The modest abode5 to which I have alluded6 forms one of a circular range of pretty, moderate-sized, two-story houses, all built on nearly the same plan, and each provided with its little grass-plot, its flowers, its tufts of box trimmed into globes and other fantastic shapes, and its verdant7 hedges shutting the house in from the common drive and dividing it from its equally cosey neighbors. Coming out of the door, and taking a turn round the circle of sister-dwellings8, it is difficult to find your way back by any distinguishing individuality of your own habitation. In the centre of the Circus is a space fenced in with iron railing, a small play-place and sylvan9 retreat for the children of the precinct, permeated10 by brief paths through the fresh English grass, and shadowed by various shrubbery; amid which, if you like, you may fancy yourself in a deep seclusion11, though probably the mark of eye-shot from the windows of all the surrounding houses. But, in truth, with regard to the rest of the town and the world at large, all abode here is a genuine seclusion; for the ordinary stream of life does not run through this little, quiet pool, and few or none of the inhabitants seem to be troubled with any business or outside activities. I used to set them down as half-pay officers, dowagers of narrow income, elderly maiden12 ladies, and other people of respectability, but small account, such as hang on the world's skirts rather than actually belong to it. The quiet of the place was seldom disturbed, except by the grocer and butcher, who came to receive orders, or by the cabs, hackney-coaches, and Bath-chairs, in which the ladies took an infrequent airing, or the livery-steed which the retired13 captain sometimes bestrode for a morning ride, or by the red-coated postman who went his rounds twice a day to deliver letters, and again in the evening, ringing a hand-bell, to take letters for the mail. In merely mentioning these slight interruptions of its sluggish15 stillness, I seem to myself to disturb too much the atmosphere of quiet that brooded over the spot; whereas its impression upon me was, that the world had never found the way hither, or had forgotten it, and that the fortunate inhabitants were the only ones who possessed16 the spell-word of admittance. Nothing could have suited me better, at the time; for I had been holding a position of public servitude, which imposed upon me (among a great many lighter17 duties) the ponderous18 necessity of being universally civil and sociable19.
Nevertheless, if a man were seeking the bustle20 of society, he might find it more readily in Leamington than in most other English towns. It is a permanent watering-place, a sort of institution to which I do not know any close parallel in American life: for such places as Saratoga bloom only for the summer-season, and offer a thousand dissimilitudes even then; while Leamington seems to be always in flower, and serves as a home to the homeless all the year round. Its original nucleus21, the plausible22 excuse for the town's coming into prosperous existence, lies in the fiction of a chalybeate well, which, indeed, is so far a reality that out of its magical depths have gushed23 streets, groves24, gardens, mansions27, shops, and churches, and spread themselves along the banks of the little river Leam. This miracle accomplished28, the beneficent fountain has retired beneath a pump-room, and appears to have given up all pretensions29 to the remedial virtues30 formerly31 attributed to it. I know not whether its waters are ever tasted nowadays; but not the less does Leamington—in pleasant Warwickshire, at the very midmost point of England, in a good hunting neighborhood, and surrounded by country-seats and castles— continue to be a resort of transient visitors, and the more permanent abode of a class of genteel, unoccupied, well-to-do, but not very wealthy people, such as are hardly known among ourselves. Persons who have no country-houses, and whose fortunes are inadequate32 to a London expenditure33, find here, I suppose, a sort of town and country life in one.
In its present aspect the town is of no great age. In contrast with the antiquity34 of many places in its neighborhood, it has a bright, new face, and seems almost to smile even amid the sombreness of an English autumn. Nevertheless, it is hundreds upon hundreds of years old, if we reckon up that sleepy lapse35 of time during which it existed as a small village of thatched houses, clustered round a priory; and it would still have been precisely38 such a rural village, but for a certain Dr. Jephson, who lived within the memory of man, and who found out the magic well, and foresaw what fairy wealth might be made to flow from it. A public garden has been laid out along the margin39 of the Leam, and called the Jephson Garden, in honor of him who created the prosperity of his native spot. A little way within the garden-gate there is a circular temple of Grecian architecture, beneath the dome40 of which stands a marble statue of the good Doctor, very well executed, and representing him with a face of fussy41 activity and benevolence42: just the kind of man, if luck favored him, to build up the fortunes of those about him, or, quite as probably, to blight43 his whole neighborhood by some disastrous44 speculation45.
The Jephson Garden is very beautiful, like most other English pleasure-grounds; for, aided by their moist climate and not too fervid46 sun, the landscape-gardeners excel in converting flat or tame surfaces into attractive scenery, chiefly through the skilful48 arrangement of trees and shrubbery. An Englishman aims at this effect even in the little patches under the windows of a suburban49 villa36, and achieves it on a larger scale in a tract47 of many acres. The Garden is shadowed with trees of a fine growth, standing50 alone, or in dusky groves and dense51 entanglements52, pervaded54 by woodland paths; and emerging from these pleasant glooms, we come upon a breadth of sunshine, where the greensward—so vividly55 green that it has a kind of lustre56 in it—is spotted57 with beds of gemlike flowers. Rustic58 chairs and benches are scattered59 about, some of them ponderously60 fashioned out of the stumps61 of obtruncated trees, and others more artfully made with intertwining branches, or perhaps an imitation of such frail62 handiwork in iron. In a central part of the Garden is an archery-ground, where laughing maidens63 practise at the butts64, generally missing their ostensible65 mark, but, by the mere14 grace of their action, sending an unseen shaft66 into some young man's heart. There is space, moreover, within these precincts, for an artificial lake, with a little green island in the midst of it; both lake and island being the haunt of swans, whose aspect and movement in the water are most beautiful and stately,—most infirm, disjointed, and decrepit67, when, unadvisedly, they see fit to emerge, and try to walk upon dry land. In the latter case, they look like a breed of uncommonly68 ill-contrived69 geese; and I record the matter here for the sake of the moral,—that we should never pass judgment70 on the merits of any person or thing, unless we behold71 them in the sphere and circumstances to which they are specially72 adapted. In still another part of the Garden there is a labyrinthine73 maze74, formed of an intricacy of hedge-bordered walks, involving himself in which, a man might wander for hours inextricably within a circuit of only a few yards. It seemed to me a sad emblem75 of the mental and moral perplexities in which we sometimes go astray, petty in scope, yet large enough to entangle53 a lifetime, and bewilder us with a weary movement, but no genuine progress.
The Leam,—the "high complectioned Leam," as Drayton calls it,—after drowsing across the principal street of the town beneath a handsome bridge, skirts along the margin of the Garden without any perceptible flow. Heretofore I had fancied the Concord76 the laziest river in the world, but now assign that amiable77 distinction to the little English stream. Its water is by no means transparent78, but has a greenish, goose-puddly hue79, which, however, accords well with the other coloring and characteristics of the scene, and is disagreeable neither to sight nor smell. Certainly, this river is a perfect feature of that gentle picturesqueness81 in which England is so rich, sleeping, as it does, beneath a margin of willows82 that droop83 into its bosom84, and other trees, of deeper verdure than our own country can boast, inclining lovingly over it. On the Garden-side it is bordered by a shadowy, secluded85 grove25, with winding86 paths among its boskiness, affording many a peep at the river's imperceptible lapse and tranquil87 gleam; and on the opposite shore stands the priory-church, with its churchyard full of shrubbery and tombstones.
The business portion of the town clusters about the banks of the Leam, and is naturally densest88 around the well to which the modern settlement owes its existence. Here are the commercial inns, the post-office, the furniture-dealers, the iron-mongers, and all the heavy and homely89 establishments that connect themselves even with the airiest modes of human life; while upward from the river, by a long and gentle ascent90, rises the principal street, which is very bright and cheerful in its physiognomy, and adorned91 with shop-fronts almost as splendid as those of London, though on a diminutive93 scale. There are likewise side-streets and cross-streets, many of which are bordered with the beautiful Warwickshire elm, a most unusual kind of adornment94 for an English town; and spacious95 avenues, wide enough to afford room for stately groves, with foot-paths running beneath the lofty shade, and rooks cawing and chattering96 so high in the tree-tops that their voices get musical before reaching the earth. The houses are mostly built in blocks and ranges, in which every separate tenement97 is a repetition of its fellow, though the architecture of the different ranges is sufficiently various. Some of them are almost palatial98 in size and sumptuousness99 of arrangement. Then, on the outskirts100 of the town, there are detached villas101, enclosed within that separate domain102 of high stone fence and embowered shrubbery which an Englishman so loves to build and plant around his abode, presenting to the public only an iron gate, with a gravelled carriage-drive winding away towards the half-hidden mansion26. Whether in street or suburb, Leamington may fairly be called beautiful, and, at some points, magnificent; but by and by you become doubtfully suspicious of a somewhat unreal finery: it is pretentious103, though not glaringly so; it has been built with malice104 aforethought, as a place of gentility and enjoyment. Moreover, splendid as the houses look, and comfortable as they often are, there is a nameless something about them, betokening105 that they have not grown out of human hearts, but are the creations of a skilfully106 applied107 human intellect: no man has reared any one of them, whether stately or humble108, to be his lifelong residence, wherein to bring up his children, who are to inherit it as a home. They are nicely contrived lodging-houses, one and all,—the best as well as the shabbiest of them, —and therefore inevitably109 lack some nameless property that a home should have. This was the case with our own little snuggery in Lansdowne Circus, as with all the rest; it had not grown out of anybody's individual need, but was built to let or sell, and was therefore like a ready-made garment,—a tolerable fit, but only tolerable.
All these blocks, ranges, and detached villas are adorned with the finest and most aristocratic manes that I have found anywhere in England, except, perhaps, in Bath, which is the great metropolis111 of that second-class gentility with which watering-places are chiefly populated. Lansdowne Crescent, Lansdowne Circus, Lansdowne Terrace, Regent Street, Warwick Street, Clarendon Street, the Upper and Lower Parade: such are a few of the designations. Parade, indeed, is a well-chosen name for the principal street, along which the population of the idle town draws itself out for daily review and display. I only wish that my descriptive powers would enable me to throw off a picture of the scene at a sunny noontide, individualizing each character with a touch the great people alighting from their carriages at the principal shop-doors; the elderly ladies and infirm Indian officers drawn112 along in Bath-chairs; the comely113, rather than pretty, English girls, with their deep, healthy bloom, which an American taste is apt to deem fitter for a milkmaid than for a lady; the mustached gentlemen with frogged surtouts and a military air; the nursemaids and chubby114 children, but no chubbier115 than our own, and scampering116 on slenderer legs; the sturdy figure of John Bull in all varieties and of all ages, but ever with the stamp of authenticity117 somewhere about him.
To say the truth, I have been holding the pen over my paper, purposing to write a descriptive paragraph or two about the throng118 on the principal Parade of Leamington, so arranging it as to present a sketch119 of the British out-of-door aspect on a morning walk of gentility; but I find no personages quite sufficiently distinct and individual in my memory to supply the materials of such a panorama120.
Oddly enough, the only figure that comes fairly forth121 to my mind's eye is that of a dowager, one of hundreds whom I used to marvel122 at, all over England, but who have scarcely a representative among our own ladies of autumnal life, so thin, careworn123, and frail, as age usually makes the latter.
I have heard a good deal of the tenacity124 with which English ladies retain their personal beauty to a late period of life; but (not to suggest that an American eye needs use and cultivation125 before it can quite appreciate the charm of English beauty at any age) it strikes me that an English lady of fifty is apt to become a creature less refined and delicate, so far as her physique goes, than anything that we Western people class under the name of woman. She has an awful ponderosity126 of frame, not pulpy127, like the looser development of our few fat women, but massive with solid beef and streaky tallow; so that (though struggling manfully against the idea) you inevitably think of her as made up of steaks and sirloins. When she walks, her advance is elephantine. When she sits down, it is on a great round space of her Maker's footstool, where she looks as if nothing could ever move her. She imposes awe128 and respect by the muchness of her personality, to such a degree that you probably credit her with far greater moral and intellectual force than she can fairly claim. Her visage is usually grim and stern, seldom positively129 forbidding, yet calmly terrible, not merely by its breadth and weight of feature, but because it seems to express so much well-founded self-reliance, such acquaintance with the world, its toils131, troubles, and dangers, and such sturdy capacity for trampling132 down a foe133. Without anything positively salient, or actively134 offensive, or, indeed, unjustly formidable to her neighbors, she has the effect of a seventy-four gun-ship in time of peace; for, while you assure yourself that there is no real danger, you cannot help thinking how tremendous would be her onset135, if pugnaciously136 inclined, and how futile137 the effort to inflict138 any counter-injury. She certainly looks tenfold—nay, a hundred-fold—better able to take care of herself than our slender-framed and haggard womankind; but I have not found reason to suppose that the English dowager of fifty has actually greater courage, fortitude139, and strength of character than our women of similar age, or even a tougher physical endurance than they. Morally, she is strong, I suspect, only in society, and in the common routine of social affairs, and would be found powerless and timid in any exceptional strait that might call for energy outside of the conventionalities amid which she has grown up.
You can meet this figure in the street, and live, and even smile at the recollection. But conceive of her in a ball-room, with the bare, brawny140 arms that she invariably displays there, and all the other corresponding development, such as is beautiful in the maiden blossom, but a spectacle to howl at in such an over-blown cabbage-rose as this.
Yet, somewhere in this enormous bulk there must be hidden the modest, slender, violet-nature of a girl, whom an alien mass of earthliness has unkindly overgrown; for an English maiden in her teens, though very seldom so pretty as our own damsels, possesses, to say the truth, a certain charm of half-blossom, and delicately folded leaves, and tender womanhood shielded by maidenly142 reserves, with which, somehow or other, our American girls often fail to adorn92 themselves during an appreciable143 moment. It is a pity that the English violet should grow into such an outrageously144 developed peony as I have attempted to describe. I wonder whether a middle-aged146 husband ought to be considered as legally married to all the accretions147 that have overgrown the slenderness of his bride, since he led her to the altar, and which make her so much more than he ever bargained for! Is it not a sounder view of the case, that the matrimonial bond cannot be held to include the three fourths of the wife that had no existence when the ceremony was performed? And as a matter of conscience and good morals, ought not an English married pair to insist upon the celebration of a silver-wedding at the end of twenty-five years, in order to legalize and mutually appropriate that corporeal148 growth of which both parties have individually come into possession since they were pronounced one flesh?
The chief enjoyment of my several visits to Leamington lay in rural walks about the neighborhood, and in jaunts149 to places of note and interest, which are particularly abundant in that region. The high-roads are made pleasant to the traveller by a border of trees, and often afford him the hospitality of a wayside bench beneath a comfortable shade. But a fresher delight is to be found in the foot-paths, which go wandering away from stile to stile, along hedges, and across broad fields, and through wooded parks, leading you to little hamlets of thatched cottages, ancient, solitary150 farm-houses, picturesque80 old mills, streamlets, pools, and all those quiet, secret, unexpected, yet strangely familiar features of English scenery that Tennyson shows us in his idyls and eclogues. These by-paths admit the wayfarer151 into the very heart of rural life, and yet do not burden him with a sense of intrusiveness152. He has a right to go whithersoever they lead him; for, with all their shaded privacy, they are as much the property of the public as the dusty high-road itself, and even by an older tenure153. Their antiquity probably exceeds that of the Roman ways; the footsteps of the aboriginal154 Britons first wore away the grass, and the natural flow of intercourse155 between village and village has kept the track bare ever since. An American farmer would plough across any such path, and obliterate156 it with his hills of potatoes and Indian corn; but here it is protected by law, and still more by the sacredness that inevitably springs up, in this soil, along the well-defined footprints of centuries. Old associations are sure to be fragrant157 herbs in English nostrils158; we pull them up as weeds.
I remember such a path, the access to which is from Lovers' Grove, a range of tall old oaks and elms on a high hill-top, whence there is a view of Warwick Castle, and a wide extent of landscape, beautiful, though bedimmed with English mist. This particular foot-path, however, is not a remarkably159 good specimen160 of its kind, since it leads into no hollows and seclusions161, and soon terminates in a high-road. It connects Leamington by a short cut with the small neighboring village of Lillington, a place which impresses an American observer with its many points of contrast to the rural aspects of his own country. The village consists chiefly of one row of contiguous dwellings, separated only by party-walls, but ill-matched among themselves, being of different heights, and apparently162 of various ages, though all are of an antiquity which we should call venerable. Some of the windows are leaden-framed lattices, opening on hinges. These houses are mostly built of gray stone; but others, in the same range, are of brick, and one or two are in a very old fashion,— Elizabethan, or still older,—having a ponderous framework of oak, painted black, and filled in with plastered stone or bricks. Judging by the patches of repair, the oak seems to be the more durable163 part of the structure. Some of the roofs are covered with earthen tiles; others (more decayed and poverty-stricken) with thatch37, out of which sprouts164 a luxurious165 vegetation of grass, house-leeks, and yellow flowers. What especially strikes an American is the lack of that insulated space, the intervening gardens, grass-plots, orchards166, broad-spreading shade-trees, which occur between our own village-houses. These English dwellings have no such separate surroundings; they all grow together, like the cells of a honeycomb.
Beyond the first row of houses, and hidden from it by a turn of the road, there was another row (or block, as we should call it) of small old cottages, stuck one against another, with their thatched roofs forming a single contiguity167. These, I presume, were the habitations of the poorest order of rustic laborers168; and the narrow precincts of each cottage, as well as the close neighborhood of the whole, gave the impression of a stifled169, unhealthy atmosphere among the occupants. It seemed impossible that there should be a cleanly reserve, a proper self-respect among individuals, or a wholesome170 unfamiliarity171 between families where human life was crowded and massed into such intimate communities as these. Nevertheless, not to look beyond the outside, I never saw a prettier rural scene than was presented by this range of contiguous huts. For in front of the whole row was a luxuriant and well-trimmed hawthorn172 hedge, and belonging to each cottage was a little square of garden-ground, separated from its neighbors by a line of the same verdant fence. The gardens were chockfull, not of esculent vegetables, but of flowers, familiar ones, but very bright-colored, and shrubs173 of box, some of which were trimmed into artistic174 shapes; and I remember, before one door, a representation of Warwick Castle, made of oyster-shells. The cottagers evidently loved the little nests in which they dwelt, and did their best to make them beautiful, and succeeded more than tolerably well,—so kindly141 did nature help their humble efforts with its verdure, flowers, moss175, lichens176, and the green things that grew out of the thatch. Through some of the open doorways177 we saw plump children rolling about on the stone floors, and their mothers, by no means very pretty, but as happy-looking as mothers generally are; and while we gazed at these domestic matters, an old woman rushed wildly out of one of the gates, upholding a shovel178, on which she clanged and clattered179 with a key. At first we fancied that she intended an onslaught against ourselves, but soon discovered that a more dangerous enemy was abroad; for the old lady's bees had swarmed180, and the air was full of them, whizzing by our heads like bullets.
Not far from these two rows of houses and cottages, a green lane, overshadowed with trees, turned aside from the main road, and tended towards a square, gray tower, the battlements of which were just high enough to be visible above the foliage181. Wending our way thitherward, we found the very picture and ideal of a country church and churchyard. The tower seemed to be of Norman architecture, low, massive, and crowned with battlements. The body of the church was of very modest dimensions, and the eaves so low that I could touch them with my walking-stick. We looked into the windows and beheld182 the dim and quiet interior, a narrow space, but venerable with the consecration183 of many centuries, and keeping its sanctity as entire and inviolate184 as that of a vast cathedral. The nave185 was divided from the side aisles186 of the church by pointed188 arches resting on very sturdy pillars: it was good to see how solemnly they held themselves to their age-long task of supporting that lowly roof. There was a small organ, suited in size to the vaulted189 hollow, which it weekly filled with religious sound. On the opposite wall of the church, between two windows, was a mural tablet of white marble, with an inscription190 in black letters,—the only such memorial that I could discern, although many dead people doubtless lay beneath the floor, and had paved it with their ancient tombstones, as is customary in old English churches. There were no modern painted windows, flaring191 with raw colors, nor other gorgeous adornments, such as the present taste for mediaeval restoration often patches upon the decorous simplicity192 of the gray village-church. It is probably the worshipping-place of no more distinguished193 a congregation than the farmers and peasantry who inhabit the houses and cottages which I have just described. Had the lord of the manor194 been one of the parishioners, there would have been an eminent195 pew near the chancel, walled high about, curtained, and softly cushioned, warmed by a fireplace of its own, and distinguished by hereditary196 tablets and escutcheons on the enclosed stone pillar.
A well-trodden path led across the churchyard, and the gate being on the latch197, we entered, and walked round among the graves and monuments. The latter were chiefly head-stones, none of which were very old, so far as was discoverable by the dates; some, indeed, in so ancient a cemetery198, were disagreeably new, with inscriptions199 glittering like sunshine in gold letters. The ground must have been dug over and over again, innumerable times, until the soil is made up of what was once human clay, out of which have sprung successive crops of gravestones, that flourish their allotted200 time, and disappear, like the weeds and flowers in their briefer period. The English climate is very unfavorable to the endurance of memorials in the open air. Twenty years of it suffice to give as much antiquity of aspect, whether to tombstone or edifice201, as a hundred years of our own drier atmosphere,—so soon do the drizzly202 rains and constant moisture corrode203 the surface of marble or freestone. Sculptured edges loose their sharpness in a year or two; yellow lichens overspread a beloved name, and obliterate it while it is yet fresh upon some survivor's heart. Time gnaws204 an English gravestone with wonderful appetite; and when the inscription is quite illegible205, the sexton takes the useless slab206 away, and perhaps makes a hearthstone of it, and digs up the unripe207 bones which it ineffectually tried to memorialize, and gives the bed to another sleeper208. In the Charter Street burial-ground at Salem, and in the old graveyard209 on the hill at Ipswich, I have seen more ancient gravestones, with legible inscriptions on them, than in any English churchyard.
And yet this same ungenial climate, hostile as it generally is to the long remembrance of departed people, has sometimes a lovely way of dealing210 with the records on certain monuments that lie horizontally in the open air. The rain falls into the deep incisions211 of the letters, and has scarcely time to be dried away before another shower sprinkles the flat stone again, and replenishes212 those little reservoirs. The unseen, mysterious seeds of mosses213 find their way into the lettered furrows214, and are made to germinate215 by the continual moisture and watery216 sunshine of the English sky; and by and by, in a year, or two years, or many years, behold the complete inscription—
Here Lieth the body,
and all the rest of the tender falsehood—beautifully embossed in raised letters of living green, a bas-relief of velvet217 moss on the marble slab! It becomes more legible, under the skyey influences, after the world has forgotten the deceased, than when it was fresh from the stone-cutter's hands. It outlives the grief of friends. I first saw an example of this in Bebbington churchyard, in Cheshire, and thought that Nature must needs have had a special tenderness for the person (no noted218 man, however, in the world's history) so long ago laid beneath that stone, since she took such wonderful pains to "keep his memory green." Perhaps the proverbial phrase just quoted may have had its origin in the natural phenomenon here described.
While we rested ourselves on a horizontal monument, which was elevated just high enough to be a convenient seat, I observed that one of the gravestones lay very close to the church,—so close that the droppings of the eaves would fall upon it. It seemed as if the inmate219 of that grave had desired to creep under the church-wall. On closer inspection220, we found an almost illegible epitaph on the stone, and with difficulty made out this forlorn verse:—
"Poorly lived,
And poorly died,
Poorly buried,
And no one cried."
It would be hard to compress the story of a cold and luckless life, death, and burial into fewer words, or more impressive ones; at least, we found them impressive, perhaps because we had to re-create the inscription by scraping away the lichens from the faintly traced letters. The grave was on the shady and damp side of the church, endwise towards it, the head-stone being within about three feet of the foundation-wall; so that, unless the poor man was a dwarf221, he must have been doubled up to fit him into his final resting-place. No wonder that his epitaph murmured against so poor a burial as this! His name, as well as I could make it out, was Treeo,—John Treeo, I think,—and he died in 1810, at the age of seventy-four. The gravestone is so overgrown with grass and weeds, so covered with unsightly lichens, and so crumbly with time and foul222 weather, that it is questionable223 whether anybody will ever be at the trouble of deciphering it again. But there is a quaint130 and sad kind of enjoyment in defeating (to such slight degree as my pen may do it) the probabilities of oblivion for poor John Treeo, and asking a little sympathy for him, half a century after his death, and making him better and more widely known, at least, than any other slumberer224 in Lillington churchyard: he having been, as appearances go, the outcast of them all.
You find similar old churches and villages in all the neighboring country, at the distance of every two or three miles; and I describe them, not as being rare, but because they are so common and characteristic. The village of Whitnash, within twenty minutes' walk of Leamington, looks as secluded, as rural, and as little disturbed by the fashions of to-day, as if Dr. Jephson had never developed all those Parades and Crescents out of his magic well. I used to wonder whether the inhabitants had ever yet heard of railways, or, at their slow rate of progress, had even reached the epoch225 of stage-coaches. As you approach the village, while it is yet unseen, you observe a tall, overshadowing canopy226 of elm-tree tops, beneath which you almost hesitate to follow the public road, on account of the remoteness that seems to exist between the precincts of this old-world community and the thronged227 modern street out of which you have so recently emerged. Venturing onward228, however, you soon find yourself in the heart of Whitnash, and see an irregular ring of ancient rustic dwellings surrounding the village-green, on one side of which stands the church, with its square Norman tower and battlements, while close adjoining is the vicarage, made picturesque by peaks and gables. At first glimpse, none of the houses appear to be less than two or three centuries old, and they are of the ancient, wooden-framed fashion, with thatched roofs, which give them the air of birds' nests, thereby229 assimilating them closely to the simplicity of nature.
The church-tower is mossy and much gnawed230 by time; it has narrow loopholes up and down its front and sides, and an arched window over the low portal, set with small panes231 of glass, cracked, dim, and irregular, through which a bygone age is peeping out into the daylight. Some of those old, grotesque232 faces, called gargoyles233, are seen on the projections234 of the architecture. The churchyard is very small, and is encompassed235 by a gray stone fence that looks as ancient as the church itself. In front of the tower, on the village-green, is a yew236-tree of incalculable age, with a vast circumference237 of trunk, but a very scanty238 head of foliage; though its boughs239 still keep some of the vitality240 which perhaps was in its early prime when the Saxon invaders241 founded Whitnash. A thousand years is no extraordinary antiquity in the lifetime of a yew. We were pleasantly startled, however, by discovering an exuberance242 of more youthful life than we had thought possible in so old a tree; for the faces of two children laughed at us out of an opening in the trunk, which had become hollow with long decay. On one side of the yew stood a framework of worm-eaten timber, the use and meaning of which puzzled me exceedingly, till I made it out to be the village-stocks; a public institution that, in its day, had doubtless hampered243 many a pair of shank-bones, now crumbling244 in the adjacent churchyard. It is not to be supposed, however, that this old-fashioned mode of punishment is still in vogue245 among the good people of Whitnash. The vicar of the parish has antiquarian propensities246, and had probably dragged the stocks out of some dusty hiding-place, and set them up on their former site as a curiosity.
I disquiet247 myself in vain with the effort to hit upon some characteristic feature, or assemblage of features, that shall convey to the reader the influence of hoar antiquity lingering into the present daylight, as I so often felt it in these old English scenes. It is only an American who can feel it; and even he begins to find himself growing insensible to its effect, after a long residence in England. But while you are still new in the old country, it thrills you with strange emotion to think that this little church of Whitnash, humble as it seems, stood for ages under the Catholic faith, and has not materially changed since Wickcliffe's days, and that it looked as gray as now in Bloody248 Mary's time, and that Cromwell's troopers broke off the stone noses of those same gargoyles that are now grinning in your face. So, too, with the immemorial yew-tree: you see its great roots grasping hold of the earth like gigantic claws, clinging so sturdily that no effort of time can wrench249 them away; and there being life in the old tree, you feel all the more as if a contemporary witness were telling you of the things that have been. It has lived among men, and been a familiar object to them, and seen them brought to be christened and married and buried in the neighboring church and churchyard, through so many centuries, that it knows all about our race, so far as fifty generations of the Whitnash people can supply such knowledge.
And, after all, what a weary life it must have been for the old tree! Tedious beyond imagination! Such, I think, is the final impression on the mind of an American visitor, when his delight at finding something permanent begins to yield to his Western love of change, and he becomes sensible of the heavy air of a spot where the forefathers250 and foremothers have grown up together, intermarried, and died, through a long succession of lives, without any intermixture of new elements, till family features and character are all run in the same inevitable251 mould. Life is there fossilized in its greenest leaf. The man who died yesterday or ever so long ago walks the village-street to day, and chooses the same wife that he married a hundred years since, and must be buried again to-morrow under the same kindred dust that has already covered him half a score of times. The stone threshold of his cottage is worn away with his hobnailed footsteps, shuffling252 over it from the reign253 of the first Plantagenet to that of Victoria. Better than this is the lot of our restless countrymen, whose modern instinct bids them tend always towards "fresh woods and pastures new." Rather than such monotony of sluggish ages, loitering on a village-green, toiling254 in hereditary fields, listening to the parson's drone lengthened255 through centuries in the gray Norman church, let us welcome whatever change may come,—change of place, social customs, political institutions, modes of worship,—trusting, that, if all present things shall vanish, they will but make room for better systems, and for a higher type of man to clothe his life in them, and to fling them off in turn.
Nevertheless, while an American willingly accepts growth and change as the law of his own national and private existence, he has a singular tenderness for the stone-incrusted institutions of the mother-country. The reason may be (though I should prefer a more generous explanation) that he recognizes the tendency of these hardened forms to stiffen256 her joints257 and fetter258 her ankles, in the race and rivalry259 of improvement. I hated to see so much as a twig260 of ivy261 wrenched262 away from an old wall in England. Yet change is at work, even in such a village as Whitnash. At a subsequent visit, looking more critically at the irregular circle of dwellings that surround the yew-tree and confront the church, I perceived that some of the houses must have been built within no long time, although the thatch, the quaint gables, and the old oaken framework of the others diffused263 an air of antiquity over the whole assemblage. The church itself was undergoing repair and restoration, which is but another name for change. Masons were making patchwork264 on the front of the tower, and were sawing a slab of stone and piling up bricks to strengthen the side-wall, or possibly to enlarge the ancient edifice by an additional aisle187. Moreover, they had dug an immense pit in the churchyard, long and broad, and fifteen feet deep, two thirds of which profundity265 were discolored by human decay, and mixed up with crumbly bones. What this excavation266 was intended for I could nowise imagine, unless it were the very pit in which Longfellow bids the "Dead Past bury its Dead," and Whitnash, of all places in the world, were going to avail itself of our poet's suggestion. If so, it must needs be confessed that many picturesque and delightful267 things would be thrown into the hole, and covered out of sight forever.
The article which I am writing has taken its own course, and occupied itself almost wholly with country churches; whereas I had purposed to attempt a description of some of the many old towns—Warwick, Coventry, Kenilworth, Stratford-on-Avon—which lie within an easy scope of Leamington. And still another church presents itself to my remembrance. It is that of Hatton, on which I stumbled in the course of a forenoon's ramble268, and paused a little while to look at it for the sake of old Dr. Parr, who was once its vicar. Hatton, so far as I could discover, has no public-house, no shop, no contiguity of roofs (as in most English villages, however small), but is merely an ancient neighborhood of farm-houses, spacious, and standing wide apart, each within its own precincts, and offering a most comfortable aspect of orchards, harvest-fields, barns, stacks, and all manner of rural plenty. It seemed to be a community of old settlers, among whom everything had been going on prosperously since an epoch beyond the memory of man; and they kept a certain privacy among themselves, and dwelt on a cross-road, at the entrance of which was a barred gate, hospitably269 open, but still impressing me with a sense of scarcely warrantable intrusion. After all, in some shady nook of those gentle Warwickshire slopes there may have been a denser270 and more populous271 settlement, styled Hatton, which I never reached.
Emerging from the by-road, and entering upon one that crossed it at right angles and led to Warwick, I espied272 the church of Dr. Parr. Like the others which I have described, it had a low stone tower, square, and battlemented at its summit: for all these little churches seem to have been built on the same model, and nearly at the same measurement, and have even a greater family-likeness than the cathedrals. As I approached, the bell of the tower (a remarkably deep-toned bell, considering how small it was) flung its voice abroad, and told me that it was noon. The church stands among its graves, a little removed from the wayside, quite apart from any collection of houses, and with no signs of vicarage; it is a good deal shadowed by trees, and not wholly destitute273 of ivy. The body of the edifice, unfortunately (and it is an outrage145 which the English church-wardens are fond of perpetrating), has been newly covered with a yellowish plaster or wash, so as quite to destroy the aspect of antiquity, except upon the tower, which wears the dark gray hue of many centuries. The chancel-window is painted with a representation of Christ upon the Cross, and all the other windows are full of painted or stained glass, but none of it ancient, nor (if it be fair to judge from without of what ought to be seen within) possessing any of the tender glory that should be the inheritance of this branch of Art, revived from mediaeval times. I stepped over the graves, and peeped in at two or three of the windows, and saw the snug110 interior of the church glimmering274 through the many-colored panes, like a show of commonplace objects under the fantastic influence of a dream: for the floor was covered with modern pews, very like what we may see in a New England meeting-house, though, I think, a little more favorable than those would be to the quiet slumbers275 of the Hatton farmers and their families. Those who slept under Dr. Parr's preaching now prolong their nap, I suppose, in the churchyard round about, and can scarcely have drawn much spiritual benefit from any truths that he contrived to tell them in their lifetime. It struck me as a rare example (even where examples are numerous) of a man utterly276 misplaced, that this enormous scholar, great in the classic tongues, and inevitably converting his own simplest vernacular277 into a learned language, should have been set up in this homely pulpit, and ordained278 to preach salvation279 to a rustic audience, to whom it is difficult to imagine how he could ever have spoken one available word.
Almost always, in visiting such scenes as I have been attempting to describe, I had a singular sense of having been there before. The ivy-grown English churches (even that of Bebbington, the first that I beheld) were quite as familiar to me, when fresh from home, as the old wooden meeting-house in Salem, which used, on wintry Sabbaths, to be the frozen purgatory280 of my childhood. This was a bewildering, yet very delightful emotion fluttering about me like a faint summer wind, and filling my imagination with a thousand half-remembrances, which looked as vivid as sunshine, at a side-glance, but faded quite away whenever I attempted to grasp and define them. Of course, the explanation of the mystery was, that history, poetry, and fiction, books of travel, and the talk of tourists, had given me pretty accurate preconceptions of the common objects of English scenery, and these, being long ago vivified by a youthful fancy, had insensibly taken their places among the images of things actually seen. Yet the illusion was often so powerful, that I almost doubted whether such airy remembrances might not be a sort of innate281 idea, the print of a recollection in some ancestral mind, transmitted, with fainter and fainter impress through several descents, to my own. I felt, indeed, like the stalwart progenitor282 in person, returning to the hereditary haunts after more than two hundred years, and finding the church, the hall, the farm-house, the cottage, hardly changed during his long absence,—the same shady by-paths and hedge-lanes, the same veiled sky, and green lustre of the lawns and fields,—while his own affinities283 for these things, a little obscured by disuse, were reviving at every step.
An American is not very apt to love the English people, as a whole, on whatever length of acquaintance. I fancy that they would value our regard, and even reciprocate284 it in their ungracious way, if we could give it to them in spite of all rebuffs; but they are beset285 by a curious and inevitable infelicity, which compels them, as it were, to keep up what they seem to consider a wholesome bitterness of feeling between themselves and all other nationalities, especially that of America. They will never confess it; nevertheless, it is as essential a tonic286 to them as their bitter ale. Therefore,—and possibly, too, from a similar narrowness in his own character,—an American seldom feels quite as if he were at home among the English people. If he do so, he has ceased to be an American. But it requires no long residence to make him love their island, and appreciate it as thoroughly287 as they themselves do. For my part, I used to wish that we could annex288 it, transferring their thirty millions of inhabitants to some convenient wilderness289 in the great West, and putting half or a quarter as many of ourselves into their places. The change would be beneficial to both parties. We, in our dry atmosphere, are getting too nervous, haggard, dyspeptic, extenuated290, unsubstantial, theoretic, and need to be made grosser. John Bull, on the other hand, has grown bulbous, long-bodied, short-legged, heavy-witted, material, and, in a word, too intensely English. In a few more centuries he will be the earthliest creature that ever the earth saw. Heretofore Providence291 has obviated292 such a result by timely intermixtures of alien races with the old English stock; so that each successive conquest of England has proved a victory by the revivification and improvement of its native manhood. Cannot America and England hit upon some scheme to secure even greater advantages to both nations?
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1
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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49
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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50
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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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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52
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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53
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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54
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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ponderously
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61
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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64
butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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66
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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71
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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75
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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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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81
picturesqueness
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82
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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83
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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84
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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85
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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86
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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87
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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88
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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89
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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90
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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91
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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92
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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93
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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94
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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95
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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96
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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97
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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98
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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99
sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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100
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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101
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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102
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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103
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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104
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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105
betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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106
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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107
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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108
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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109
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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110
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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111
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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112
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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113
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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114
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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115
chubbier
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| adj.胖乎乎的，圆胖的，丰满的( chubby的比较级 ) | |
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116
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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117
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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118
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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119
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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120
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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121
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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122
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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123
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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124
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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125
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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126
ponderosity
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| n.沉重，笨重；有质性；可称性 | |
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127
pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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128
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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129
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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130
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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131
toils
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| 网 | |
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132
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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133
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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134
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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135
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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136
pugnaciously
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137
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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138
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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139
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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140
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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141
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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142
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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143
appreciable
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|
| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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144
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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145
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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146
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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147
accretions
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| n.堆积( accretion的名词复数 )；连生；添加生长；吸积 | |
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148
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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149
jaunts
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| n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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150
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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151
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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152
intrusiveness
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153
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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154
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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155
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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156
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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157
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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158
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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159
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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160
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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161
seclusions
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| n.隔绝，隔离，隐居( seclusion的名词复数 ) | |
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162
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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163
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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164
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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165
luxurious
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|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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166
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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167
contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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168
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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169
stifled
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|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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170
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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171
unfamiliarity
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172
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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173
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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174
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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175
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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176
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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177
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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178
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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179
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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180
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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181
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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182
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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183
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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184
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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185
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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186
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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187
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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188
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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189
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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190
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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191
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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192
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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193
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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194
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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195
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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196
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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197
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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198
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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199
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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200
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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201
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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202
drizzly
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| a.毛毛雨的(a drizzly day) | |
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203
corrode
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| v.使腐蚀，侵蚀，破害；v.腐蚀，被侵蚀 | |
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204
gnaws
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| 咬( gnaw的第三人称单数 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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205
illegible
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|
| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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206
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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207
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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208
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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209
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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210
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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211
incisions
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| n.切开，切口( incision的名词复数 ) | |
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212
replenishes
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| 补充( replenish的第三人称单数 )； 重新装满 | |
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213
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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214
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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215
germinate
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| v.发芽；发生；发展 | |
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216
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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217
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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218
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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219
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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220
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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221
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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222
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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223
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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224
slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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225
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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226
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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227
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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229
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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230
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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231
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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232
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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233
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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234
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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235
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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236
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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237
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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238
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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239
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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240
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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241
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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242
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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243
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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244
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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245
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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246
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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247
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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248
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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249
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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251
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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252
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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253
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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254
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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255
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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257
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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258
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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259
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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260
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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261
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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262
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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263
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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264
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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265
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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266
excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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267
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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268
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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269
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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270
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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271
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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272
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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274
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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275
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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276
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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277
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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278
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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279
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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280
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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281
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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282
progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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283
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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284
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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285
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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286
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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287
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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288
annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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289
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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290
extenuated
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| v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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291
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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292
obviated
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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