet, notwithstanding what he asserts in the verses last quoted, he did pass the "hoary threshold" of Annesley again. It was, however, after the lapse150 of several years, during which he had grown up to manhood, and had passed through the ordeal151 of pleasures and tumultuous passions, and had felt the influence of other charms. Miss Chaworth, too, had become a wife and a mother, and he dined at Annesley Hall at the invitation of her husband. He thus met the object of his early idolatry in the very scene of his tender devotions, which, as he says, her smiles had once made a heaven to him. The scene was but little changed. He was in the very chamber where he had so often listened entranced to the witchery of her voice; there were the same instruments and music; there lay her flower garden beneath the window, and the walks through which he had wandered with her in the intoxication152 of youthful love. Can we wonder that amidst the tender recollections which every object around him was calculated to awaken20, the fond passion of his boyhood should rush back in full current to his heart? He was himself surprised at this sudden revulsion of his feelings, but he had acquired self-possession and could command them. His firmness, however, was doomed153 to undergo a further trial. While seated by the object of his secret devotions, with all these recollections throbbing154 in his bosom, her infant daughter was brought into the room. At sight of the child he started; it dispelled155 the last lingerings of his dream, and he afterward156 confessed, that to repress his emotion at the moment, was the severest part of his task.
The conflict of feelings that raged within his bosom, throughout this fond and tender, yet painful and embarrassing visit, are touchingly157 depicted158 in lines which he wrote immediately afterward, and which, though not addressed to her by name, are evidently intended for the eye and the heart of the fair lady of Annesley:
"Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont159 to do.
Thy husband's blest—and 'twill impart
Some pangs160 to view his happier lot:
But let them pass—Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
"When late I saw thy favorite child
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.
"I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
"Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay:
My heart would soon again be thine.
"I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, save love, the same.
"Yet I was calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime—
We met, and not a nerve was shook.
"I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling could'st thou trace;
The sullen161 calmness of despair.
"Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe's fabled162 stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break."
The revival163 of this early passion, and the melancholy associations which it spread over those scenes in the neighborhood of Newstead, which would necessarily be the places of his frequent resort while in England, are alluded to by him as a principal cause of his first departure for the Continent:
"When man expell'd from Eden's bowers164
A moment lingered near the gate,
Each scene recalled the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
"But wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.
"Thus, Mary, must it be with me,
And I must view thy charms no more;
For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before."
It was in the subsequent June that he set off on his pilgrimage by sea and land, which was to become the theme of his immortal165 poem. That the image of Mary Chaworth, as he saw and loved her in the days of his boyhood, followed him to the very shore, is shown in the glowing stanzas addressed to her on the eve of embarkation—
"'Tis done—and shivering in the gale166
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone.
Because I cannot love but one.
"And I will cross the whitening foam167,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun168,
But ever love, and love but one.
"To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas169! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
"And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
"I've tried another's fetters170 too,
With charms, perchance, as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
"'Twould soothe171 to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him who wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one."
The painful interview at Annesley Hall, which revived with such intenseness his early passion, remained stamped upon his memory with singular force, and seems to have survived all his "wandering through distant climes," to which he trusted as an oblivious172 antidote173. Upward of two years after that event, when, having made his famous pilgrimage, he was once more an inmate of Newstead Abbey, his vicinity to Annesley Hall brought the whole scene vividly174 before him, and he thus recalls it in a poetic epistle to a friend—
"I've seen my bride another's bride,—
Have seen her seated by his side,—
Have seen the infant which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child:—
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain175,
Ask if I felt no secret pain.
"And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie24 my heart,
Returned the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;—
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress176,
Time had not made me love the less."
"It was about the time," says Moore in his life of Lord Byron, "when he was thus bitterly feeling and expressing the blight177 which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on an imaginary one, 'Thyrza,' were written." He was at the same time grieving over the loss of several of his earliest and dearest friends the companions of his joyous178 school-boy hours. To recur to the beautiful language of Moore, who writes with the kindred and kindling179 sympathies of a true poet: "All these recollections of the young and the dead mingled themselves in his mind with the image of her, who, though living, was for him, as much lost as they, and diffused180 that general feeling of sadness and fondness through his soul, which found a vent99 in these poems…. It was the blending of the two affections in his memory and imagination, that gave birth to an ideal object combining the best features of both, and drew from him those saddest and tenderest of love poems, in which we find all the depth and intensity181 of real feeling, touched over with such a light as no reality ever wore."
An early, innocent, and unfortunate passion, however fruitful of pain it may be to the man, is a lasting182 advantage to the poet. It is a well of sweet and bitter fancies; of refined and gentle sentiments; of elevated and ennobling thoughts; shut up in the deep recesses183 of the heart, keeping it green amidst the withering184 blights185 of the world, and, by its casual gushings and overflowings, recalling at times all the freshness, and innocence186, and enthusiasm of youthful days. Lord Byron was conscious of this effect, and purposely cherished and brooded over the remembrance of his early passion, and of all the scenes of Annesley Hall connected with it. It was this remembrance that attuned187 his mind to some of its most elevated and virtuous188 strains, and shed an inexpressible grace and pathos189 over his best productions.
Being thus put upon the traces of this little love-story, I cannot refrain from threading them out, as they appear from time to time in various passages of Lord Byron's works. During his subsequent rambles190 in the East, when time and distance had softened191 away his "early romance" almost into the remembrance of a pleasing and tender dream, he received accounts of the object of it, which represented her, still in her paternal192 Hall, among her native bowers of Annesley, surrounded by a blooming and beautiful family, yet a prey193 to secret and withering melancholy—
——"In her home,
A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy194,
Daughters and sons of beauty, but—behold!
Upon her face there was the tint195 of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife196,
And an unquiet drooping197 of the eye,
As if its lids were charged with unshed tears."
For an instant the buried tenderness of early youth and the fluttering hopes which accompanied it, seemed to have revived in his bosom, and the idea to have flashed upon his mind that his image might be connected with her secret woes—but he rejected the thought almost as soon as formed.
"What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill repress'd affection, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past."
The cause of her grief was a matter of rural comment in the neighborhood of Newstead and Annesley. It was disconnected from all idea of Lord Byron, but attributed to the harsh and capricious conduct of one to whose kindness and affection she had a sacred claim. The domestic sorrows which had long preyed198 in secret on her heart, at length affected her intellect, and the "bright morning star of Annesley" was eclipsed for ever.
"The lady of his love,—oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre199, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm: but her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy200."
Notwithstanding lapse of time, change of place, and a succession of splendid and spirit-stirring scenes in various countries, the quiet and gentle scene of his boyish love seems to have held a magic sway over the recollections of Lord Byron, and the image of Mary Chaworth to have unexpectedly obtruded201 itself upon his mind like some supernatural visitation. Such was the fact on the occasion of his marriage with Miss Milbanke; Annesley Hall and all its fond associations floated like a vision before his thoughts, even when at the altar, and on the point of pronouncing the nuptial36 vows202. The circumstance is related by him with a force and feeling that persuade us of its truth.
"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude203; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced,—and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke204
The fitting vows, but beard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him: he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remember'd chambers205, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining206 to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?"
The history of Lord Byron's union is too well known to need narration207. The errors, and humiliations, and heart-burnings that followed upon it, gave additional effect to the remembrance of his early passion, and tormented208 him with the idea, that had he been successful in his suit to the lovely heiress of Annesley, they might both have shared a happier destiny. In one of his manuscripts, written long after his marriage, having accidentally mentioned Miss Chaworth as "my M. A. C." "Alas!" exclaims he, with a sudden burst of feeling, "why do I say my? Our union would have healed feuds209 in which blood had been shed by our fathers; it would have joined lands broad and rich; it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill-matched in years-and—and—and—what has been the result?"
But enough of Annesley Hall and the poetical themes connected with it. I felt as if I could linger for hours about its ruined oratory, and silent hall, and neglected garden, and spin reveries and dream dreams, until all became an ideal world around me. The day, however, was fast declining, and the shadows of evening throwing deeper shades of melancholy about the place. Taking our leave of the worthy old housekeeper, therefore, with a small compensation and many thanks for her civilities, we mounted our horses and pursued our way back to Newstead Abbey.
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1
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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3
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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4
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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5
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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6
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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7
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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8
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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9
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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10
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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11
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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12
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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13
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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14
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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15
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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16
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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17
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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18
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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19
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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20
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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21
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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22
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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23
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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24
belie
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| v.掩饰，证明为假 | |
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25
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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26
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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27
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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28
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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29
musters
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的第三人称单数 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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30
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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31
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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32
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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33
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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34
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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35
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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36
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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37
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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38
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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39
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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40
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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41
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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42
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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43
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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44
graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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45
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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46
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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47
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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48
declivity
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| n.下坡，倾斜面 | |
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49
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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50
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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51
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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52
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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53
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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54
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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55
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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57
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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58
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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59
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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60
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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61
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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62
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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63
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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64
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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65
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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68
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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69
brooked
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| 容忍，忍受（brook的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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70
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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71
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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72
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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73
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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74
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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75
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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76
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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77
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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78
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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79
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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80
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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81
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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82
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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83
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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84
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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85
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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86
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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87
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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88
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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91
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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92
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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93
barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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94
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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95
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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96
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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97
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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98
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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99
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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100
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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101
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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102
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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103
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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104
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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105
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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106
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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107
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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108
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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109
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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110
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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111
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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112
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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113
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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114
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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115
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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116
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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117
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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118
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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119
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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120
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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121
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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122
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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123
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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124
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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125
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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126
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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127
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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128
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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129
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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131
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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132
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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133
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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134
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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135
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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136
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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137
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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138
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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139
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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140
casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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141
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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142
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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143
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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144
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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145
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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147
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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148
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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149
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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150
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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151
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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152
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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153
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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154
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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155
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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157
touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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158
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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159
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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160
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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161
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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162
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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163
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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164
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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165
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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166
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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167
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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168
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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169
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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170
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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171
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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172
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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173
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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174
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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175
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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176
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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177
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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178
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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179
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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180
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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181
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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182
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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183
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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184
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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185
blights
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| 使凋萎( blight的第三人称单数 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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186
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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187
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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188
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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189
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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190
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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191
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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192
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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193
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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194
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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195
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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196
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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197
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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198
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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199
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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200
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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201
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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202
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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203
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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204
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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205
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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206
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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207
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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208
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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209
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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