Wild scrambling2 is the portion of him who would explore the coast-line between Clovelly and Hartland, and those who undertake the task, or the pleasure—and it is both—are few. The way lies by the church and Clovelly Court, adjoining: that church where Kingsley’s father was rector, and whence the novelist of “Westward Ho!” himself drew so much inspiration. Quaint3 epitaphs are found, notably4:
“Think not that youth will keep you free,
For Death at twenty-seven months called off me.”
To visit the cliff-top of Gallantry Bower5, in Clovelly Park, a fee is demanded, as also to see Mouth Mill; the receipts, in common with those paid for entrance to the Hobby Drive, being devoted6, it is announced, “to local charities.” Now Clovelly is a small place, and prosperous, the receipts large, and the demands for charity necessarily small: it seems to an unprejudiced observer that the statement needs to be amplified7. Moreover,225 it is not altogether fair that visitors should be taxed by the owners of Clovelly Court, who receive an excellent rent-roll from Clovelly village, and should thus relieve themselves of a natural obligation to return in charity a percentage of the tribute they are paid.
CLOVELLY, FROM THE SEA.
But now for Mouth Mill. Disregarding all notices with such flapdoodle as “Private,” and “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” generally known among lawyers as “wooden liars,” you turn from Clovelly churchyard into a farmyard, then left and then right, along some park-like paths; soon finding yourself on a rough upland in company with a rude signpost pointing a wizened9 finger “To Hartland.” On the right is a gate marked “Private,” leading into a woodland drive. Taking no notice of that impudent10 attempt to warn the inoffensive stranger off a remarkably11 pretty coast scene, you descend12 through the woods by a226 well-defined road, and come at last to Mouth Mill; one of the typical gullies of this coast, with a stream losing itself on a beach composed of giant pebbles14 and strange, contorted rocks. A lonely cottage, the usual limekiln, and a landing-place, obviously where the Clovelly Court coals are landed, are the items completing the scene. A pyramidal rock of almost coal-black hue15 discloses itself as you scramble16 down to the sea. This is Black Church Rock: a huge mass with a hole in the middle of it, and all its strata17 on end.
CLOVELLY CHURCH.
The unimpeded cliff-path scrambler can find a way from this beach up Windbury Head. Arrived there, in absolute solitude18, down dives the path again, and up to the gigantic mass of Exmansworthy Cliff. Here the going is extremely difficult, but the scenery is sufficient reward, even for these exertions19. Fatacott Cliff, the loftiest of all these227 ramparted outlooks, midway between Clovelly and Hartland, is the scene of many a shipwreck20. Few winters pass without some unfortunate vessel21 ending here.
BLACK CHURCH ROCK.
A long succession of cliffs leads at last to Eldern Point and thence into the wild inlet of Shipload Bay, whose shore, like most of these nooks, is paved with dark ribs22 of rock. Finally, West Titchberry Cliffs and Barley23 Bay, lead to Hartland Point itself; noblest in outline of all; with its coastguard station on the windy ridge24, and the lighthouse, built so recently as 1874, on a rocky platform, two-thirds of the way down to the sea.
Here and onwards to Upright Cliff and Hartland Quay, the furious wash of the Atlantic is supremely25 noticeable, and has carved out the face of the land in fantastic manner. Pillared rocks, styled by some imaginative geographer26 the “Cow and228 Calf27,” astonish by their bold aspect, and still more by their want of resemblance to Calf or Cow.
Follows then the hollow of Smoothlands, with Damehole Point; on the very verge28, as it would seem, of becoming an island, through the violence of the sea eating away the softer parts of the rock. Beyond this, the hollow of Black Mouth, well named from its inky rock ledges29, opens, with an enchanting30 view inland, up a wooded valley, where a noble mansion31 may be seen in the distance.
That is “Hartland Abbey,” the country residence so-called. Here, in the beautiful valley that, with its broad, level bottom, is more than a “combe,” Gytha, wife of Earl Godwin and mother of the unfortunate King Harold, who lost life and kingdom at the Battle of Hastings, founded a college of secular32 canons, as a thank-offering to God and St. Nectan for the preservation33 of her husband from shipwreck. In the reign34 of Henry the Second, this establishment was re-founded by Geoffry de Dynham as a monastery35 under Augustine rule; and through the centuries it prospered36 in this remote valley progressively enriched by the pious37 and the wicked alike: by the pious out of their piety38, and by the wicked by way of compounding for their sins. And at last it ended in the usual confiscating39 way which makes the story of the monasteries40 in the time of Henry the Eighth seem to some so unmerited a tragedy, and to others a tardy41, but well-earned retribution. From the Abbot who surrendered Hartland Abbey and its lands to Henry the Eighth, the property went by231 royal gift to one whose own name was, curiously42 enough, Abbott. From him it descended43 in turn to the Luttrells, the Orchards45, and the Bucks46, who in 1858 changed their name to Stucley. It was an Orchard44 who in 1779 built the existing mansion, that is seated so comfortably in the sheltered green strath, away from the winds rioting on those exposed uplands from which we have just now descended. He built in that allusive47 architectural style for which one may coin the word “ecclesiesque”; a midway halting between church architecture and domestic. Strange to say, he retained the Early English cloisters48 of the old Abbey, and here they are to this day.
HARTLAND POINT.
It really is strange that he should—or that his architect, for him, should—have kept the cloisters, for the spirit of the age—it was the age of Horace Walpole, you know—was remarkably addicted49 to a kind of wry-necked appreciation50 of Gothic architecture, and given to destroy genuine antiquities51, only to erect52 on the site of them imitative Gothic with eighteenth-century frills and embellishments. The “men of taste” who flourished towards the close of the eighteenth century were quite convinced that they could have taught the men who built in earlier ages something new in the way of Gothic: and they were, in a way, right. But what a way it was!
There were some queer characters in these districts of old, and none more striking than an ancient scion53 of the Stucley family—Thomas232 Stucley, who was born in, or about, 1525 and died fighting the Moors54, at the Battle of Alcazar, ex parte the King of Portugal, in 1578. There can be little doubt that, when he ended thus, Queen Elizabeth and her Ministers of State, like Dogberry, thanked God they were rid of a knave55; for Thomas Stucley was adventurer, pirate, renegade, and traitor57 to his country, and the cause of innumerable alarms and embarrassments58. One of the five sons of Sir Hugh Stucley, of Affeton, near Ilfracombe, he formed something of a mystery: vague rumours59 that he was really an illegitimate son of Henry the Eighth following all his escapades. These were strengthened by the lenient60 treatment with which his most serious and inexcusable doings were visited by Queen Elizabeth. Always of an adventurous61 and reckless nature, and perhaps not a little tainted62 with madness, he proposed, when scarce more than a youth, to colonise Florida, and in 1563 set out with six ships and three hundred men, for the purpose. There must have been something unusual in the relations between himself and Queen Elizabeth, for him to have interviewed her, before he set out, in the terms ascribed to him. “He blushed not,” we read, “to tell Elizabeth to her face that he preferred rather to be sovereign of a molehill than the highest subject to the greatest king in Christendom, and that he was assured he should be a prince before his death.”
Humouring this extravagant63 language, Elizabeth replied, “I hope I shall hear from you when you are settled in your principality.”
233 “I will write unto you,” quoth Stucley.
“In what language?” asked the Queen.
“In the style of princes,” returned he; “to our dear sister.”
Fine language, this, to employ to one of those imperious Tudors, whose idea of the most effective repartee64 was the capital one of the headsman’s axe8!
Stucley, however, appears to have been allowed the most extraordinary licence. Instead of colonising Florida and entering the family circle of princes, he roved the seas for two years, occupying his formidable fleet in piracy65. Not even in the age of Elizabeth, when the Armada incident was so fresh, could the nation afford to allow piratical attacks upon foreigners to be conducted on this scale. The English Ambassador to the Court of Madrid “hung his head for shame” when the doings of Stucley were brought to his notice, and that irresponsible person was disavowed. A squadron was even fitted out to arrest him, and did so at Cork66 in 1565; but he was merely, in effect, told not to do it again, and released. Afterwards he was employed by the Government in Ireland; but, with the passion for intrigue67 and an absolute inability to act in a straightforward68 manner that possessed69 him, he became a Roman Catholic, and, resorting to Spain, endeavoured to bring about a Spanish invasion of Ireland. In anticipation70 of the success of this project, the King of Spain created him Duke of Ireland, but the plan failed. At length,234 busy in all quarters in seeking trouble, he aided the Portuguese71 in Morocco, and was slain72 in the fighting there.
The exploits of this restless person were made much of in a book of his adventures published not long after his death, and in it he appears something of a hero; but a detailed73 and intimate account of his career shows him to have been as mean and sordid74 a scoundrel in domestic affairs as he was bold and grasping in adventure.
A spot up the valley, whence a beautiful near view of Hartland Abbey is obtained, is known as Bow Bridge, and from it a road climbs steeply, bringing up at the village of Stoke, dwarfed75 by the great body and tall massive tower of its church, generally called Hartland church, although that town is situated76 out of sight, a mile further inland. The church is dedicated77 to Saint Nectan, who was a very popular saint in the West, as those travelling into Cornwall will find, to this day. A gigantic effigy78 of Nectan still remains79 on the eastern wall of the tower, and the high-church bias80 of the neighbourhood may be readily assumed from the restored churchyard cross, with its Calvary, its sculptured scenes from the life of Nectan and of Gytha, and its inscription81, “Nos salva rex cruce xte tua.”
This great church of St. Nectan has often been styled “the Cathedral of North Devon.” Rebuilt in the fourteenth century, it is, of course, wholly in the Perpendicular82 style, and equally of course, presents a thoroughly83 well-balanced and235 symmetrical mass, without any of those additions from time to time, or those changes of plan, that render churches built by degrees throughout the centuries so picturesque84. St. Nectan’s exhibits regularity85 and preciseness to the last degree. The tall tower, over a hundred and forty feet high, was doubtless built especially as a landmark86 for sailors.
The fine lofty nave56 is divided from the chancel by a magnificently carved fifteenth-century oaken rood-screen, which, if not actually finer than those of Pilton, Atherington, and Swimbridge, all in North Devon, is at any rate on the same level of craftsmanship87. In the chancel remains a stone slab88 with epitaph of Thomas Docton:
“Here lie I at the chancel door,
Here lie I, because I’m poor.
The further in, the more you pay;
Here lie I, as warm as they.”
Word for word this is the same as the epitaph upon one “Bone Phillip,” at Kingsbridge, South Devon.
Many curious details survive the restoration of 1850 and the fire of 1901 that destroyed the roof and narrowly missed wrecking89 the entire church. Among them is the “Guard Chamber,” over the porch; the “Pope’s Chamber,” as it is here styled. In the stone stairs to it is a hollow space, perhaps made for the purpose of holding holy water, wherewith to exorcise demons90. The parish stocks, retired91 from active service in the cause of law and order, are kept in this room, which, with its fireplace,236 is, or might easily be made, comfortable enough. Remains of the old wooden pulpit, inscribed92 “God Save Kinge James Fines,” have puzzled many. The wood-carver probably meant “Finis”; but that does not help us much to understand his further meaning; and we must leave it at that.
The “Account Book of Church Expenses,” from 1597 to 1706, still surviving, affords many an interesting glimpse into old days at Hartland; proving, among other things, how lonely was the situation and wild the life here. The church appears to have been fully93 armed against aggression94, whether by sea or land; for we read how the churchwardens paid for “three bullett bagges for the churche musquettes”; and “Paid for lace to fasten the lyninge of the morians belonging to the churche corselettes, and for priming irons for the churche musquettes, iid.” Furthermore: “Paid for a hilt and handle and a scabert for a sworde, and for mendinge a dagger95 of the churche, iis.”
Roger Syncocke is down for one penny, “for mending a churche pike.” Altogether, this seems a cheap lot for these bloody-minded Hartlanders; but a further entry of six pounds ten shillings, “for arms,” seems to indicate that they were really dangerous people, best left alone. And that appears to have been the general healthy impression; for we do not read anywhere of battle, murder, and sudden death in these purlieus. “If you would have peace prepare for war,” was237 doubtless the axiom acted upon here; and the truth of it was duly proven.
HARTLAND QUAY.
Hartland Quay, half a mile down the road, is an example of the overweening confidence of man in his ability to battle successfully with the forces of nature. You see, as you come down the road over the down, a tumultuous ocean, no longer the Bristol Channel, sometimes dun-coloured with the outpourings of the Severn, and not, except under extreme provocation96, to be stirred to great waves, but the Atlantic Ocean itself, dark blue with great crested97 waves rolling inshore, whether it be calm weather or boisterous98. Only, in the last case, the always majestic99 sight becomes not a little terrifying here.
Where the down curves to the sea and the road dips steeply, in a hairpin100 corner, a rugged101 point, all bristling102 with black, jagged rocks, runs out, and in between them is a little flat space—the Quay. On one side is an isolated103 conical hill, capped with a flagstaff, and on the other a formidable reef, black as ink, with the rock-strata tipped perpendicularly104 in some convulsion that attended238 the world’s birth. Between these extremes lies the opening for the entrance of small craft, and a sorry haven105 it must be for any distressed106 mariner107 in severe weather. The place is lonely, save for the “Hartland Quay Hotel” and a few coastguard cottages; and the stone pier108 built out to sea, by which it was proposed to make Hartland Quay in some small way a harbour, has been battered109 utterly110 out of existence by the waves. Watching the enormous walls of water, curving and advancing with an imperious unhasting grandeur111, you do not wonder that anything less solid than the living rock should go down before them.
The breaking rollers fill the scene with briny112 particles that hang in air like frost and taste salt on the lips, and the wind blows strong and invigorating from its journey of thousands of miles across the open sea.
An easy path leads from this point around Catherine Tor and its waterfall, into a wide moor-like valley where a little stream, fussing noisily in its peaty bed among occasional boulders113, hurries along to join the sea. The scene where this rivulet114, arriving abruptly115 at the cliff’s edge, falls sheer over it, in a long spout116 of about a hundred feet, is the most dramatic thing on the coast of North Devon. Imagine the lonely valley, not in itself very remarkable117, suddenly shorn off in a clean cut, disclosing a smooth face of rock as black as coal, ending in a little beach—and there you have Speke’s Mouth, as it is called.
SPEKE’S MOUTH.
239 From here it is possible to follow the cliffs to Welcombe Mouth: a fatiguing118 journey. The quicker way, and also perhaps the more beautiful, is up the valley and into the road; coming down into the wooded vale of Welcombe Mouth by a zigzag119 route, amid a tangle120 of undergrowth. The village of Welcombe, which takes its name from a holy well dedicated to St. Nectan, is marked by its church-tower a mile inland; the valley itself being solitary121, except for one very new and blatant122 farmstead. Here, as in all these other vales dipping to the sea, a little stream goes swirling123 down through the tangled124 brakes of the combe, to end ineffectively on the beach.
Welcombe Mouth is associated with the exploits of “Cruel Coppinger,” supposed to have been a Danish sea-captain, wrecked125 off Hartland. Thrown ashore126 in dramatic fashion, and narrowly escaping death at the hands of the half-savage Welcombe people of over a century ago, who nursed odd prejudices against allowing wrecked sailors to survive, he settled awhile in the district, and himself became a wrecker and smuggler127. He and his exploits are now part of local folk-lore, and the novelists have got hold of him too; but it would seem that, cast ashore with clothes all torn from him by the fury of the waves, he recovered consciousness only in time to prevent his being knocked on the head. Jumping up, seizing a cutlass, and vaulting128, naked as he was, on to the back of a horse, he galloped129 up the combe to the sheltering house of some people named Hamlyn,240 parents of the Dinah Hamlyn whom he subsequently married.
The exploits of Coppinger the Cruel, as they survive in legend, verge upon the incredible. How he beheaded a gauger130 with his own cutlass on the gunwale of a boat, how he thrashed the parson at the dinner-table, and how he was wafted131 away by a mysterious ship, from off the romantic-looking Gull13 Rock, that looms132 darkly off the coast; are they not all enshrined in the folk-lore of the West, and particularly in the verses of which here is a sample?
“Would you know of Cruel Coppinger?
He came from a foreign land;
He was brought to us by the salt water
And carried away by the wind.”
And now, over the steep hill dividing Welcombe Mouth from Marsland Mouth, we come to the conclusion of the coast of North Devon. Marsland Mouth is a fit ending: the very culmination133 of loneliness. If the scenery of its seaward end is not so rugged as that of many of these “mouths,” the extraordinary exuberance134 of the close-grown thorn, oak, and hazel thickets135 that have entirely136 overgrown the valley is unparalleled anywhere else in all these miles. Only a rugged footpath137, closely beset138 with bushes, leads down to the shore. It must be admitted, however, that evidence of Marsland Mouth being within touch of modern life is not lacking—is only too evident, indeed—in two huge, outrageously139 ugly, plaster-faced houses,241 of the very worst type of Ladbroke Grove140 “architecture,” that look down from a ridge into the romantic cleft141. The atrocity142 of their being placed here is beyond words.
I have styled Marsland Mouth “romantic,” and not without due warrant; for does it not appear, early in the pages of “Westward Ho!” as the scene of Rose Salterne’s adventure with the “white witch,” Lucy Passmore?
White witch or black, her beliefs were sufficiently143 dark, and the mystic rites144 she practised were as uncanny as any of those in common usage by the more inimical kind of witches—the kind who “overlooked” you, played the very deuce and all with your sheep and cattle, and generally harboured a “familiar” in the shape of a black tom cat.
And really, as you read of her in Kingsley’s pages, she was a person to be feared, on more than supernatural grounds, being as brawny145 and muscular as a man: a good deal more so than her husband. It must be no sinecure146, to be the husband of a witch, and a muscular one at that.
A stranger, tracing his hazardous147 way that night down the tangled glen, to the sea, would have had any stray beliefs he may have harboured as to the existence of mermaids148 presently confirmed; for we read that Rose, wishing to see who would be her future husband, by direction of the witch, undressed on the midnight beach, in the cold light of the full moon, waded149 waist-deep, into the sea with her mirror, and performed the242 incantation. Except that Kingsley speaks of the “blaze” of the midnight moon, it is a magnificent scene. Ordinary observers are at one with the poets—and at odds150 with Kingsley—in thinking of moonlight as a cold flood, rather than as a “blaze.”
A ring of flame, from the phosphorescence she stirred as she waded into the water, encircled her waist, and, as she looked down into the waves, every shell that crawled on the white sand was visible under the moonbeams, while the seaweeds waved like banners. Almost determined151 to turn and flee she, with an effort, dipped her head three times in the water, hurried out of the waves, and, looking through the strands153 of her wet hair into the mirror she carried, repeated the verse the white witch had taught her:
Neither on sea, nor yet on land;
Angels watch me on either hand.
If you be sailor, come up the sand;
If you be angel, come from the sky,
Look in my glass, and pass me by.
Look in my glass, and go from the shore;
Leave me, but love me for evermore.
It was with a not unnatural155 superstitious156 fear, under these magical moonlit circumstances that, even as she was gazing into the mirror and repeating those lines, hurried footsteps were heard descending157 to the Mouth. They were not, however, angelic or demoniac apparitions158 nor even earthly lovers: merely fugitive159 Jesuits and traitors160.
243 It is sad to find this scene overlooked by those hideous161 stuccoed houses on the ridge, but, at any rate, as I straddle the little summer-time trickle162 of the stream in the bottom, dividing Devon and Cornwall, I cannot but admire the fine note of picturesqueness163 and high romance on which this coast-line ends.
The End
The End
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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amplified
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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14
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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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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exertions
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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supremely
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geographer
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| n.地理学者 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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secular
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preservation
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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monastery
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pious
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piety
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confiscating
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monasteries
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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44
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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45
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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46
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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47
allusive
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| adj.暗示的；引用典故的 | |
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48
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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50
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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51
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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52
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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53
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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54
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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56
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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57
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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58
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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59
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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60
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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61
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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62
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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63
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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64
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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65
piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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66
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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67
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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68
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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69
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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70
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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71
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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72
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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73
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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74
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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75
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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76
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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77
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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78
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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79
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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80
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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81
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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82
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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83
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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84
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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85
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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86
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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87
craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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88
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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89
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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90
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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91
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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92
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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93
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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94
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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95
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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96
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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97
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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98
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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99
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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100
hairpin
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| n.簪,束发夹，夹发针 | |
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101
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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102
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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103
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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104
perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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105
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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106
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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107
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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108
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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109
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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110
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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111
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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112
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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113
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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114
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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115
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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116
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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117
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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118
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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119
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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120
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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121
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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122
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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123
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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124
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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125
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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126
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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127
smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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128
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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129
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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130
gauger
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| n.收税官 | |
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131
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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133
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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134
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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135
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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136
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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137
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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138
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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139
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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140
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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141
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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142
atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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143
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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144
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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145
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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146
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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147
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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148
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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149
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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151
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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152
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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153
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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154
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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155
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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156
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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157
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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158
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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159
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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160
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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161
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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162
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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163
picturesqueness
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