I wandered about the western half of the town. This being built on a slight hill above the river, was older and better worth looking at than the flat eastern half, though it was lacking in trees, as may be guessed from the fact that some rooks had had to nest in horse-chestnut2 trees, which they avoid[266] if possible. Castle Street is the pleasantest in the town, a wide, straight old street of three-storey brick houses, rising almost imperceptibly away from the quay3. The houses, all private, have round-topped windows and are flat-fronted, except for two at the bottom which have bays. Across the upper end a big, sunlit, ivied house, taller than the others and of mellower4 brick, with a chestnut tree, projects somewhat, and on the pavement below it is a red pillar box.
The quay itself is good enough to recall Bideford. The river is straight for a distance, and separated from the quayside buildings only by the roadway. These buildings, ship-brokers’ and contractors’, port authority’s and customs and excise6 offices, a steam sawmill, and the “Fountain,” “Dolphin,” and “King’s Head,” are plain enough, mostly with tall flat fronts with scant7 lettering and no decoration, all in a block, looking over at the low level of the Castle Field north-eastward, where cattle grazed in the neighbourhood of chimney-stacks and railway signals. The Arthur was waiting for a cargo8. The Emma was unloading coal. But for the rest the quay was quiet, and a long greyhound lay stretched out across the roadway, every inch of him content in the warm sun.
The next best thing to the quay was the broad[267] sandstone Church of St. Mary and its tall spire9, standing10 on a daisied, cropped turf among thorns and a few tombstones, and walled in on three sides by houses, shops, and the “White Lion” and “Golden Ball.” The walls inside provide recesses11 for many tombs. The most memorable12 tomb in the church is that of an Irish soldier named Kingsmill. He is a fine fellow, albeit13 of stone, leaning on his elbow and looking at the world or nothing as if satisfied with his position. He “sleeps well”—no man, I should say, better. This and his features reminded me of a man still living, a man of brawn14 and spirit, a despiser of beastly foreigners, and a good sleeper15. I have seen him looking like old Kingsmill, with this one difference—that when he was in that stage of wakingness he had a cigarette between his lips invariably. He awoke, smiling at the goodness of sleep and of the world, and lay back, whoever called him, to sleep again. Resurrected at length, or partly so, he would sigh, but not in sorrow, and then swear, and turn over to reach a cigarette from beside the bed. The lighted cigarette regilded the world: he envied no man, any more than Kingsmill does, and certainly no woman. The cigarette, though enchanted17, came to an end, even so; and he did what Kingsmill perhaps never did, took a cold bath, but in a[268] manner which Kingsmill would have admired. The bath being filled to within an inch or two of overflowing18, he let himself slowly in until he was completely under water, where he lay in a state apparently19 of bliss20 lasting21 many seconds, for beneficent providence22 had ordained23 that he should be almost as much aquatic24 as he was earthly, worldly, and territorial25. Then out he came like Mars rising from the foam26. After drying himself for ten minutes he lit another cigarette and rambled27 about his room without artificial covering until he had smoked it. Next he began dressing28, an operation not to be described in my style in less than two volumes octavo, and worthy29 of something incomparably more godlike, for he was as a god and his dressing was godlike.... After Kingsmill’s effigy30 the chief spectacle of St. Mary’s is the unexpected, big Italianate picture of Christ’s descent from the cross, which forms an altar-piece. The story is that it was taken from a Spanish vessel—some add that it was one of the Great Armada; that it reached Bridgwater after a long seclusion31 at Plymouth, and was claimed by Plymouth when Bridgwater was seen to have it, but that Bridgwater kept it in a packing case for two years.
With the quay and the church ranks the statue of Robert Blake, if only for the inscription32,—
[269]
“Born in this town, 1598.
Died at sea, 1657.”
I am told that there is also a passage quoted from one Edmund Spencer, but I did not see it; nor is it so great an error as the inscription about Jefferies in Salisbury Cathedral, and they have less time in Bridgwater market-place than in Salisbury Cathedral for literary accuracy.
It was half-past ten on a beautiful morning when I rode out of the town by a very suburban33 suburb of villas34, elms, and a cemetery35. My road carried me at first along a low ridge36, so that over the stone walls I looked down east and northward37 to the vale of the Parrett; a misty38, not quite flat expanse of green, alternating with reddish and already crumbling39 ploughland, which was interrupted a mile away by the red walls, elms, and orchard40 of Chilton Trinity, and farther off, by the pale church tower of Cannington. Two horses were drawing a scarifier across the furrows41 of a field by the roadside. On my left or westward42 I looked beyond a more broken country, with white linen43 blowing on cottage garden bushes, to the dim Quantocks still far off. The sun was hot, but the wind blew from behind me, and the dust was not an offence when a motor car was not passing me. A chiff-chaff was singing at Wembdon. Larks45 crowded[270] their songs into a maze46 in every quarter. Overhead a single telegraph wire sizzled.
Three miles out of Bridgwater my road had dropped to the level, and proceeded over it to Cannington, but instead of sticking to it I turned at a smithy on my left into a by-road, which wound between low hedges of thorn and maple47 mounted either on ivied walls or on banks covered with celandines. It passed Bradley Green’s few cottages, the “Malt Shovel” inn, an oak copse with a chiff-chaff in it, and here a robin48 on a wall, and there a linnet on a thorn tip, in a slightly up and down country of grass, ploughland, and orchard. In a mile the road twisted at right angles to cross the Cannington brook49 and rejoin the main road; and at this angle, by a green bowered50 lane, was a stone house and chapel52 in one. This was Blackmoor Manor53 Farm, a group that no longer has anything stately or sacred save what it owes to its antiquity54 and continuous human occupation.
The main road, when I rejoined it, was rising once more between banks of gorse. So bright was the blossom of the gorse that its branches were shadowy and nearly invisible in the brightness. For the sun was now as warm as ever it need be for a man who can move himself from place to place. On both hands the undulating land was[271] warm and misty, but particularly on the right. There, as I approached Swang Farm, at the third milestone55 from Nether56 Stowey, a hill, almost as graceful57 as Ball Hill near Stawell, rose parallel to the road, its long-curving ridge about a third of a mile away. Its smooth flank was apportioned58 by hedgerows and a few elms among bare ploughland and young corn above, and drabby grass with sheep on it below. Near by, on the other side, was another such hill, a nameless one above Halsey Cross Farm, which I first took notice of when it was cut in two perpendicularly59 by the signpost pointing to Spaxton. It was but a blunt, conical hillside of green corn, rosy60 ploughland, sheep-fed pasture, and a few elms in the partitions; and behind it the dim Quantocks. Between these two hills, at a spot where the road twists again at right angles, a brick summer-house perched on the walled roadside bank, at the very corner. Here, as I heard, a few generations ago, ladies from the house near by used to sit to watch for the coaches. I was now two hundred feet up in the foothills of the Quantocks. Three or four miles in front bulked the moorlands of the main ridge.
Nether Stowey begins with a church and a farm and farmyard in a group. Then follows a street of cottages without front gardens, dominated by a[272] smooth green “castle” rampart a third of a mile away. The street ends in a “First and Last Inn” on one side, and a cottage on the other, announced as formerly62 Coleridge’s by an inscription and a stone wreath of dull reddish brown. Altogether Nether Stowey offered no temptations to be compared with those of the road leading out of it. Immediately outside the village it was walled by deep banks, and on these grew arum, celandine, and nettle63, with bushes of new-leaved blackthorn and spindle. Here I saw the first starry64, white stitchworts or milkmaids. And henceforward I was always walking steeply up or steeply down one of the medley65 of lesser66 hills. Below on the right was chiefly red ploughland; above on the left wilder and wilder heights of sheep-fed moorland. The road was visible ahead, looping half way up the slopes.
Honeysuckle ramped67 on the banks of the deep-worn road in such profusion68 as I had never before seen. The sky had clouded softly, and the sun-warmed misty woods of the coombs, the noise of slender waters threading them, the exuberant69 young herbage, the pure flowers such as stitchwort and the pink and “silver white” cuckoo flowers, but above all the abounding70 honeysuckle, produced an effect of wildness and richness, purity and softness,[273] so vivid that the association of Nether Stowey was hardly needed to summon up Coleridge. The mere71 imagination of what these banks would be like when the honeysuckle was in flower was enough to suggest the poet. I became fantastic, and said to myself that the honeysuckle was worthy to provide the honeydew for nourishing his genius; even that its magic might have touched that genius to life—which is absurd. And yet magic alone could have led Coleridge safely through the style of his age, the style of the author of Jolliffe’s epitaph at Kilmersdon, the style of Stephen Duck and his benefactors72, the style of his own boyish effusions, where he personified Misfortune, Love, Wisdom, Virtue74, Fortune, and Content with the aid of capitals. He fell again when weary into lines like,—
“Thro’ vales irriguous, and thro’ green retreats;”
he rose and fell once more, until finally the conventions had either slipped away or been adopted or subdued75. Perhaps it was not in vain, or so fatuous76 as it seems to us, that he personified, like any lady or gentleman of the day,—
“The hideous77 offspring of Disease,
Swoln Dropsy ignorant of Rest,
And Fever garb’d in scarlet78 vest;
[274]
Consumption driving the quick hearse,
And Gout that howls the frequent curse;
With Apoplex of heavy head
That surely aims his dart79 of lead.”
Whether we can follow him or not into intimacy80 with those “beings of higher class than man,” Fire, Famine, Slaughter81, Woes82, and Young-eyed Joys, the more or less than fleshly creatures of his later poems may owe something to that early dressing up, as well as to the honeydew-fed raptures84 of Nether Stowey.
Some of the early poems reveal underneath85 the dismal86 tawdry vesture of contemporary diction the beginnings of what we now know as Coleridge. It is to be seen in the sonnet87, “To the Autumnal Moon,” written in 1788 when he was sixteen, which begins,—
“Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night,
Mother of Wildly-working visions hail;”
and then again more subtly in 1795, when he is looking for a Pantisocratic dell,—
“Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray,
And dancing to the moonlight roundelay,
The Wizard Passions weave an holy spell” ...
though it is impossible to say that the collocation of calm and careless, wizard and holy, would have[275] arrested us had Coleridge made no advance from it, had he remained a minor88 poet. The combination of mild and wild is a characteristic one, partly instinctive89, partly an intellectual desire, as he shows by speaking of a “soft impassioned voice, correctly wild.” The two come quaintly90 together in his image of,—
“Affection meek91
(Her bosom92 bare, and wildly pale her cheek),”
and nobly in the picture of Joan of Arc,—
“Bold her mien93,
And like a haughty94 huntress of the woods
She moved: yet sure she was a gentle maid.”
Coleridge loved equally mildness and wildness, as I saw them on the one hand in the warm red fields, the gorse smouldering with bloom, the soft delicious greenery of the banks; and on the other hand in the stag’s home, the dark, bleak95 ridges96 of heather or pine, the deep-carved coombs. Mildness, meekness97, gentleness, softness, made appeals both sensuous98 and spiritual to the poet’s chaste99 and voluptuous100 affections and to something homely101 in him, while his spirituality, responding to the wildness, branched forth102 into metaphysics and natural magic. Some time passed before the combining was complete. There was, for example, a tendency to[276] naiveté and plainness, to the uninspired accuracy of “pinky-silver skin” (of a birch tree), and to the matter of fact—
“The Mariners103 gave it biscuit worms—”
which he cut out of “The Ancient Mariner104.” He cut out of “This Lime-tree Bower51 my Prison,” a phrase informing us that he was kept prisoner by a burn. At first he called “the grand old ballad105 of Sir Patrick Spens” the “dear old ballad,” and the lines,—
“Yon crescent Moon is fixed106 as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue”
were followed by—
“A boat becalm’d, a lovely sky-canoe”
It was natural to him at first to address Wordsworth as
“O Friend! O Teacher! God’s great gift to me!”
and it became natural to him to cut out the last phrase. Formerly Geraldine said to Christabel, “I’m better now”; and instead of lying entranced she lay “in fits.” The poem still includes the phrase describing Christabel’s eyes,—
“Each about to have a tear;”
while “Frost at Midnight” retains the allusion107 to[277] the “fluttering stranger” in the fire, the filmy blue flame, as a note instructs us, “supposed to portend108 the arrival of some absent friend.” There is, too, a whole class of homely poems, on receiving the news of his child’s birth, on being warned not to bathe in the sea: “God be with thee, gladsome Ocean,” it begins.
The mildness, meekness, gentleness, beloved of Coleridge’s tender and effusive109 nature, appear with such diverse company as in “Poverty’s meek woe83,” “mild and manliest110 melancholy,” and “mild moon-mellow’d foliage,” and repeated with variations four times in one verse of the lines written at Shurton Bars, near Bridgwater,—
“I felt it prompt the tender Dream,
When slowly sank the Day’s last gleam;
You rous’d each gentler sense,
As sighing o’er the Blossom’s bloom
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
With viewless influence.”
Sometimes the mildness expands to conscious luxury, as in the poem “Composed during Illness, and in Absence,” beginning,—
“Dim Hour, that sleep’st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise and yoke111 the Turtles to thy car!
Bend o’er the traces, blame each lingering Dove,
And give me to the bosom of my Love!
[278]
My gentle Love, caressing112 and carest,
With heaving heart shall carol me to rest!
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes—
Lull113 with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs,
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies114 o’er my pallid115 cheek.”
Here he is half laughing at his own tendency, but he had only transitory thoughts of checking it. In “Reflections on having left a Place of Retirement,” he speaks of dreaming,—
“On rose-leaf beds, pampering116 the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use.”
He is in revolt against the tendency, but only with his intellect. The honeysuckle intoxicates117 his heart too surely under the “indulgent skies” of that summer with Wordsworth.
A marked variety of his luxury is disclosed by his many references to the maiden’s bosom and the swelling118 of it with emotion. I choose the following example because it includes so much that is characteristic besides,—
“Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon,
‘Most musical, most melancholy’ Bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tune73,
Tho’ sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-armed Lady’s harp119,
What time the languishment120 of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
[279]
Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,
My Sara—best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the Husband’s promised name!”
This quality is more effective in company with the other quality and relieved by it. I mean the quality which responds to ghostliness and to the wildness of Nature. “The Keepsake” has it perfect, in this picture of a girl,—
“In the cool morning twilight121, early waked
By her full bosom’s joyous122 restlessness,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
Over their dim, fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet123
In the smooth, scarcely-moving river-pool.”
It is perfect again, differently combined, in part of “The ?olian Harp,”—
“The long sequacious124 notes
Over delicious surges sink and rise,
Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales125 from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch61, hovering126 on untam’d wing!”
The work of this best period, the Quantock[280] sojourn127, shows this uniting of richness and delicacy128, of sweetness and freshness, of sensuousness129 and wildness, of spirit and sense, irresistibly130 intruding131 on “Religious Musings,” as here,—
“When in some hour of solemn jubilee132
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies
And odours snatched from beds of Amaranth,
And they, that from the crystal river of life
Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial133 gales;”
or, as in “Christabel” and “The Ancient Mariner,” both written in the Quantocks, raised again and again to a peculiar134 harmony from the innermost parts of our poetry’s holy of holies.
Except for Coleridge, I had the road to myself between Nether Stowey and Holford. Sheep were feeding on some of the slopes, and in one coomb woodmen were trimming cordwood among prostrate135 regiments136 of oak trees; but these eaters of grass, or of bread and cheese and bacon, were ghosts by comparison with the man who wrote “The Ancient Mariner;” the very hills, their chasms137 and processions of beeches139, were made unforgettable by his May opium140 dream of—
“That deep romantic chasm138 which slanted141
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn142 cover!
[281]
A savage143 place as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning144 moon was haunted
By woman wailing145 for her demon146 lover.”
Then the sea. At a mile past Holford the road bent147 sharp to the left and west, to get between the sea and the Quantocks. A sign-board pointed148 to the right to Stringston’s red-roofed white church. On the left two converging149 hillsides framed a wedge of sea, divided into parallel bands of gray and blue. It came as if it were a reward, an achievement, the unsuspected aim of my meanderings. A long drift of smoke lay over it from the seaward edge of the hills. The bottom of the wedge held the village of Kilve, and, a little apart, the cube of Kilve Court. As if to a goal I raced downhill to Kilve and its brook.
I had lunch at the “Hood Arms,” and made up my mind to stay there for that night. Two o’clock had not long passed when I left the inn and the main road and went north to Kilve Church and the sea. The by-road accompanied the brook, and skirted its apple orchards150 and tall poplars wagging myriads151 of wine-red catkins. Having passed a mill, a farm, and a cottage or two, the road took me to the church and its big, short-boughed yew152 tree, and became a farm track only. The small towered church is a poor place, clean and newly repointed[282] outside, the arches filled in which had apparently communicated with a side chapel, and all its possible crosses lacking. Inside it has a cheap rickety gallery at the tower end, and was being stripped of its plaster to show the wood carving153 at the cornice. Tablets hang on the wall in memory of people named Cunditt and Sweeting, and of Norah Muriel Sweet-Escott, aged154 twenty, who died in South Africa of yellow fever. As I was leaving the church, entered the Other Man. Laughing nervously155 at the encounter, he explained that he had come to Kilve to see if it really had a weather-cock. He reminded me of Wordsworth’s “Anecdote for Fathers,” where the poet pesters156 his son of five to give his reason for preferring Liswyn to Kilve, until, a broad, gilded16 vane catching157 his eye, the child gives the inspired answer,—
“At Kilve there is no weather-cock;
And that’s the reason why.”
“There is no weather-cock,” said the Other Man, laughing a little more freely and disappearing for the last time. A white-fronted farm-house, the heavily ivy158-mantled ruin of a chantry adjacent, green mounds159 of long submerged masonry160, and a big knobby poplar with wine-red catkins, are next neighbours to the church, a stone’s throw from the[283] churchyard. The chantry has come to this by several stages. Part of it, for example, has been used as a dwelling161, and adapted to the purpose by makeshift methods, which now add a sordid162, contumelious element to the ruins. Fowls163 pecked about the chambers164 in the dust, in the bramble, ivy, and nettles165. The big poplar stands, or, rather, reclines just off the ground, between the chantry and the brook. The running water led me seaward, through a tangled166 thicket167 of scrub oak, gorse, and bramble, filled in with teasel and burdock, and through a small marshy168 flag-bed. A low cliff, pierced by the stream, separates the beach from the rough, undulating, briery pasture. This cliff of sand and rock gave me shelter from the wind; the flat gray pebbles169 gave me a seat; and I looked out to sea.
A ragged171 sky hung threatening over a sea that was placid172 but corrugated173 and of the colour of slate174, having a margin175 of black at the horizon. The water was hardly distinguishable, save by its motion, from the broad beach of gray pools, blackened pebbles, and low rock edges. Only the most fleeting176 and narrow lights fell upon the expanse, now on a solitary177 sail, now on the pale lighthouse of Flat Holm far out. Between this island, which just broke the surface of the sea on the left, and[284] Brean Down, the last outpost of the mainland on the right, the cloudy pile of Steep Holm towered up.
KILVE.
“A ragged sky hung threatening over a sea that was placid but corrugated, and of the colour of slate, save a margin of black at the horizon.”
Not even the sea could altogether detain the eyes from the land scene westward; for there massed and jostled themselves together the main eminences178 of Exmoor, of a uniform gray, soft and unmoulded, that was lost from time to time either in the wild, hurrying, and fitfully gleaming sky, or in tawny179 smoke rolling low down from the Quantocks seaward. Hardly less sublime180 was the long, clear-cut ridge between me and Exmoor, low but precipitous, projecting into the sea a mile or two distant, and bearing a dark church tower like a horn. The fire on the Quantocks now burnt scarlet.
The Kilve brook on my left was noisily twisting over the pebbles and the slanting181, gray, mossy-weeded rock down to the sea, tossing up a light but unceasing spray; and pied wagtails flitted from the fresh water to the salt over the rocks. But what I was most glad to see was the meadow pipit. Feebly, like a minor lark44, and silently, he launched himself twenty or thirty feet up from the wet, dark rock; then, with wings uplifted and body curved to a keel like a crescent, he descended183 slantwise, singing the most passionate184 and thrilling-sweet of all songs[285] that “o’er inform this tenement185 of clay” until he alighted. Before one had finished another began, and not a moment was the song silenced. Here, too, and among the briers of the rough pasture behind the cliff, the wheatear, as clean as a star, flirted186 his tail and showed his whiteness.
Over Exmoor storm and sun quarrelled in the cauldron, but here only one drop fell on each dry, warm pebble170 and vanished. The wind slackened; the heat grew; the warm, soft gray sky closed in and imprisoned187 the air which the earth breathed. It was pleasant to get hot out of doors in March. It was pleasant to bicycle up out of Kilve and away west on the Minehead road, which carried me well up round the end of the Quantocks. I took the second turning seaward for East Quantoxhead. The cottage gardens in this lane were rich in wallflowers, daffodils, and jonquils; and japonica was blood-red on the walls. Still better were the hedges past the few cottages, because they were green entirely188, and were the first I had seen so in that spring. Nor were they mere thorn or elder hedges, but interwoven elm, thorn, brier, and elder, all with their young leaves expanded. But the heat was already great, and I was going downhill too much not to reflect that I should have to come up again. The pale Court House and con5 tiguous church of East Quantoxhead, homes of the living and of the dead Luttrells for many centuries, as men go, were still a quarter of a mile away across a wide meadow with oak trees, and I never got nearer. I turned instead along a hedged, stony189 lane upon the left. It soon created a suspicion that I ought not to have taken it. I stuck to it, however, uphill and then precipitously down under untrimmed hedges, where it was no better than a river bed of mud and stones, until it ceased to exist, having emerged into the fields which it served. As I refused to return, I had to ascend190 along the edges of several ploughed fields and among sheepfolds and through gateways191 before I recovered the main road at about the sixth milestone from Nether Stowey. The heat, the climbing with a bicycle, and, above all, the useless, indignant impatience192 of annoyance193, tired me; yet I rode on westward. The gorse was beautiful on the hills above, and in the old sandstone quarries194 beside the road. The sides of these quarries were bearded with it, their floors were carpeted with gilt195 moss182, out of which rose up straight young larch196 trees in freshest green. At the head of a deep coomb of oak and foxglove the rock had been cut away for the widening of the road, and from the newly exposed sandstone hundreds of the rough rosettes of foxglove[287] had broken forth; but a smooth slab197 had been devoted198 to an advertisement of somebody’s flock of long-woolled Devon sheep.
The approach to West Quantoxhead and the great house of St. Audries was lined by fences, and I rode down past them with dread199 of the dismal walk back again. But at the foot the fence came to an end. The pale gorsy turf of the deer park fell away on the right to the great house and its protecting woods. Daffodils and primroses200 were thick on the left-hand slopes. And there was a fountain of ever-running water at the roadside. I took the water inwardly and outwardly, and no longer troubled about the difficulty of ascent201 and return, even when I found myself slipping down hill for two miles into Williton. The high beacons202 of Exmoor were hanging before me, scarfed and coifed by clouds of the sunset, and grand were these half-earthly and half-aerial heights, but lovelier was the gentle hill much nearer and a little to the left of my course. For the sun, sinking on the right side of it, blessed and honoured this hill above all other hills. Both its woods and pastures were burning subduedly with a mild orange fire, without being consumed. It was the marriage of heaven and earth. The grim beacons behind guarded the couch. A white farm below was as white as moonlight.
Williton begins with a railway station and a workhouse, yet the first half mile of it is a street without a shop, of white or pale-washed, often thatched cottages and small houses, each separated from the road by flowery gardens of various breadths, some mere flowery strips, all good. To the fact that it was on the main road from Minehead to Bridgwater it was as indifferent as to the marriage of heaven and earth. The straight road was smooth, pale, and empty. Where it runs into another road, as the down stroke runs into the cross stroke of a T, and has a signpost to Watchet on the right, Bicknoller and Minehead on the left, the shops begin. Here, though it was six, and notwithstanding the marriage of heaven and earth, I had tea, and furthermore ate cream with a spoon, until I had had almost as much as I desired.
Now although I had seemed to be riding continually downhill into Williton, I found it nearly all downhill back to Kilve. The road was like a stream on which I floated in the shadows of trees and steep hillsides. The light was slowly departing, and still on some of the slopes the compact gorse bushes were like flocks of golden fleeces. Robins203 and blackbirds sang while bats were flitting about me. Day was not dead but sleeping, and the few stars overhead asked silence. By the turn[289]ing to East Quantoxhead some cottagers talked in low tones. Kilve, dark and quiet, showed one or two faint lights. Only when I lay in bed did I recognize the two sounds that made the murmurous204 silence of Kilve—the whisper of its brook, and the bleat205 of sheep very far off.
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linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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2
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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3
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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4
mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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5
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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6
excise
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| n.(国产)货物税；vt.切除，删去 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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8
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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9
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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10
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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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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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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14
brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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15
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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16
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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18
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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19
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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20
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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21
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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22
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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23
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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24
aquatic
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| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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25
territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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26
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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27
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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28
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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29
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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30
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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31
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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32
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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33
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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34
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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35
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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36
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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37
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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38
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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39
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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40
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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41
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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43
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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44
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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45
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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46
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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47
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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48
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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49
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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50
bowered
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| adj.凉亭的，有树荫的 | |
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51
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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52
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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53
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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54
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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55
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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56
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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57
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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58
apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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59
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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60
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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61
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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62
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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63
nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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64
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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65
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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66
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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67
ramped
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| 土堤斜坡( ramp的过去式和过去分词 )； 斜道； 斜路； （装车或上下飞机的）活动梯 | |
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68
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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69
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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70
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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71
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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72
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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73
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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74
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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75
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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76
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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77
hideous
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|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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78
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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79
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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80
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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81
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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82
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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83
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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84
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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85
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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86
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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87
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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88
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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89
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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90
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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91
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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92
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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93
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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94
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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95
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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96
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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97
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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98
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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99
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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100
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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101
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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102
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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103
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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104
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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105
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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106
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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107
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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108
portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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109
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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110
manliest
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| manly（有男子气概的）的最高级形式 | |
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111
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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112
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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113
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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114
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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115
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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116
pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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117
intoxicates
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| 使喝醉（intoxicate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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118
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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119
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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120
languishment
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| 衰弱，无力，呆滞 | |
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121
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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122
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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123
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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124
sequacious
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| adj.前后一致的；盲从的；顺从的 | |
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125
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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126
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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127
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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128
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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129
sensuousness
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| n.知觉 | |
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130
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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131
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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132
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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133
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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134
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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135
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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136
regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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137
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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138
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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139
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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140
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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141
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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142
cedarn
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| 杉的，杉木制的 | |
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143
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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144
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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145
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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146
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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147
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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148
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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149
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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150
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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151
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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152
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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153
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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154
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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155
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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156
pesters
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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158
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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159
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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160
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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161
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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162
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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163
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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164
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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165
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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166
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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167
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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168
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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169
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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170
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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171
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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172
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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173
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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174
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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175
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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176
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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177
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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178
eminences
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| 卓越( eminence的名词复数 )； 著名； 高地； 山丘 | |
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179
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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180
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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181
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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182
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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183
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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184
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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185
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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186
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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189
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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190
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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191
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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192
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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193
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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194
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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195
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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196
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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197
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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198
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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199
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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200
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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201
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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202
beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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203
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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204
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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205
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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