In the morning, after a mutton-chop and a cup of chiccory in the dusky coffee-room, I went forth24 and bewildered myself a little while among the crooked25 streets, in quest of one or two objects that had chiefly attracted me to the spot. The city is of very ancient date, and its name in the old Saxon tongue has a dismal26 import that would apply well, in these days and forever henceforward, to many an unhappy locality in our native land. Lichfield signifies "The Field of the Dead Bodies,"—an epithet27, however, which the town did not assume in remembrance of a battle, but which probably sprung up by a natural process, like a sprig of rue28 or other funereal29 weed, out of the graves of two princely brothers, sons of a pagan king of Mercia, who were converted by St. Chad, and afterwards martyred for their Christian30 faith. Nevertheless, I was but little interested in the legends of the remote antiquity31 of Lichfield, being drawn32 thither33 partly to see its beautiful cathedral, and still more, I believe, because it was the birthplace of Dr. Johnson, with whose sturdy English character I became acquainted, at a very early period of my life, through the good offices of Mr. Boswell. In truth, he seems as familiar to my recollection, and almost as vivid in his personal aspect to my mind's eye, as the kindly35 figure of my own grandfather. It is only a solitary child,—left much to such wild modes of culture as he chooses for himself while yet ignorant what culture means, standing36 on tiptoe to pull down books from no very lofty shelf, and then shutting himself up, as it were, between the leaves, going astray through the volume at his own pleasure, and comprehending it rather by his sensibilities and affections than his intellect,—that child is the only student that ever gets the sort of intimacy37 which I am now thinking of, with a literary personage. I do not remember, indeed, ever caring much about any of the stalwart Doctor's grandiloquent38 productions, except his two stern and masculine poems, "London," and "The Vanity of Human Wishes"; it was as a man, a talker, and a humorist, that I knew and loved him, appreciating many of his qualities perhaps more thoroughly39 than I do now, though never seeking to put my instinctive40 perception of his character into language.
Beyond all question, I might have had a wiser friend than he. The atmosphere in which alone he breathed was dense41; his awful dread42 of death showed how much muddy imperfection was to be cleansed43 out of him, before he could be capable of spiritual existence; he meddled44 only with the surface of life, and never cared to penetrate4 further than to ploughshare depth; his very sense and sagacity were but a one-eyed clear-sightedness. I laughed at him, sometimes, standing beside his knee. And yet, considering that my native propensities45 were towards Fairy Land, and also how much yeast46 is generally mixed up with the mental sustenance47 of a New-Englander, it may not have been altogether amiss, in those childish and boyish days, to keep pace with this heavy-footed traveller and feed on the gross diet that he carried in his knapsack. It is wholesome48 food even now. And, then, how English! Many of the latent sympathies that enabled me to enjoy the Old Country so well, and that so readily amalgamated49 themselves with the American ideas that seemed most adverse50 to them, may have been derived51 from, or fostered and kept alive by, the great English moralist. Never was a descriptive epithet more nicely appropriate than that! Dr. Johnson's morality was as English an article as a beefsteak.
The city of Lichfield (only the cathedral-towns are called cities, in England) stands on an ascending52 site. It has not so many old gabled houses as Coventry, for example, but still enough to gratify an American appetite for the antiquities53 of domestic architecture. The people, too, have an old-fashioned way with them, and stare at the passing visitor, as if the railway had not yet quite accustomed them to the novelty of strange faces moving along their ancient sidewalks. The old women whom I met, in several instances, dropt me a courtesy; and as they were of decent and comfortable exterior54, and kept quietly on their way without pause or further greeting, it certainly was not allowable to interpret their little act of respect as a modest method of asking for sixpence; so that I had the pleasure of considering it a remnant of the reverential and hospitable55 manners of elder times, when the rare presence of a stranger might be deemed worth a general acknowledgment. Positively56, coming from such humble57 sources, I took it all the more as a welcome on behalf of the inhabitants, and would not have exchanged it for an invitation from the mayor and magistrates58 to a public dinner. Yet I wish, merely for the experiment's sake, that I could have emboldened61 myself to hold out the aforesaid sixpence to at least one of the old ladies.
In my wanderings about town, I came to an artificial piece of water, called the Minster Pool. It fills the immense cavity in a ledge62 of rock, whence the building-materials of the cathedral were quarried63 out a great many centuries ago. I should never have guessed the little lake to be of man's creation, so very pretty and quietly picturesque64 an object has it grown to be, with its green banks, and the old trees hanging over its glassy surface, in which you may see reflected some of the battlements of the majestic65 structure that once lay here in unshaped stone. Some little children stood on the edge of the Pool, angling with pin-hooks; and the scene reminded me (though really to be quite fair with the reader, the gist59 of the analogy has now escaped me) of that mysterious lake in the Arabian Nights, which had once been a palace and a city, and where a fisherman used to pull out the former inhabitants in the guise66 of enchanted67 fishes. There is no need of fanciful associations to make the spot interesting. It was in the porch of one of the houses, in the street that runs beside the Minster Pool, that Lord Brooke was slain68, in the time of the Parliamentary war, by a shot from the battlements of the cathedral, which was then held by the Royalists as a fortress69. The incident is commemorated70 by an inscription71 on a stone, inlaid into the wall of the house.
I know not what rank the Cathedral of Lichfield holds among its sister edifices73 in England, as a piece of magnificent architecture. Except that of Chester (the grim and simple nave74 of which stands yet unrivalled in my memory), and one or two small ones in North Wales, hardly worthy of the name of cathedrals, it was the first that I had seen. To my uninstructed vision, it seemed the object best worth gazing at in the whole world; and now, after beholding75 a great many more, I remember it with less prodigal76 admiration77 only because others are as magnificent as itself. The traces remaining in my memory represent it as airy rather than massive. A multitude of beautiful shapes appeared to be comprehended within its single outline; it was a kind of kaleidoscopic78 mystery, so rich a variety of aspects did it assume from each altered point of view, through the presentation of a different face, and the rearrangement of its peaks and pinnacles79 and the three battlemented towers, with the spires81 that shot heavenward from all three, but one loftier than its fellows. Thus it impressed you, at every change, as a newly created structure of the passing moment, in which yet you lovingly recognized the half-vanished structure of the instant before, and felt, moreover, a joyful82 faith in the indestructible existence of all this cloudlike vicissitude83. A Gothic cathedral is surely the most wonderful work which mortal man has yet achieved, so vast, so intricate, and so profoundly simple, with such strange, delightful84 recesses85 in its grand figure, so difficult to comprehend within one idea, and yet all so consonant86 that it ultimately draws the beholder87 and his universe into its harmony. It is the only thing in the world that is vast enough and rich enough.
Not that I felt, or was worthy to feel, an unmingled enjoyment89 in gazing at this wonder. I could not elevate myself to its spiritual height, any more than I could have climbed from the ground to the summit of one of its pinnacles. Ascending but a little way, I continually fell back and lay in a kind of despair, conscious that a flood of uncomprehended beauty was pouring down upon me, of which I could appropriate only the minutest portion. After a hundred years, incalculably as my higher sympathies might be invigorated by so divine an employment, I should still be a gazer from below and at an awful distance, as yet remotely excluded from the interior mystery. But it was something gained, even to have that painful sense of my own limitations, and that half-smothered yearning90 to soar beyond them. The cathedral showed me how earthly I was, but yet whispered deeply of immortality92. After all, this was probably the best lesson that it could bestow93, and, taking it as thoroughly as possible home to my heart, I was fain to be content. If the truth must be told, my ill-trained enthusiasm soon flagged, and I began to lose the vision of a spiritual or ideal edifice72 behind the time-worn and weather-stained front of the actual structure. Whenever that is the case, it is most reverential to look another way; but the mood disposes one to minute investigation94, and I took advantage of it to examine the intricate and multitudinous adornment95 that was lavished96 on the exterior wall of this great church. Everywhere, there were empty niches97 where statues had been thrown down, and here and there a statue still lingered in its niche98; and over the chief entrance, and extending across the whole breadth of the building, was a row of angels, sainted personages, martyrs99, and kings, sculptured in reddish stone. Being much corroded100 by the moist English atmosphere, during four or five hundred winters that they had stood there, these benign101 and majestic figures perversely102 put me in mind of the appearance of a sugar image, after a child has been holding it in his mouth. The venerable infant Time has evidently found them sweet morsels103.
Inside of the minster there is a long and lofty nave, transepts of the same height, and side-aisles104 and chapels105, dim nooks of holiness, where in Catholic times the lamps were continually burning before the richly decorated shrines106 of saints. In the audacity107 of my ignorance, as I humbly108 acknowledge it to have been, I criticised this great interior as too much broken into compartments109, and shorn of half its rightful impressiveness by the interposition of a screen betwixt the nave and chancel. It did not spread itself in breadth, but ascended110 to the roof in lofty narrowness. One large body of worshippers might have knelt down in the nave, others in each of the transepts, and smaller ones in the side-aisles, besides an indefinite number of esoteric enthusiasts111 in the mysterious sanctities beyond the screen. Thus it seemed to typify the exclusiveness of sects112 rather than the worldwide hospitality of genuine religion. I had imagined a cathedral with a scope more vast. These Gothic aisles, with their groined arches overhead, supported by clustered pillars in long vistas113 up and down, were venerable and magnificent, but included too much of the twilight114 of that monkish115 gloom out of which they grew. It is no matter whether I ever came to a more satisfactory appreciation116 of this kind of architecture; the only value of my strictures being to show the folly117 of looking at noble objects in the wrong mood, and the absurdity118 of a new visitant pretending to hold any opinion whatever on such subjects, instead of surrendering himself to the old builder's influence with childlike simplicity119.
A great deal of white marble decorates the old stonework of the aisles, in the shape of altars, obelisks120, sarcophagi, and busts121. Most of these memorials are commemorative of people locally distinguished122, especially the deans and canons of the Cathedral, with their relatives and families; and I found but two monuments of personages whom I had ever heard of,— one being Gilbert Wahnesley and the other Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, a literary acquaintance of my boyhood. It was really pleasant to meet her there; for after a friend has lain in the grave far into the second century, she would be unreasonable123 to require any melancholy124 emotions in a chance interview at her tombstone. It adds a rich charm to sacred edifices, this time-honored custom of burial in churches, after a few years, at least, when the mortal remains125 have turned to dust beneath the pavement, and the quaint34 devices and inscriptions126 still speak to you above. The statues, that stood or reclined in several recesses of the Cathedral, had a kind of life, and I regarded them with an odd sort of deference127, as if they were privileged denizens128 of the precinct. It was singular, too, how the memorial of the latest buried person, the man whose features went familiar in the streets of Lichfield only yesterday, seemed precisely129 as much at home here as his mediaeval predecessors. Henceforward he belonged in the Cathedral like one of its original pillars. Methought this impression in my fancy might be the shadow of a spiritual fact. The dying melt into the great multitude of the Departed as quietly as a drop of water into the ocean, and, it may be are conscious of no unfamiliarity130 with their new circumstances, but immediately become aware of an insufferable strangeness in the world which they have quitted. Death has not taken them away, but brought them home.
The vicissitudes133 and mischances of sublunary affairs, however, have not ceased to attend upon these marble inhabitants; for I saw the upper fragment of a sculptured lady, in a very old-fashioned garb134, the lower half of whom had doubtless been demolished135 by Cromwell's soldiers when they took the Minster by storm. And there lies the remnant of this devout136 lady on her slab137, ever since the outrage138, as for centuries before, with a countenance139 of divine serenity140 and her hands clasped in prayer, symbolizing141 a depth of religious faith which no earthly turmoil142 or calamity143 could disturb. Another piece of sculpture (apparently a favorite subject in the Middle Ages, for I have seen several like it in other cathedrals) was a reclining skeleton, as faithfully representing an open-work of bones as could well be expected in a solid block of marble, and at a period, moreover, when the mysteries of the human frame were rather to be guessed at than revealed. Whatever the anatomical defects of his production, the old sculptor145 had succeeded in making it ghastly beyond measure. How much mischief146 has been wrought147 upon us by this invariable gloom of the Gothic imagination; flinging itself like a death-scented pall148 over our conceptions of the future state, smothering149 our hopes, hiding our sky, and inducing dismal efforts to raise the harvest of immortality out of what is most opposite to it,—the grave!
The Cathedral service is performed twice every day at ten o'clock and at four. When I first entered, the choristers (young and old, but mostly, I think, boys, with voices inexpressibly sweet and clear, and as fresh as bird-notes) were just winding150 up their harmonious151 labors152, and soon came thronging154 through a side-door from the chancel into the nave. They were all dressed in long white robes, and looked like a peculiar155 order of beings, created on purpose to hover156 between the roof and pavement of that dim, consecrated157 edifice, and illuminate158 it with divine melodies, reposing159 themselves, meanwhile, on the heavy grandeur160 of the organ-tones like cherubs161 on a golden cloud. All at once, however, one of the cherubic multitude pulled off his white gown, thus transforming himself before my very eyes into a commonplace youth of the day, in modern frock-coat and trousers of a decidedly provincial162 cut. This absurd little incident, I verily believe, had a sinister163 effect in putting me at odds164 with the proper influences of the Cathedral, nor could I quite recover a suitable frame of mind during my stay there. But, emerging into the open air, I began to be sensible that I had left a magnificent interior behind me, and I have never quite lost the perception and enjoyment of it in these intervening years.
A large space in the immediate131 neighborhood of the Cathedral is called the Close, and comprises beautifully kept lawns and a shadowy walk bordered by the dwellings165 of the ecclesiastical dignitaries of the diocese. All this row of episcopal, canonical166, and clerical residences has an air of the deepest quiet, repose167, and well-protected though not inaccessible168 seclusion169. They seemed capable of including everything that a saint could desire, and a great many more things than most of us sinners generally succeed in acquiring. Their most marked feature is a dignified170 comfort, looking as if no disturbance171 or vulgar intrusiveness172 could ever cross their thresholds, encroach upon their ornamented174 lawns, or straggle into the beautiful gardens that surround them with flower-beds and rich clumps175 of shrubbery. The episcopal palace is a stately mansion176 of stone, built somewhat in the Italian style, and bearing on its front the figures 1637, as the date of its erection. A large edifice of brick, which, if I remember, stood next to the palace, I took to be the residence of the second dignitary of the Cathedral; and, in that case, it must have been the youthful home of Addison, whose father was Dean of Lichfield. I tried to fancy his figure on the delightful walk that extends in front of those priestly abodes177, from which and the interior lawns it is separated by an open-work iron fence, lined with rich old shrubbery, and overarched by a minster-aisle of venerable trees. This path is haunted by the shades of famous personages who have formerly trodden it. Johnson must have been familiar with it, both as a boy, and in his subsequent visits to Lichfield, an illustrious old man. Miss Seward, connected with so many literary reminiscences, lived in one of the adjacent houses. Tradition says that it was a favorite spot of Major Andre, who used to pace to and fro under these trees waiting, perhaps, to catch a last angel-glimpse of Honoria Sueyd, before he crossed the ocean to encounter his dismal doom178 from an American court-martial. David Garrick, no doubt, scampered179 along the path in his boyish days, and, if he was an early student of the drama, must often have thought of those two airy characters of the "Beaux' Stratagem," Archer180 and Aimwell, who, on this very ground, after attending service at the cathedral, contrive181 to make acquaintance with the ladies of the comedy. These creatures of mere60 fiction have as positive a substance now as the sturdy old figure of Johnson himself. They live, while realities have died. The shadowy walk still glistens182 with their gold-embroidered memories.
Seeking for Johnson's birthplace, I found it in St. Mary's Square, which is not so much a square as the mere widening of a street. The house is tall and thin, of three stories, with a square front and a roof rising steep and high. On a side-view, the building looks as if it had been cut in two in the midst, there being no slope of the roof on that side. A ladder slanted183 against the wall, and a painter was giving a livelier line to the plaster. In a corner-room of the basement, where old Michael Johnson may be supposed to have sold books, is now what we should call a dry-goods store, or, according to the English phrase, a mercer's and haberdasher's shop. The house has a private entrance on a cross-street, the door being accessible by several much-worn stone steps, which are bordered by an iron balustrade. I set my foot on the steps and laid my hand on the balustrade, where Johnson's hand and foot must many a time have been, and ascending to the door, I knocked once, and again, and again, and got no admittance. Going round to the shop-entrance, I tried to open it, but found it as fast bolted as the gate of Paradise. It is mortifying184 to be so balked185 in one's little enthusiasms; but looking round in quest of somebody to make inquiries186 of, I was a good deal consoled by the sight of Dr. Johnson himself, who happened, just at that moment, to be sitting at his case nearly in the middle of St. Mary's Square, with his face turned towards his father's house.
Of course, it being almost fourscore years since the Doctor laid aside his weary bulk of flesh, together with the ponderous melancholy that had so long weighed him down, the intelligent reader will at once comprehend that he was marble in his substance, and seated in a marble chair, on an elevated stone pedestal. In short, it was a statue, sculptured by Lucas, and placed here in 1838, at the expense of Dr. Law, the reverend chancellor187 of the diocese.
The figure is colossal188 (though perhaps not much more so than the mountainous Doctor himself) and looks down upon the spectator from its pedestal of ten or twelve feet high, with a broad and heavy benignity189 of aspect, very like in feature to Sir Joshua Reynolds's portrait of Johnson, but calmer and sweeter in expression. Several big books are piled up beneath his chair, and, if I mistake not, he holds a volume in his hand, thus blinking forth at the world out of his learned abstraction, owllike, yet benevolent190 at heart. The statue is immensely massive, a vast ponderosity191 of stone, not finely spiritualized, nor, indeed, fully144 humanized, but rather resembling a great stone-bowlder than a man. You must look with the eyes of faith and sympathy, or, possibly, you might lose the human being altogether, and find only a big stone within your mental grasp. On the pedestal are three bas-reliefs. In the first, Johnson is represented as hardly more than a baby, bestriding an old man's shoulders, resting his chin on the bald head which he embraces with his little arms, and listening earnestly to the High-Church eloquence192 of Dr. Sacheverell. In the second tablet, he is seen riding to school on the shoulders of two of his comrades, while another boy supports him in the rear.
The third bas-relief possesses, to my mind, a great deal of pathos193, to which my appreciative194 faculty195 is probably the more alive, because I have always been profoundly impressed by the incident here commemorated, and long ago tried to tell it for the behoof of childish readers. It shows Johnson in the market-place of Uttoxeter, doing penance196 for an act of disobedience to his father, committed fifty years before. He stands bareheaded, a venerable figure, and a countenance extremely sad and woebegone, with the wind and rain driving hard against him, and thus helping197 to suggest to the spectator the gloom of his inward state. Some market-people and children gaze awe198-stricken into his face, and an aged199 man and woman, with clasped and uplifted hands, seem to be praying for him. These latter personages (whose introduction by the artist is none the less effective, because, in queer proximity200, there are some commodities of market-day in the shape of living ducks and dead poultry) I interpreted to represent the spirits of Johnson's father and mother, lending what aid they could to lighten his half-century's burden of remorse201.
I had never heard of the above-described piece of sculpture before; it appears to have no reputation as a work of art, nor am I at all positive that it deserves any. For me, however, it did as much as sculpture could, under the circumstances, even if the artist of the Libyan Sibyl had wrought it, by reviving my interest in the sturdy old Englishman, and particularly by freshening my perception of a wonderful beauty and pathetic tenderness in the incident of the penance. So, the next day, I left Lichfield for Uttoxeter, on one of the few purely202 sentimental203 pilgrimages that I ever undertook, to see the very spot where Johnson had stood. Boswell, I think, speaks of the town (its name is pronounced Yuteoxeter) as being about nine miles off from Lichfield, but the county-map would indicate a greater distance; and by rail, passing from one line to another, it is as much as eighteen miles. I have always had an idea of old Michael Johnson sending his literary merchandise by carrier's wagon204, journeying to Uttoxeter afoot on market-day morning, selling books through the busy hours, and returning to Lichfield at night. This could not possibly have been the case.
Arriving at the Uttoxeter station, the first objects that I saw, with a green field or two between them and me, were the tower and gray steeple of a church, rising among red-tiled roofs and a few scattered205 trees. A very short walk takes you from the station up into the town. It had been my previous impression that the market-place of Uttoxeter lay immediately roundabout the church; and, if I remember the narrative206 aright, Johnson, or Boswell in his behalf, describes his father's book-stall as standing in the market-place, close beside the sacred edifice. It is impossible for me to say what changes may have occurred in the topography of the town, during almost a century and a half since Michael Johnson retired207 from business, and ninety years, at least, since his son's penance was performed. But the church has now merely a street of ordinary width passing around it, while the market-place, though near at hand, neither forms a part of it nor is really contiguous, nor would its throng153 and bustle208 be apt to overflow209 their boundaries and surge against the churchyard and the old gray tower. Nevertheless, a walk of a minute or two brings a person from the centre of the market-place to the church-door; and Michael Johnson might very conveniently have located his stall and laid out his literary ware132 in the corner at the tower's base; better there, indeed, than in the busy centre of an agricultural market. But the picturesque arrangement and full impressiveness of the story absolutely require that Johnson shall not have done his penance in a corner, ever so little retired, but shall have been the very nucleus210 of the crowd,—the midmost man of the market-place,—a central image of Memory and Remorse, contrasting with and overpowering the petty materialism211 around him. He himself, having the force to throw vitality212 and truth into what persons differently constituted might reckon a mere external ceremony, and an absurd one, could not have failed to see this necessity. I am resolved, therefore, that the true site of Dr. Johnson's penance was in the middle of the market-place.
That important portion of the town is a rather spacious and irregularly shaped vacuity213, surrounded by houses and shops, some of them old, with red-tiled roofs, others wearing a pretence214 of newness, but probably as old in their inner substance as the rest. The people of Uttoxeter seemed very idle in the warm summer-day, and were scattered in little groups along the sidewalks, leisurely215 chatting with one another, and often turning about to take a deliberate stare at my humble self; insomuch that I felt as if my genuine sympathy for the illustrious penitent216, and my many reflections about him, must have imbued217 me with some of his own singularity of mien218. If their great-grandfathers were such redoubtable219 starers in the Doctor's day, his penance was no light one. This curiosity indicates a paucity220 of visitors to the little town, except for market purposes, and I question if Uttoxeter ever saw an American before. The only other thing that greatly impressed me was the abundance of public-houses, one at every step or two Red Lions, White Harts, Bulls' Heads, Mitres, Cross Keys, and I know not what besides. These are probably for the accommodation of the farmers and peasantry of the neighborhood on market-day, and content themselves with a very meagre business on other days of the week. At any rate, I was the only guest in Uttoxeter at the period of my visit, and had but an infinitesimal portion of patronage221 to distribute among such a multitude of inns. The reader, however, will possibly be scandalized to learn what was the first, and, indeed, the only important affair that I attended to, after coming so far to indulge a solemn and high emotion, and standing now on the very spot where my pious222 errand should have been consummated223. I stepped into one of the rustic224 hostelries and got my dinner,—bacon and greens, some mutton-chops, juicier and more delectable225 than all America could serve up at the President's table, and a gooseberry pudding; a sufficient meal for six yeomen, and good enough for a prince, besides a pitcher226 of foaming227 ale, the whole at the pitiful small charge of eighteen-pence!
Dr. Johnson would have forgiven me, for nobody had a heartier228 faith in beef and mutton than himself. And as regards my lack of sentiment in eating my dinner,—it was the wisest thing I had done that day. A sensible man had better not let himself be betrayed into these attempts to realize the things which he has dreamed about, and which, when they cease to be purely ideal in his mind, will have lost the truest of their truth, the loftiest and profoundest part of their power over his sympathies. Facts, as we really find them, whatever poetry they may involve, are covered with a stony229 excrescence of prose, resembling the crust on a beautiful sea-shell, and they never show their most delicate and divinest colors until we shall have dissolved away their grosser actualities by steeping them long in a powerful menstruum of thought. And seeking to actualize them again, we do but renew the crust. If this were otherwise,—if the moral sublimity230 of a great fact depended in any degree on its garb of external circumstances, things which change and decay,—it could not itself be immortal91 and ubiquitous, and only a brief point of time and a little neighborhood would be spiritually nourished by its grandeur and beauty.
Such were a few of the reflections which I mingled88 with my ale, as I remember to have seen an old quaffer231 of that excellent liquor stir up his cup with a sprig of some bitter and fragrant232 herb. Meanwhile I found myself still haunted by a desire to get a definite result out of my visit to Uttoxeter. The hospitable inn was called the Nag's Head, and standing beside the market-place, was as likely as any other to have entertained old Michael Johnson in the days when he used to come hither to sell books. He, perhaps, had dined on bacon and greens, and drunk his ale, and smoked his pipe, in the very room where I now sat, which was a low, ancient room, certainly much older than Queen Anne's time, with a red-brick floor, and a white-washed ceiling, traversed by bare, rough beams, the whole in the rudest fashion, but extremely neat. Neither did it lack ornament173, the walls being hung with colored engravings of prize oxen and other pretty prints, and the mantel-piece adorned233 with earthen-ware figures of shepherdesses in the Arcadian taste of long ago. Michael Johnson's eyes might have rested on that selfsame earthen image, to examine which more closely I had just crossed the brick pavement of the room. And, sitting down again, still as I sipped234 my ale, I glanced through the open window into the sunny market-place, and wished that I could honestly fix on one spot rather than another, as likely to have been the holy site where Johnson stood to do his penance.
How strange and stupid it is that tradition should not have marked and kept in mind the very place! How shameful235 (nothing less than that) that there should be no local memorial of this incident, as beautiful and touching236 a passage as can be cited out of any human life! No inscription of it, almost as sacred as a verse of Scripture237 on the wall of the church! No statue of the venerable and illustrious penitent in the market-place to throw a wholesome awe over its earthliness, its frauds and petty wrongs of which the benumbed fingers of conscience can make no record, its selfish competition of each man with his brother or his neighbor, its traffic of soul-substance for a little worldly gain! Such a statue, if the piety238 of the people did not raise it, might almost have been expected to grow up out of the pavement of its own accord on the spot that had been watered by the rain that dripped from Johnson's garments, mingled with his remorseful239 tears.
Long after my visit to Uttoxeter, I was told that there were individuals in the town who could have shown me the exact, indubitable spot where Johnson performed his penance. I was assured, moreover, that sufficient interest was felt in the subject to have induced certain local discussions as to the expediency240 of erecting241 a memorial. With all deference to my polite informant, I surmise242 that there is a mistake, and decline, without further and precise evidence, giving credit to either of the above statements. The inhabitants know nothing, as a matter of general interest, about the penance, and care nothing for the scene of it. If the clergyman of the parish, for example, had ever heard of it, would he not have used the theme, time and again, wherewith to work tenderly and profoundly on the souls committed to his charge? If parents were familiar with it, would they not teach it to their young ones at the fireside, both to insure reverence243 to their own gray hairs, and to protect the children from such unavailing regrets as Johnson bore upon his heart for fifty years? If the site were ascertained244, would not the pavement thereabouts be worn with reverential footsteps? Would not every town-born child be able to direct the pilgrim thither? While waiting at the station, before my departure, I asked a boy who stood near me,—an intelligent and gentlemanly lad, twelve or thirteen years old, whom I should take to be a clergyman's son,—I asked him if he had ever heard the story of Dr. Johnson, how he stood an hour doing penance near that church, the spire80 of which rose before us. The boy stared and answered,—
"No!'
"Were you born in Uttoxeter?"
"Yes."
I inquired if no circumstance such as I had mentioned was known or talked about among the inhabitants.
"No," said the boy; "not that I ever heard of."
Just think of the absurd little town, knowing nothing of the only memorable245 incident which ever happened within its boundaries since the old Britons built it, this sad and lovely story, which consecrates246 the spot (for I found it holy to my contemplation, again, as soon as it lay behind me) in the heart of a stranger from three thousand miles over the sea! It but confirms what I have been saying, that sublime247 and beautiful facts are best understood when etherealized by distance.
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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5
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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6
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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7
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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8
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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11
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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12
eschewing
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的现在分词 ) | |
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13
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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14
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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15
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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16
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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17
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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18
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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19
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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20
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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21
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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22
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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23
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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26
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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27
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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28
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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29
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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30
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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31
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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32
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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33
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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34
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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35
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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36
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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37
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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38
grandiloquent
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| adj.夸张的 | |
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39
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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40
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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41
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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42
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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43
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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46
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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47
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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48
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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49
amalgamated
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| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
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50
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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51
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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52
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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53
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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54
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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55
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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56
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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57
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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58
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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59
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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60
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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61
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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63
quarried
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| v.从采石场采得( quarry的过去式和过去分词 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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64
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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65
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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66
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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67
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
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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69
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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70
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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72
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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73
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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74
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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75
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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76
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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77
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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78
kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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79
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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80
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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81
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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82
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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83
vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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84
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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85
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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86
consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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87
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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88
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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89
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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90
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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91
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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92
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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93
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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94
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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95
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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96
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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98
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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99
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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100
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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101
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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102
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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103
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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104
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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105
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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106
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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107
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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108
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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109
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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110
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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112
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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113
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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114
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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115
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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116
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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117
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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118
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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119
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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120
obelisks
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| n.方尖石塔，短剑号，疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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121
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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122
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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123
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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124
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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125
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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126
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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127
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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128
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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129
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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130
unfamiliarity
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131
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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132
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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133
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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134
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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135
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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136
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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137
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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138
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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139
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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140
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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141
symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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142
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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143
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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144
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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145
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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146
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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147
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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148
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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149
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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150
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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151
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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152
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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153
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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154
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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155
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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156
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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157
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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158
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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159
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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160
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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161
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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162
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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163
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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164
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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165
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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166
canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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167
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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168
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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169
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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170
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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171
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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172
intrusiveness
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173
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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174
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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176
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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177
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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178
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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179
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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181
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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182
glistens
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的第三人称单数 ) | |
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183
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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184
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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185
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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186
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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187
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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188
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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189
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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190
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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191
ponderosity
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| n.沉重，笨重；有质性；可称性 | |
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192
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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193
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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194
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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195
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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196
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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197
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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198
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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199
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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200
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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201
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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202
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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203
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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204
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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205
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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206
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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207
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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208
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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209
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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210
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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211
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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212
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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213
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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214
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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215
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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216
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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217
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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218
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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219
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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220
paucity
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| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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221
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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222
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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223
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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224
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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225
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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226
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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227
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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228
heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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229
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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230
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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231
quaffer
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232
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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233
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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234
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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235
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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236
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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237
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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238
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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239
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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240
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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241
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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242
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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243
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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244
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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246
consecrates
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| n.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的名词复数 )；奉献v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的第三人称单数 )；奉献 | |
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247
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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