The road from Poitiers to Angoulême carries one through a country rolling and various in line—a country with a dash of Normandy in it, but facing south instead of west.
The villages are fewer than in Normandy, and make less mark in the landscape; but the way passes through two drowsy2 little towns, Civray and Ruffec, each distinguished3 by the possession of an important church of the typical Romanesque of Poitou. That at Civray, in particular, is remarkable5 enough to form the object of a special pilgrimage, and to find it precisely6 in one’s path seemed part of the general brightness of the day. Here again are the sculptured archivolt and the rich imagery of Poitiers—one strange mutilated figure of a headless horseman dominating the front from the great arcade7 above the doorway8, as at the church of the Sainte Croix96 in Bordeaux; but the fa?ade of Civray is astonishingly topped by fifteenth-century machicolations, which somehow, in spite of their later date, give it an air of greater age, of reaching back to a wild warring past.
Angoulême, set on a promontory9 between Charente and Anguienne, commands to the north, south and east a vast circuit of meadowy and woody undulations. The interior of the town struck one as dull, and without characteristic detail; but on the front of the twelfth-century cathedral, perched near the ledge10 of the cliff above the Anguienne, detail abounds12 as profusely13 as on the fa?ade of Notre Dame14 at Poitiers. It is, however, so much less subordinate to the general conception that one remembers rather the garlanding of archivolts, the clustering of figures in countless15 niches16 and arcades17, than the fundamental lines which should serve to bind18 them together; and the interior, roofed with cupolas after the manner of Saint Hilaire of Poitiers, is singularly stark19 and barren looking.
ANGOULêME: FA?ADE OF THE CATHEDRAL
But when one has paid due tribute to the cathedral one is called on, from its doorway, to97 recognize Angoulême’s other striking distinction: its splendid natural site, and the way in which art has used and made the most of it. Starting from a long leafy cours with private h?tels, a great avenue curves about the whole length of the walls, breaking midway into a terrace boldly hung above the valley, and ending in another leafy place, beneath which the slope of the hill has been skilfully20 transformed into a public garden. Angoulême now thrives on the manufacture of paper, and may therefore conceivably permit herself such civic21 adornments; but how of the many small hill-towns of France—such as Laon or Thiers, for instance—which apparently23 have only their past glory to subsist24 on, yet manage to lead up the admiring pilgrim by way of these sweeping25 approaches, encircling terraces and symmetrically planted esplanades? One can only salute26 once again the invincible27 French passion for form and fitness, and conclude that towns as well as nations somehow always manage to give themselves what they regard as essential, and that happy is the race to whom these things are the essentials.
On leaving Angoulême that afternoon we saw98 the first cypresses28 and the first almond blossoms. We were in the south at last; not the hot delicately pencilled Mediterranean29 south, which has always a hint of the East in it, but the temperate30 Aquitanian midi cooled by the gulf31 of Gascony. As one nears Bordeaux the country grows less broken, the horizon-line flatter; but there is one really noble impression, when, from the bridge of Saint André de Cubzac, one looks out on the lordly sweep of the Dordogne, just before it merges33 its waters with the Garonne to form the great estuary34 of the Gironde. Soon after comes an endless dusty faubourg, then the long stone bridge over the Garonne, and the proud river-front of Bordeaux—a screen of eighteenth-century buildings stretched along the crescent-shaped quay35. Bordeaux, thus approached, has indeed, as the guide-book says, fort grand air; and again one returns thanks to the motor, which almost always, avoiding the mean purlieus of the railway station, gives one these romantic or stately first impressions.
THIERS: VIEW OF THE TOWN FROM THE PONT DE SEYCHALLES
This river-front of Bordeaux is really little more than the architectural screen, a street or two deep, of a bustling36, bright but featureless99 commercial town, which, from the Middle Ages to the close of the eighteenth century, seems to have crowded all its history along the curve of the Garonne. Even the early church of the Holy Cross—contemporaneous with Notre Dame la Grande of Poitiers—lifts its triple row of Romanesque arcades but a few yards from the river; and close by is Saint Michel, a stately example of late Gothic, with the unusual adjunct of a detached bell-tower, not set at an angle, in Italian fashion, but facing the church squarely from a little green enclosure across the street. But these vestiges37 of old Bordeaux, in spite of their intrinsic interest, are, on the whole, less characteristic, less personal, than the mise-en-scène of its long quay: a row of fine old h?tels with sculptured pediments and stately doorways38, broken midway by the symmetrical buildings of the Exchange and the Custom House, and extending from the Arch of Triumph opposite the Pont de Bordeaux to the great Place des Quinconces, with its rostral columns and balustraded terrace above the river.
To the modern traveller there is food for thought in the fact that Bordeaux owes this great100 decorative39 composition—in which should be included the theatre unfolding its majestic40 peristyle at the head of the Place de la Comédie—to the magnificent taste and free expenditure41 of the Intendant Tourny, who ruled the province of Guyenne in the eighteenth century. Except at such high moments of ?sthetic sensibility as produced the monuments of Greece and republican Italy all large schemes of civic adornment22 have been due to the initiative of one man, and executed without much regard to the rights of the tax-payer; and should the citizen of a modern republic too rashly congratulate himself on exemption42 from the pillage43 productive of such results, he might with equal reason remark that the tribute lawfully44 extracted from him sometimes seems to produce no results whatever.
BORDEAUX: CHURCH OF THE HOLY CROSS
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On leaving Bordeaux we deserted45 the route nationale along the flat west bank of the Garonne, and recrossing the Pont de Bordeaux ran south through the white-wine region between Garonne and Dordogne—that charming strip of country which, because of the brackishness46 of the river tides, goes by the unexpected name of Entredeux-Mers.101 For several miles we skirted a line of white houses, half villa1, half chateau47, set in well-kept gardens; then came vineyards, as exquisitely48 kept, and packed into every cranny of the rocky coteaux, save where here and there a little town broke the view of the river—chief among them Langoiron, with its fine fortress-ruin, and Cadillac enclosed in stout49 quadrangular walls.
The latter place has the interest of being one of those symmetrically designed towns which, toward the close of the Middle Ages, were founded throughout southwestern France to draw “back to the land” a population depleted50 and demoralised by long years of warfare51 and barbarian52 invasion. These curious made-to-order towns—bastides, or villes neuves—were usually laid out on a rectilinear plan, with a town-hall forming the centre of an arcaded53 market-place, to which four streets led from gateways54 in the four walls. Among the most characteristic examples are Aigues Mortes, which Saint Louis called into existence to provide himself with a Mediterranean port, and Cordes, near Gaillac, founded a little later by Count Raymond of102 Toulouse, and somewhat ambitiously named by him after the city of Cordova.
At Cadillac the specific physiognomy of the medi?val bastide is overshadowed by the lofty proportions and high-pitched roof of the chateau which a sixteenth-century Duke of Epernon planted in an angle of the walls. The adjoining parish church—itself of no mean dimensions—was once but the private chapel55 of these same dukes, who have left such a large architectural impress on their small shabby town; and one grieves to learn that the chief monument of their rule has fallen to base uses, and been stripped of the fine interior decorations which its majestic roof once sheltered.
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South-west of Cadillac the road passes through a vast stretch of pine-forest with a dry aromatic56 undergrowth—an outskirt of the great landes that reach inward from the gulf of Gascony. On and on runs the white shadow-barred highway, between ranges of red boles and sun-flecked heathy clearings—and when, after long hours, one emerges from the unwonted mystery and solitude57 of this piny desert into the usual103 busy agricultural France, the land is breaking southward into hilly waves, and beyond the hills are the Pyrenees.
Yet one’s first real sight of them—so masked are they by lesser58 ranges—is got next day from the terrace at Pau, that astonishing balcony hung above the great amphitheatre of southwestern France. Seen thus, with the prosaic59 English-provincial-looking town at one’s back, and the park-like green coteaux intervening beyond the Gave, the austere60 white peaks, seemingly afloat in heaven (for their base is almost always lost in mist), have a disconcerting look of irrelevance61, of disproportion, of being subjected to a kind of indignity62 of inspection63, like caged carnivora in a zoo.
And Pau, on farther acquaintance, utterly64 refuses to be brought into any sort of credible65 relation with its great southern horizon; conducts itself, architecturally and socially, like a comfortable little spa in a plain, and rises only by a great deal of hoisting66 on the part of the imaginative sight-seer to the height of its own dapper brick castle, which it has domesticated67 into an empty desultory69 museum, and tethered down with a necklet of turf and flowers.
104 But Pau’s real purpose is to serve as the hub of a great wheel, of which the spokes70, made of smooth white roads, radiate away into every fold and cleft71 of the country. As a centre for excursions there is no place like it in France, because there is nothing in France that quite matches the sweetness and diversity of the long Pyrenean border. Nowhere else are the pastoral and sylvan72 so happily mated, nowhere the villages so compact of thrift73 and romance, the foreground so sweet, the distances so sublime74 and shining.
Whichever way one turns—down the winding75 southern valleys toward Lourdes and Argelès, or to Oloron and the Eaux Chaudes; westward76, over low hills, to the old town of Orthez and the Salies de Béarn; or east, again, to the plain of Tarbes in its great ring of snow-peaks—always there is the same fulness of impressions, always the same brightness and the same nobility.
For a culminating instance of these impressions one might choose, on a spring afternoon, the run to Lourdes by the valley of the Gave and Bétharram.
First rich meadows, hedgerows, village streets; then fields again and hills; then the brown rush105 of the Gave between wooded banks; and, where the river threads the arch of an ivied bridge, the turreted77 monastery78 walls and pilgrimage church of Bétharram—a deserted seventeenth-century Lourdes, giving one a hint of what the modern sanctuary79 might have been had the millions spent on it been drawn80 from the faithful when piety81 still walked with art.
Bétharram, since its devotees have forsaken82 it, is a quite negligible “sight,” relegated83 to small type even in the copious84 Joanne; yet in view of what is coming it is worth while to pause before its half-Spanish, half-Venetian church front, and to obey the suave85 yet noble gesture with which the Virgin86 above the doorway calls her pilgrims in.
She has only a low brown church to show, with heavy stucco angels spreading their gilded87 wings down a perspective of incense-fogged baroque; but the image of it will come back when presently, standing88 under the big dome68 of the Lourdes “Basilica,” one gives thanks that modern piety chose to build its own shrine89 instead of laying hands on an old one.
There are two Lourdes, the “grey” and the106 “white.” The former, undescribed and unvisited, is simply one of the most picturesque90 and feudal-looking hill villages in Europe. Planted on a steep rock at the mouth of the valley, the mountains pressing it close to the west and south, it opposes its unbroken walls and stern old keep to the other, the “white” town sprawling91 on the river bank—the town of the Basilica, the Rosary, the Grotto92: a congeries of pietistic hotels, pensions, pedlars’ booths and panoramas93, where the Grand H?tel du Casino or du Palais adjoins the Pension de la Première Apparition94, and the blue-sashed Vierge de Lourdes on the threshold calls attention to the electric light and déjeuner par4 petites tables within.
BéTHARRAM: THE BRIDGE
Out of this vast sea of vulgarism—the more aggressive and intolerable because its last waves break against one of the loveliest landscapes of this lovely country—rises what the uninstructed tourist might be pardoned for regarding as the casino of an eminently95 successful watering-place—as the Grotto beneath, with its drinking-fountains, baths, bottling-taps and boutiques, might stand for the “Source” or “Brunnen” where the hypochondriac pays toll96 to Hygieia107 before seeking relaxation97 in the gilded halls above. For the shrine of Bernadette has long since been overlaid by the machinery98 of a vast “business enterprise,” a scheme of life in which every heart-beat is itemised, tariffed and exploited, so that even the invocations encrusting by thousands the Basilica walls seem to record so many cases of definite “give and take,” so many bargains struck with heaven—en souvenir de mon v?u, reconnaissance pour une guérison, souvenir d’une prière exaucée, and so on—and as one turns away from this monument of a thriving industry one may be pardoned for remembering the plane-tree by the Ilissus and another invocation:
“Ye gods, give me beauty in the inward soul; and may the inner and the outer man be one.”
But beyond Lourdes is Argelès, and at the first turn of the road one is again in the fresh Pyrenean country, among budding crops, sleek99 fawn-coloured cattle, and the grave handsome peasantry who make one feel that the devotional ville d’eaux one has just left is a mushroom growth quite unrelated to the life of industry to which these agricultural landscapes testify.
108 There is always an added interest—architectural and racial—about the border regions where the idiosyncrasies of one people “run,” as it were, into those adjoining; and a key to the character of each is given by noting precisely what traits have survived in transplantation. The Pyreneans have a certain Spanish seriousness, but so tempered by Gallic good-humour that their address recalls the perfectly100 mingled101 courtesy and self-respect of the Tuscan peasant. One feels in it, at any rate, the result of an old civilisation102 blent with independence and simplicity103 of living; and these bold handsome men, straight of feature and limb, seem the natural product of their rich hill-country, so disciplined by industry, yet so romantically free.
ARGELèS-GAZOST: THE OLD BRIDGE
Argelès is a charming old hill-town, which has kept itself quite aloof104 from the new watering-place of Gazost in the plain; but the real object of the excursion lies higher up the valley, in a chestnut105 forest on the slope of the mountains. Here the tiny village of Saint Savin swarms106 bee-like about its great Romanesque church—a naked massive structure, like the skeleton of some prehistoric107 animal half emerging from the rock. Old as it109 is, it is rooted in remains108 of greater antiquity109—the fallen walls of an abbey of Charlemagne’s building, itself raised, the legend runs, on the site of a Roman villa which once served as the hermitage of Saint Savin, son of a Count of Barcelona.
It has been the fate of too many venerable architectural relics110 to sacrifice their bloom of vetusté to the scrupulous111 care which makes them look like conscious cossetted old ladies, of whom their admiring relatives say: “Should you ever suspect her age?”—and only in such remote monuments as that of Saint Savin does one get the sense of undisguised antiquity, of a long stolid112 existence exposed to every elemental influence. The result is an impression of rugged113, taciturn strength, and of mysterious memories striking back, as in the holy-water basin of the transept, and the uncouth114 capitals of the chapter-house, to those dark days when Christian115 civilisation hung in the balance, and the horn of Roland sounded down the pass.
But a medi?val church is always more or less in the order of nature: there is something more incongruous about a medi?val watering-place. Yet the Pyrenees abound11 in them; and at Cauterets,110 farther up the same valley, the monks116 of this very monastery of Saint Savin maintained, in the tenth century, “habitations to facilitate the use of the baths.” Of the original Cauterets, however, little remains, and to get an impression of an old ville d’eaux one must turn westward from Pau, and strike across the hills, by ways of exceeding beauty, to the Salies de Béarn. The frequentation of these saline springs dates back as far as the monkish117 charter of Cauterets; and the old town of the Salies, with its incredibly picturesque half-timbered houses, its black balconies and gables above the river, looks much as it must have when, in 1587, a charter was drawn up for the regular “exploitation” of the baths.
SALIES DE BéARN: VIEW OF OLD TOWN
Pushing still farther westward one meets the highway to Bayonne and Biarritz, and may thence pass south by Saint Jean de Luz and Hendaye to the Spanish border. But the spokes of the wheel radiate in so many different directions and lead to scenes so extraordinarily118 varied—from the savage119 gorge120 of the Eaux-Chaudes to the smiling vale of Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, from the romantic pass of the Pied de Roland to Fontarrabia perched like a painted Spanish111 Virgin on its rock above the gulf of Gascony—that to do them any sort of justice the comet-flight of the motor would have to be bound down to an orbit between Bidassoa and Garonne.
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Familiarity cannot blunt the wonder of the climb from Pau to the crest121 of the hills above Tarbes. Southward the Pyrenees unfold themselves in a long line of snows, and ahead every turn of the road gives a fresh glimpse of wood and valley, of thriving villages and farms, till the last jut122 of the ridge32 shows Tarbes far off in the plain, with the dim folds of the Cévennes clouding the eastern distance.
All along the northeastern skirt of the Pyrenees runs the same bright and opulent country; and at the old market-town of Montrejeau, where the Garonne cuts its way down the vale of Luchon, there is just such a fortunate grouping of hill and river, and distant high-perched ruin, as our grand-parents admired in landscapes of the romantic school. It was our good luck to enter Montrejeau on Easter Monday, while the market was going on, and the narrow streets were packed with mild cream-coloured cattle and their lively112 blue-smocked drivers. Great merriment and general good-humour marked our passage through the town to the big inn with its open galleries and old-fashioned courtyard; and here, the dining-room being as packed as the streets, our table was laid in a sunny old walled garden full of spring flowers and clipped yews123.
It seemed impossible that any incident of the afternoon should be quite at the height of this gay repast, consumed in fragrance124 and sunshine; but we began to think differently when, an hour or two later, we took the first curve of the long climb to Saint Bertrand de Comminges. This atom of a town, hugging a steep wedge of rock at the mouth of the vale of Luchon, was once—and for many centuries—a diocesan seat; and who, by all the spirits of incongruousness, should one of its last bishops126 be, but the uncle of that acute and lively Madame de Boigne whose memoirs127 have recently shed such light on the last days of the Old Régime?
By no effort of imagination can one project into the single perpendicular128 street of Saint Bertrand, topped by its rugged Gothic cathedral, the gallant129 figure of Monseigneur Dillon, one of113 those philosophical130 prelates whom one instinctively131 places against the lambris dorés of an episcopal palace hung with Boucher tapestries132. But in truth the little town has too old and strange a history to be conscious of so fugitive133 an incident of its past. For its foundations were laid by the mountain tribes who harassed134 Pompey’s legions and were driven back by him into the valley of the Garonne; and in due time a great temple rose on what is now the rock of the cathedral. Walls and ramparts presently enclosed it, and the passage of the Vandals having swept the dwellers135 of the plain back into this impregnable circuit, Comminges became an episcopal city when the Catholic Church was organised in Gaul. Thereafter it underwent all the vicissitudes136 of barbarian invasion, falling at last into such decay that for five hundred years it is said to have been without inhabitants. Yet the episcopal line was maintained without more than one long break, and in the eleventh century the diocese woke to life at the call of its saintly Bishop125, Bertrand de l’Isle Jourdain. Saint Bertrand began the cathedral and built about it the medi?val town which bears his name: and two hundred years later114 another Bertrand de Comminges, raised to the papacy as Clement137 V., but still mindful of the welfare of his former diocese, completed the Romanesque pile by the addition of a vast Gothic nave138 and choir139.
It is the church of Clement V. that still crowns the rock of Comminges, contrasting by its monumental proportions with the handful of houses enclosed in the walls at its base. The inhabitants of Comminges number at present but some five hundred, and the town subsists140, the guide-books tell one, only on its religious festivals, the fame of its monuments, and the fidelity141 of a few “old families” who are kept there par le prestige des souvenirs.
One wonders, climbing the steep street, which of its decrepit142 houses are inhabited by these interesting devotees of the past. No life is visible save that contributed by a few bleary old women squatted143 under mouldering145 arches, and a fire-fly dance of children about the stony146 square before the church; and the church itself seems withdrawn147 immeasurably far into the past, sunk back upon dim ancient memories of Gaul and Visigoth.
115 One gets an even intenser sense of these distances from the little cloister148 wedged against the church-flank and overhanging the radiant valley of the Garonne—a queer cramped149 enceinte, with squat144 arches supported by monster-girdled capitals, and in one case by a strange group of battered150 figures, supposedly the four Evangelists, one of whom—the Saint John—is notable in Romanesque arch?ology for bearing in his arms the limp lamb which is his attribute.
The effect of antiquity is enhanced, as at Saint Savin, by the beneficent neglect which has allowed the exterior151 of the building to take on all the scars and hues152 of age; so that one comes with a start of surprise on the rich and carefully tended interior, where a brilliant bloom of Renaissance153 decoration has overlaid the stout Gothic framework.
This airy curtain, masking choir, rood-screen and organ-loft in a lace-work of delicate yet hardy154 wood-carving, has kept, in the dry Pyrenean air, all its sharpness of detail, acquiring only a lustre155 of surface that gives it almost the texture156 of old bronze. It is wonderfully free and fanciful, yet tempered by the southern sense of form;116 subdued157 to the main lines of the composition, but breaking into the liveliest ripples158 of leaf and flower, of bird and sprite and angel, till its audacities159 culminate160 in the scaly161 undulations of the mermaids162 on the terminal seats of the choir—creatures of bale and beauty, who seem to have brought from across the Alps their pagan eyes and sidelong Lombard smile.
ST. BERTRAND-DE-COMMINGES: PIER163 OF THE FOUR EVANGELISTS IN THE CLOISTER
The finger-tailed monster of Chauvigny, the plaintively164 real bat of the choir-stall at Poitiers, and these siren evocations of a classic past group themselves curiously165 in the mind as embodiments of successive phases of human fancy, imaginative interpretations166 of life.
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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abounds
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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profusely
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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skilfully
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civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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adornment
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apparently
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subsist
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sweeping
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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invincible
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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merges
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| （使）混合( merge的第三人称单数 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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estuary
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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36
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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37
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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38
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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39
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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40
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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41
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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42
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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43
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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44
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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45
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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46
brackishness
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| 半咸性 | |
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47
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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48
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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50
depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
warfare
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|
| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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52
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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53
arcaded
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| adj.成为拱廊街道的，有列拱的 | |
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54
gateways
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|
| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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55
chapel
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|
| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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56
aromatic
|
|
| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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57
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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58
lesser
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|
| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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59
prosaic
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|
| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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60
austere
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|
| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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61
irrelevance
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|
| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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62
indignity
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|
| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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63
inspection
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|
| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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64
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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65
credible
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|
| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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66
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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67
domesticated
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|
| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
dome
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|
| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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69
desultory
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|
| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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70
spokes
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|
| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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71
cleft
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|
| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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72
sylvan
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|
| adj.森林的 | |
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73
thrift
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|
| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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74
sublime
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|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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75
winding
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|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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76
westward
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|
| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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77
turreted
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|
| a.(像炮塔般)旋转式的 | |
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78
monastery
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|
| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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79
sanctuary
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|
| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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80
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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81
piety
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|
| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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82
Forsaken
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|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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83
relegated
|
|
| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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84
copious
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|
| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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85
suave
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|
| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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86
virgin
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|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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87
gilded
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|
| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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88
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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89
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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90
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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91
sprawling
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|
| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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92
grotto
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|
| n.洞穴 | |
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93
panoramas
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|
| 全景画( panorama的名词复数 )； 全景照片； 一连串景象或事 | |
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94
apparition
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|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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95
eminently
|
|
| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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96
toll
|
|
| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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97
relaxation
|
|
| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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98
machinery
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|
| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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99
sleek
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|
| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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100
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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101
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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102
civilisation
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|
| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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103
simplicity
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|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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104
aloof
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|
| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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105
chestnut
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|
| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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106
swarms
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|
| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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107
prehistoric
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|
| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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108
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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109
antiquity
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|
| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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110
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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111
scrupulous
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|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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112
stolid
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|
| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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113
rugged
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|
| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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114
uncouth
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|
| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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115
Christian
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|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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116
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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117
monkish
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|
| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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118
extraordinarily
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|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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119
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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120
gorge
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|
| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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121
crest
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|
| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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122
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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123
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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124
fragrance
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|
| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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125
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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126
bishops
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|
| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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127
memoirs
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|
| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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128
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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129
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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130
philosophical
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|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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131
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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132
tapestries
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|
| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
fugitive
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|
| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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134
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
dwellers
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|
| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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136
vicissitudes
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|
| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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137
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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138
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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139
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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140
subsists
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|
| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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141
fidelity
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|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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142
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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143
squatted
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|
| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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144
squat
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|
| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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145
mouldering
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|
| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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146
stony
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|
| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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147
withdrawn
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|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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148
cloister
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|
| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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149
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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150
battered
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|
| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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151
exterior
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|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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152
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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153
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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154
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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155
lustre
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|
| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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156
texture
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|
| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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157
subdued
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|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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158
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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159
audacities
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|
| n.大胆( audacity的名词复数 )；鲁莽；胆大妄为；鲁莽行为 | |
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160
culminate
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| v.到绝顶，达于极点，达到高潮 | |
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161
scaly
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|
| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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162
mermaids
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|
| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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163
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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164
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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165
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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166
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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