Lancashire is a dreary3 county (all, at least, except its hilly portions), and I have never passed through it without wishing myself anywhere but in that particular spot where I then happened to be. A few places along our route were historically interesting; as, for example, Bolton, which was the scene of many remarkable4 events in the Parliamentary War, and in the market-square of which one of the Earls of Derby was beheaded. We saw, along the wayside, the never-failing green fields, hedges, and other monotonous6 features of an ordinary English landscape. There were little factory villages, too, or larger towns, with their tall chimneys, and their pennons of black smoke, their ugliness of brick-work, and their heaps of refuse matter from the furnace, which seems to be the only kind of stuff which Nature cannot take back to herself and resolve into the elements, when man has thrown it aside. These hillocks of waste and effete7 mineral always disfigure the neighborhood of iron-mongering towns, and, even after a considerable antiquity8, are hardly made decent with a little grass.
At a quarter to two we left Manchester by the Sheffield and Lincoln Railway. The scenery grew rather better than that through which we had hitherto passed, though still by no means very striking; for (except in the show-districts, such as the Lake country, or Derbyshire) English scenery is not particularly well worth looking at, considered as a spectacle or a picture. It has a real, homely9 charm of its own, no doubt; and the rich verdure, and the thorough finish added by human art, are perhaps as attractive to an American eye as any stronger feature could be. Our journey, however, between Manchester and Sheffield was not through a rich tract10 of country, but along a valley walled in by bleak11, ridgy12 hills extending straight as a rampart, and across black moorlands with here and there a plantation13 of trees. Sometimes there were long and gradual ascents14, bleak, windy, and desolate15, conveying the very impression which the reader gets from many passages of Miss Bronte's novels, and still more from those of her two sisters. Old stone or brick farm-houses, and, once in a while, an old church-tower, were visible; but these are almost too common objects to be noticed in an English landscape.
On a railway, I suspect, what little we do see of the country is seen quite amiss, because it was never intended to be looked at from any point of view in that straight line; so that it is like looking at the wrong side of a piece of tapestry17. The old highways and foot-paths were as natural as brooks18 and rivulets19, and adapted themselves by an inevitable20 impulse to the physiognomy of the country; and, furthermore, every object within view of them had some subtile reference to their curves and undulations; but the line of a railway is perfectly21 artificial, and puts all precedent22 things at sixes-and-sevens. At any rate, be the cause what it may, there is seldom anything worth seeing within the scope of a railway traveller's eye; and if there were, it requires an alert marksman to take a flying shot at the picturesque23.
At one of the stations (it was near a village of ancient aspect, nestling round a church, on a wide Yorkshire moor) I saw a tall old lady in black, who seemed to have just alighted from the train. She caught my attention by a singular movement of the head, not once only, but continually repeated, and at regular intervals24, as if she were making a stern and solemn protest against some action that developed itself before her eyes, and were foreboding terrible disaster, if it should be persisted in. Of course, it was nothing more than a paralytic26 or nervous affection; yet one might fancy that it had its origin in some unspeakable wrong, perpetrated half a lifetime ago in this old gentlewoman's presence, either against herself or somebody whom she loved still better. Her features had a wonderful sternness, which, I presume, was caused by her habitual27 effort to compose and keep them quiet, and thereby28 counteract29 the tendency to paralytic movement. The slow, regular, and inexorable character of the motion—her look of force and self-control, which had the appearance of rendering30 it voluntary, while yet it was so fateful— have stamped this poor lady's face and gesture into my memory; so that, some dark day or other, I am afraid she will reproduce herself in a dismal31 romance.
The train stopped a minute or two, to allow the tickets to be taken, just before entering the Sheffield station, and thence I had a glimpse of the famous town of razors and penknives, enveloped32 in a cloud of its own diffusing33. My impressions of it are extremely vague and misty,—or, rather, smoky: for Sheffield seems to me smokier than Manchester. Liverpool, or Birmingham,—smokier than all England besides, unless Newcastle be the exception. It might have been Pluto's own metropolis34, shrouded35 in sulphurous vapor36; and, indeed, our approach to it had been by the Valley of the Shadow of Death, through a tunnel three miles in length, quite traversing the breadth and depth of a mountainous hill.
After passing Sheffield, the scenery became softer, gentler, yet more picturesque. At one point we saw what I believe to be the utmost northern verge37 of Sherwood Forest,—not consisting, however, of thousand-year oaks, extant from Robin38 Hood's days, but of young and thriving plantations39, which will require a century or two of slow English growth to give them much breadth of shade. Earl Fitzwilliam's property lies in this neighborhood, and probably his castle was hidden among some soft depth of foliage40 not far off. Farther onward41 the country grew quite level around us, whereby I judged that we must now be in Lincolnshire; and shortly after six o'clock we caught the first glimpse of the Cathedral towers, though they loomed42 scarcely huge enough for our preconceived idea of them. But, as we drew nearer, the great edifice43 began to assert itself, making us acknowledge it to be larger than our receptivity could take in.
At the railway-station we found no cab (it being an unknown vehicle in Lincoln), but only an omnibus belonging to the Saracen's Head, which the driver recommended as the best hotel in the city, and took us thither44 accordingly. It received us hospitably45, and looked comfortable enough; though, like the hotels of most old English towns, it had a musty fragrance46 of antiquity, such as I have smelt47 in a seldom-opened London church where the broad-aisle48 is paved with tombstones. The house was of an ancient fashion, the entrance into its interior court-yard being through an arch, in the side of which is the door of the hotel. There are long corridors, an intricate arrangement of passages, and an up-and-down meandering49 of staircases, amid which it would be no marvel50 to encounter some forgotten guest who had gone astray a hundred years ago, and was still seeking for his bedroom while the rest of his generation were in their graves. There is no exaggerating the confusion of mind that seizes upon a stranger in the bewildering geography of a great old-fashioned English inn.
This hotel stands in the principal street of Lincoln, and within a very short distance of one of the ancient city-gates, which is arched across the public way, with a smaller arch for foot-passengers on either side; the whole, a gray, time-gnawn, ponderous51, shadowy structure, through the dark vista52 of which you look into the Middle Ages. The street is narrow, and retains many antique peculiarities53; though, unquestionably, English domestic architecture has lost its most impressive features, in the course of the last century. In this respect, there are finer old towns than Lincoln: Chester, for instance, and Shrewsbury,—which last is unusually rich in those quaint55 and stately edifices56 where the gentry57 of the shire used to make their winter abodes59, in a provincial60 metropolis. Almost everywhere, nowadays, there is a monotony of modern brick or stuccoed fronts, hiding houses that are older than ever, but obliterating61 the picturesque antiquity of the street.
Between seven and eight o'clock (it being still broad daylight in these long English days) we set out to pay a preliminary visit to the exterior62 of the Cathedral. Passing through the Stone Bow, as the city-gate close by is called, we ascended63 a street which grew steeper and narrower as we advanced, till at last it got to be the steepest street I ever climbed,— so steep that any carriage, if left to itself, would rattle65 downward much faster than it could possibly be drawn66 up. Being almost the only hill in Lincolnshire, the inhabitants seem disposed to make the most of it. The houses on each side had no very remarkable aspect, except one with a stone portal and carved ornaments67, which is now a dwelling-place for poverty-stricken people, but may have been an aristocratic abode58 in the days of the Norman kings, to whom its style of architecture dates back. This is called the Jewess's House, having been inhabited by a woman of that faith who was hanged six hundred years ago.
And still the street grew steeper and steeper. Certainly, the Bishop69 and clergy70 of Lincoln ought not to be fat men, but of very spiritual, saint-like, almost angelic habit, if it be a frequent part of their ecclesiastical duty to climb this hill; for it is a real penance71, and was probably performed as such, and groaned72 over accordingly, in monkish73 times. Formerly75, on the day of his installation, the Bishop used to ascend64 the hill barefoot, and was doubtless cheered and invigorated by looking upward to the grandeur76 that was to console him for the humility77 of his approach. We, likewise, were beckoned78 onward by glimpses of the Cathedral towers, and, finally, attaining79 an open square on the summit, we saw an old Gothic gateway80 to the left hand, and another to the right. The latter had apparently81 been a part of the exterior defences of the Cathedral, at a time when the edifice was fortified82. The west front rose behind. We passed through one of the side-arches of the Gothic portal, and found ourselves in the Cathedral Close, a wide, level space, where the great old Minster has fair room to sit, looking down on the ancient structures that surround it, all of which, in former days, were the habitations of its dignitaries and officers. Some of them are still occupied as such, though others are in too neglected and dilapidated a state to seem worthy83 of so splendid an establishment. Unless it be Salisbury Close, however (which is incomparably rich as regards the old residences that belong to it), I remember no more comfortably picturesque precincts round any other cathedral. But, in truth, almost every cathedral close, in turn, has seemed to me the loveliest, cosiest84, safest, least wind-shaken, most decorous, and most enjoyable shelter that ever the thrift85 and selfishness of mortal man contrived86 for himself. How delightful87, to combine all this with the service of the temple!
Lincoln Cathedral is built of a yellowish brown-stone, which appears either to have been largely restored, or else does not assume the hoary88, crumbly surface that gives such a venerable aspect to most of the ancient churches and castles in England. In many parts, the recent restorations are quite evident; but other, and much the larger portions, can scarcely have been touched for centuries: for there are still the gargoyles89, perfect, or with broken noses, as the case may be, but showing that variety and fertility of grotesque90 extravagance which no modern imitation can effect. There are innumerable niches91, too, up the whole height of the towers, above and around the entrance, and all over the walls: most of them empty, but a few containing the lamentable92 remnants of headless saints and angels. It is singular what a native animosity lives in the human heart against carved images, insomuch that, whether they represent Christian93 saint or Pagan deity94, all unsophisticated men seize the first safe opportunity to knock off their heads! In spite of all dilapidations, however, the effect of the west front of the Cathedral is still exceedingly rich, being covered from massive base to airy summit with the minutest details of sculpture and carving96: at least, it was so once; and even now the spiritual impression of its beauty remains97 so strong, that we have to look twice to see that much of it has been obliterated99. I have seen a cherry-stone carved all over by a monk74, so minutely that it must have cost him half a lifetime of labor100; and this cathedral-front seems to have been elaborated in a monkish spirit, like that cherry-stone. Not that the result is in the least petty, but miraculously101 grand, and all the more so for the faithful beauty of the smallest details.
An elderly maid, seeing us looking up at the west front, came to the door of an adjacent house, and called to inquire if we wished to go into the Cathedral; but as there would have been a dusky twilight102 beneath its roof, like the antiquity that has sheltered itself within, we declined for the present. So we merely walked round the exterior, and thought it more beautiful than that of York; though, on recollection, I hardly deem it so majestic103 and mighty104 as that. It is vain to attempt a description, or seek even to record the feeling which the edifice inspires. It does not impress the beholder106 as an inanimate object, but as something that has a vast, quiet, long-enduring life of its own,—a creation which man did not build, though in some way or other it is connected with him, and kindred to human nature. In short, I fall straightway to talking nonsense, when I try to express my inner sense of this and other cathedrals.
While we stood in the close, at the eastern end of the Minster, the clock chimed the quarters; and then Great Tom, who hangs in the Rood Tower, told us it was eight o'clock, in far the sweetest and mightiest107 accents that I ever heard from any bell,—slow, and solemn, and allowing the profound reverberations of each stroke to die away before the next one fell. It was still broad daylight in that upper region of the town, and would be so for some time longer; but the evening atmosphere was getting sharp and cool. We therefore descended108 the steep street,—our younger companion running before us, and gathering109 such headway that I fully110 expected him to break his head against some projecting wall.
In the morning we took a fly (an English term for an exceedingly sluggish111 vehicle), and drove up to the Minster by a road rather less steep and abrupt112 than the one we had previously113 climbed. We alighted before the west front, and sent our charioteer in quest of the verger; but, as he was not immediately to be found, a young girl let us into the nave114. We found it very grand, it is needless to say, but not so grand, methought, as the vast nave of York Cathedral, especially beneath the great central tower of the latter. Unless a writer intends a professedly architectural description, there is but one set of phrases in which to talk of all the cathedrals in England and elsewhere. They are alike in their great features: an acre or two of stone flags for a pavement; rows of vast columns supporting a vaulted115 roof at a dusky height; great windows, sometimes richly bedimmed with ancient or modern stained glass; and an elaborately carved screen between the nave and chancel, breaking the vista that might else be of such glorious length, and which is further choked up by a massive organ.—in spite of which obstructions116, you catch the broad, variegated117 glimmer118 of the painted east window, where a hundred saints wear their robes of transfiguration. Behind the screen are the carved oaken stalls of the Chapter and Prebendaries, the Bishop's throne, the pulpit, the altar, and whatever else may furnish out the Holy of Holies. Nor must we forget the range of chapels119 (once dedicated121 to Catholic saints, but which have now lost their individual consecration), nor the old monuments of kings, warriors122, and prelates, in the side-aisles of the chancel. In close contiguity123 to the main body of the Cathedral is the Chapter-House, which, here at Lincoln, as at Salisbury, is supported by one central pillar rising from the floor, and putting forth124 branches like a tree, to hold up the roof. Adjacent to the Chapter-House are the cloisters125, extending round a quadrangle, and paved with lettered tombstones, the more antique of which have had their inscriptions126 half obliterated by the feet of monks127 taking their noontide exercise in these sheltered walks, five hundred years ago. Some of these old burial-stones, although with ancient crosses engraved128 upon them, have been made to serve as memorials to dead people of very recent date.
In the chancel, among the tombs of forgotten bishops129 and knights130, we saw an immense slab132 of stone purporting133 to be the monument of Catherine Swynford, wife of John of Gaunt; also, here was the shrine134 of the little Saint Hugh, that Christian child who was fabled135 to have been crucified by the Jews of Lincoln. The Cathedral is not particularly rich in monuments; for it suffered grievous outrage136 and dilapidation95, both at the Reformation and in Cromwell's time. This latter iconoclast137 is in especially bad odor with the sextons and vergers of most of the old churches which I have visited. His soldiers stabled their steeds in the nave of Lincoln Cathedral, and hacked138 and hewed139 the monkish sculptures, and the ancestral memorials of great families, quite at their wicked and plebeian140 pleasure. Nevertheless, there are some most exquisite141 and marvellous specimens142 of flowers, foliage, and grapevines, and miracles of stone-work twined about arches, as if the material had been as soft as wax in the cunning sculptor's hands,—the leaves being represented with all their veins144, so that you would almost think it petrified145 Nature, for which he sought to steal the praise of Art. Here, too, were those grotesque faces which always grin at you from the projections146 of monkish architecture, as if the builders had gone mad with their own deep solemnity, or dreaded147 such a catastrophe148, unless permitted to throw in something ineffably149 absurd.
Originally, it is supposed, all the pillars of this great edifice, and all these magic sculptures, were polished to the utmost degree of lustre150; nor is it unreasonable151 to think that the artists would have taken these further pains, when they had already bestowed152 so much labor in working out their conceptions to the extremest point. But, at present, the whole interior of the Cathedral is smeared153 over with a yellowish wash, the very meanest hue154 imaginable, and for which somebody's soul has a bitter reckoning to undergo.
In the centre of the grassy155 quadrangle about which the cloisters perambulate is a small, mean brick building, with a locked door. Our guide,—I forgot to say that we had been captured by a verger, in black, and with a white tie, but of a lusty and jolly aspect,—our guide unlocked this door, and disclosed a flight of steps. At the bottom appeared what I should have taken to be a large square of dim, worn, and faded oil-carpeting, which might originally have been painted of a rather gaudy156 pattern. This was a Roman tessellated pavement, made of small colored bricks, or pieces of burnt clay. It was accidentally discovered here, and has not been meddled157 with, further than by removing the superincumbent earth and rubbish.
Nothing else occurs to me, just now, to be recorded about the interior of the Cathedral, except that we saw a place where the stone pavement had been worn away by the feet of ancient pilgrims scraping upon it, as they knelt down before a shrine of the Virgin158. Leaving the Minster, we now went along a street of more venerable appearance than we had heretofore seen, bordered with houses, the high peaked roofs of which were covered with red earthen tiles. It led us to a Roman arch, which was once the gateway of a fortification, and has been striding across the English street ever since the latter was a faint village-path, and for centuries before. The arch is about four hundred yards from the Cathedral; and it is to be noticed that there are Roman remains in all this neighborhood, some above ground, and doubtless innumerable more beneath it; for, as in ancient Rome itself, an inundation159 of accumulated soil seems to have swept over what was the surface of that earlier day. The gateway which I am speaking about is probably buried to a third of its height, and perhaps has as perfect a Roman pavement (if sought for at the original depth) as that which runs beneath the Arch of Titus. It is a rude and massive structure, and seems as stalwart now as it could have been two thousand years ago; and though Time has gnawed160 it externally, he has made what amends161 he could by crowning its rough and broken summit with grass and weeds, and planting tufts of yellow flowers on the projections up and down the sides.
There are the ruins of a Norman castle, built by the Conqueror162, in pretty close proximity163 to the Cathedral; but the old gateway is obstructed164 by a modern door of wood, and we were denied admittance because some part of the precincts are used as a prison. We now rambled166 about on the broad back of the hill, which, besides the Minster and ruined castle, is the site of some stately and queer old houses, and of many mean little hovels. I suspect that all or most of the life of the present day has subsided167 into the lower town, and that only priests, poor people, and prisoners dwell in these upper regions. In the wide, dry moat, at the base of the castle-wall, are clustered whole colonies of small houses, some of brick, but the larger portion built of old stones which once made part of the Norman keep, or of Roman structures that existed before the Conqueror's castle was ever dreamed about. They are like toadstools that spring up from the mould of a decaying tree. Ugly as they are, they add wonderfully to the picturesqueness168 of the scene, being quite as valuable, in that respect, as the great, broad, ponderous ruin of the castle-keep, which rose high above our heads, heaving its huge gray mass out of a bank of green foliage and ornamental169 shrubbery, such as lilacs and other flowering plants, in which its foundations were completely hidden.
After walking quite round the castle, I made an excursion through the Roman gateway, along a pleasant and level road bordered with dwellings170 of various character. One or two were houses of gentility, with delightful and shadowy lawns before them; many had those high, red-tiled roofs, ascending171 into acutely pointed172 gables, which seem to belong to the same epoch173 as some of the edifices in our own earlier towns; and there were pleasant-looking cottages, very sylvan174 and rural, with hedges so dense175 and high, fencing them in, as almost to hide them up to the eaves of their thatched roofs. In front of one of these I saw various images, crosses, and relics177 of antiquity, among which were fragments of old Catholic tombstones, disposed by way of ornament68.
We now went home to the Saracen's Head; and as the weather was very unpropitious, and it sprinkled a little now and then, I would gladly have felt myself released from further thraldom178 to the Cathedral. But it had taken possession of me, and would not let me be at rest; so at length I found myself compelled to climb the hill again, between daylight and dusk. A mist was now hovering179 about the upper height of the great central tower, so as to dim and half obliterate98 its battlements and pinnacles181, even while I stood in the close beneath it. It was the most impressive view that I had had. The whole lower part of the structure was seen with perfect distinctness; but at the very summit the mist was so dense as to form an actual cloud, as well defined as ever I saw resting on a mountain-top. Really and literally182, here was a "cloud-capt tower."
The entire Cathedral, too, transfigured itself into a richer beauty and more imposing183 majesty184 than ever. The longer I looked, the better I loved it. Its exterior is certainly far more beautiful than that of York Minster; and its finer effect is due, I think, to the many peaks in which the structure ascends185, and to the pinnacles which, as it were, repeat and re-echo them into the sky. York Cathedral is comparatively square and angular in its general effect; but in this at Lincoln there is a continual mystery of variety, so that at every glance you are aware of a change, and a disclosure of something new, yet working an harmonious186 development of what you have heretofore seen. The west front is unspeakably grand, and may be read over and over again forever, and still show undetected meanings, like a great, broad page of marvellous writing in black-letter,—so many sculptured ornaments there are, blossoming out before your eyes, and gray statues that have grown there since you looked last, and empty niches, and a hundred airy canopies187 beneath which carved images used to be, and where they will show themselves again, if you gaze long enough.—But I will not say another word about the Cathedral.
We spent the rest of the day within the sombre precincts of the Saracen's Head, reading yesterday's "Times," "The Guide-Book of Lincoln," and "The Directory of the Eastern Counties." Dismal as the weather was, the street beneath our window was enlivened with a great bustle188 and turmoil189 of people all the evening, because it was Saturday night, and they had accomplished190 their week's toil191, received their wages, and were making their small purchases against Sunday, and enjoying themselves as well as they knew how. A band of music passed to and fro several times, with the rain-drops falling into the mouth of the brazen192 trumpet193 and pattering on the bass-drum; a spirit-shop, opposite the hotel, had a vast run of custom; and a coffee-dealer, in the open air, found occasional vent5 for his commodity, in spite of the cold water that dripped into the cups. The whole breadth of the street, between the Stone Bow and the bridge across the Witham, was thronged194 to overflowing195, and humming with human life.
Observing in the Guide-Book that a steamer runs on the river Witham between Lincoln and Boston, I inquired of the waiter, and learned that she was to start on Monday at ten o'clock. Thinking it might be an interesting trip, and a pleasant variation of our customary mode of travel, we determined196 to make the voyage. The Witham flows through Lincoln, crossing the main street under an arched bridge of Gothic construction, a little below the Saracen's Head. It has more the appearance of a canal than of a river, in its passage through the town,— being bordered with hewn-stone mason-work on each side, and provided with one or two locks. The steamer proved to be small, dirty, and altogether inconvenient197. The early morning had been bright; but the sky now lowered upon us with a sulky English temper, and we had not long put off before we felt an ugly wind from the German Ocean blowing right in our teeth. There were a number of passengers on board, country-people, such as travel by third-class on the railway; for, I suppose, nobody but ourselves ever dreamt of voyaging by the steamer for the sake of what he might happen upon in the way of river-scenery.
We bothered a good while about getting through a preliminary lock; nor, when fairly under way, did we ever accomplish, I think, six miles an hour. Constant delays were caused, moreover, by stopping to take up passengers and freight,—not at regular landing-places, but anywhere along the green banks. The scenery was identical with that of the railway, because the latter runs along by the river-side through the whole distance, or nowhere departs from it except to make a short cut across some sinuosity; so that our only advantage lay in the drawling, snail-like slothfulness of our progress, which allowed us time enough and to spare for the objects along the shore. Unfortunately, there was nothing, or next to nothing, to be seen,—the country being one unvaried level over the whole thirty miles of our voyage,—not a hill in sight, either near or far, except that solitary198 one on the summit of which we had left Lincoln Cathedral. And the Cathedral was our landmark199 for four hours or more, and at last rather faded out than was hidden by any intervening object.
It would have been a pleasantly lazy day enough, if the rough and bitter wind had not blown directly in our faces, and chilled us through, in spite of the sunshine that soon succeeded a sprinkle or two of rain. These English east-winds, which prevail from February till June, are greater nuisances than the east-wind of our own Atlantic coast, although they do not bring mist and storm, as with us, but some of the sunniest weather that England sees. Under their influence, the sky smiles and is villanous.
The landscape was tame to the last degree, but had an English character that was abundantly worth our looking at. A green luxuriance of early grass; old, high-roofed farm-houses, surrounded by their stone barns and ricks of hay and grain; ancient villages, with the square, gray tower of a church seen afar over the level country, amid the cluster of red roofs; here and there a shadowy grove200 of venerable trees, surrounding what was perhaps an Elizabethan hall, though it looked more like the abode of some rich yeoman. Once, too, we saw the tower of a mediaeval castle, that of Tattershall, built, by a Cromwell, but whether of the Protector's family I cannot tell. But the gentry do not appear to have settled multitudinously in this tract of country; nor is it to be wondered at, since a lover of the picturesque would as soon think of settling in Holland. The river retains its canal-like aspect all along; and only in the latter part of its course does it become more than wide enough for the little steamer to turn itself round,—at broadest, not more than twice that width.
The only memorable201 incident of our voyage happened when a mother-duck was leading her little fleet of five ducklings across the river, just as our steamer went swaggering by, stirring the quiet stream into great waves that lashed202 the banks on either side. I saw the imminence203 of the catastrophe, and hurried to the stern of the boat to witness its consummation, since I could not possibly avert204 it. The poor ducklings had uttered their baby-quacks, and striven with all their tiny might to escape; four of them, I believe, were washed aside and thrown off unhurt from the steamer's prow205; but the fifth must have gone under the whole length of the keel, and never could have come up alive.
At last, in mid-afternoon, we beheld206 the tall tower of Saint Botolph's Church (three hundred feet high, the same elevation207 as the tallest tower of Lincoln Cathedral) looming208 in the distance. At about half past four we reached Boston (which name has been shortened, in the course of ages, by the quick and slovenly209 English pronunciation, from Botolph's town), and were taken by a cab to the Peacock, in the market-place. It was the best hotel in town, though a poor one enough; and we were shown into a small, stifled210 parlor211, dingy212, musty, and scented213 with stale tobacco-smoke,—tobacco-smoke two days old, for the waiter assured us that the room had not more recently been fumigated214. An exceedingly grim waiter he was, apparently a genuine descendant of the old Puritans of this English Boston, and quite as sour as those who people the daughter-city in New England. Our parlor had the one recommendation of looking into the market-place, and affording a sidelong glimpse of the tall spire105 and noble old church.
In my first ramble165 about the town, chance led me to the river-side, at that quarter where the port is situated215. Here were long buildings of an old-fashioned aspect, seemingly warehouses216, with windows in the high, steep roofs. The Custom-House found ample accommodation within an ordinary dwelling-house. Two or three large schooners218 were moored219 along the river's brink220, which had here a stone margin221; another large and handsome schooner217 was evidently just finished, rigged and equipped for her first voyage; the rudiments222 of another were on the stocks, in a shipyard bordering on the river. Still another, while I was looking on, came up the stream, and lowered her mainsail, from a foreign voyage. An old man on the bank hailed her and inquired about her cargo223; but the Lincolnshire people have such a queer way of talking English that I could not understand the reply. Farther down the river, I saw a brig, approaching rapidly under sail. The whole scene made an odd impression of bustle, and sluggishness224, and decay, and a remnant of wholesome225 life; and I could not but contrast it with the mighty and populous226 activity of our own Boston, which was once the feeble infant of this old English town;—the latter, perhaps, almost stationary227 ever since that day, as if the birth of such an offspring had taken away its own principle of growth. I thought of Long Wharf228, and Faneuil Hall, and Washington Street, and the Great Elm, and the State House, and exulted229 lustily,—but yet began to feel at home in this good old town, for its very name's sake, as I never had before felt, in England.
The next morning we came out in the early sunshine (the sun must have been shining nearly four hours, however, for it was after eight o'clock), and strolled about the streets, like people who had a right to be there. The market-place of Boston is an irregular square, into one end of which the chancel of the church slightly projects. The gates of the churchyard were open and free to all passengers, and the common footway of the townspeople seems to lie to and fro across it. It is paved, according to English custom, with flat tombstones; and there are also raised or altar tombs, some of which have armorial hearings on them. One clergyman has caused himself and his wife to be buried right in the middle of the stone-bordered path that traverses the churchyard; so that not an individual of the thousands who pass along this public way can help trampling230 over him or her. The scene, nevertheless, was very cheerful in the morning sun: people going about their business in the day's primal231 freshness, which was just as fresh here as in younger villages; children with milk-pails, loitering over the burial-stones; school-boys playing leap-frog with the altar-tombs; the simple old town preparing itself for the day, which would be like myriads232 of other days that had passed over it, but yet would be worth living through. And down on the churchyard, where were buried many generations whom it remembered in their time, looked the stately tower of Saint Botolph; and it was good to see and think of such an age-long giant, intermarrying the present epoch with a distant past, and getting quite imbued233 with human nature by being so immemorially connected with men's familiar knowledge and homely interests. It is a noble tower; and the jackdaws evidently have pleasant homes in their hereditary234 nests among its topmost windows, and live delightful lives, flitting and cawing about its pinnacles and flying buttresses235. I should almost like to be a jackdaw myself, for the sake of living up there.
In front of the church, not more than twenty yards off, and with a low brick wall between, flows the river Witham. On the hither bank a fisherman was washing his boat; and another skiff, with her sail lazily half twisted, lay on the opposite strand236. The stream at this point is about of such width, that, if the tall tower were to tumble over flat on its face, its top-stone might perhaps reach to the middle of the channel. On the farther shore there is a line of antique-looking houses, with roofs of red tile, and windows opening out of them,—some of these dwellings being so ancient, that the Reverend Mr. Cotton, subsequently our first Boston minister, must have seen them with his own bodily eyes, when he used to issue from the front-portal after service. Indeed, there must be very many houses here, and even some streets, that bear much the aspect that they did when the Puritan divine paced solemnly among them.
In our rambles237 about town, we went into a bookseller's shop to inquire if he had any description of Boston for sale. He offered me (or, rather, produced for inspection238, not supposing that I would buy it) a quarto history of the town, published by subscription239, nearly forty years ago. The bookseller showed himself a well-informed and affable man, and a local antiquary, to whom a party of inquisitive240 strangers were a godsend. He had met with several Americans, who, at various times, had come on pilgrimages to this place, and he had been in correspondence with others. Happening to have heard the name of one member of our party, he showed us great courtesy and kindness, and invited us into his inner domicile, where, as he modestly intimated, he kept a few articles which it might interest us to see. So we went with him through the shop, up stairs, into the private part of his establishment; and, really, it was one of the rarest adventures I ever met with, to stumble upon this treasure of a man, with his treasury241 of antiquities242 and curiosities, veiled behind the unostentatious front of a bookseller's shop, in a very moderate line of village business. The two up-stair rooms into which he introduced us were so crowded with inestimable articles, that we were almost afraid to stir for fear of breaking some fragile thing that had been accumulating value for unknown centuries.
The apartment was hung round with pictures and old engravings, many of which were extremely rare. Premising that he was going to show us something very curious, Mr. Porter went into the next room and returned with a counterpane of fine linen243, elaborately embroidered244 with silk, which so profusely245 covered the linen that the general effect was as if the main texture246 were silken. It was stained and seemed very old, and had an ancient fragrance. It was wrought247 all over with birds and flowers in a most delicate style of needlework, and among other devices, more than once repeated, was the cipher248, M. S.,—being the initials of one of the most unhappy names that ever a woman bore. This quilt was embroidered by the hands of Mary Queen of Scots, during her imprisonment249 at Fotheringay Castle; and having evidently been a work of years, she had doubtless shed many tears over it, and wrought many doleful thoughts and abortive250 schemes into its texture, along with the birds and flowers. As a counterpart to this most precious relic176, our friend produced some of the handiwork of a former Queen of Otaheite, presented by her to Captain Cook; it was a bag, cunningly made of some delicate vegetable stuff, and ornamented251 with feathers. Next, he brought out a green silk waistcoat of very antique fashion, trimmed about the edges and pocket-holes with a rich and delicate embroidery252 of gold and silver. This (as the possessor of the treasure proved, by tracing its pedigree till it came into his hands) was once the vestment of Queen Elizabeth's Lord Burleigh; but that great statesman must have been a person of very moderate girth in the chest and waist; for the garment was hardly more than a comfortable fit for a boy of eleven, the smallest American of our party, who tried on the gorgeous waistcoat. Then, Mr. Porter produced some curiously253 engraved drinking-glasses, with a view of Saint Botolph's steeple on one of them, and other Boston edifices, public or domestic, on the remaining two, very admirably done. These crystal goblets254 had been a present, long ago, to an old master of the Free School from his pupils; and it is very rarely, I imagine, that a retired255 schoolmaster can exhibit such trophies256 of gratitude257 and affection, won from the victims of his birch rod.
Our kind friend kept bringing out one unexpected and wholly unexpectable thing after another, as if he were a magician, and had only to fling a private signal into the air, and some attendant imp16 would hand forth any strange relic we might choose to ask for. He was especially rich in drawings by the Old Masters, producing two or three, of exquisite delicacy258, by Raphael, one by Salvator, a head by Rembrandt, and others, in chalk or pen-and-ink, by Giordano, Benvenuto Cellini, and hands almost as famous; and besides what were shown us, there seemed to be an endless supply of these art-treasures in reserve. On the wall hung a crayon-portrait of Sterne, never engraved, representing him as a rather young man, blooming, and not uncomely; it was the worldly face of a man fond of pleasure, but without that ugly, keen, sarcastic259, odd expression that we see in his only engraved portrait. The picture is an original, and must needs be very valuable; and we wish it might be prefixed to some new and worthier260 biography of a writer whose character the world has always treated with singular harshness, considering how much it owes him. There was likewise a crayon-portrait of Sterne's wife, looking so haughty261 and unamiable, that the wonder is, not that he ultimately left her, but how he ever contrived to live a week with such an awful woman.
After looking at these, and a great many more things than I can remember, above stairs, we went down to a parlor, where this wonderful bookseller opened an old cabinet, containing numberless drawers, and looking just fit to be the repository of such knick-knacks as were stored up in it. He appeared to possess more treasures than he himself knew off, or knew where to find; but, rummaging262 here and there, he brought forth things new and old: rose-nobles, Victoria crowns, gold angels, double sovereigns of George IV., two-guinea pieces of George II.; a marriage-medal of the first Napoleon, only forty-five of which were ever struck off, and of which even the British Museum does not contain a specimen143 like this, in gold; a brass263 medal, three or four inches in diameter, of a Roman emperor; together with buckles264, bracelets265, amulets266, and I know not what besides. There was a green silk tassel267 from the fringe of Queen Mary's bed at Holyrood Palace. There were illuminated268 missals, antique Latin Bibles, and (what may seem of especial interest to the historian) a Secret-Book of Queen Elizabeth, in manuscript, written, for aught I know, by her own hand. On examination, however, it proved to contain, not secrets of state, but recipes for dishes, drinks, medicines, washes, and all such matters of housewifery, the toilet, and domestic quackery269, among which we were horrified270 by the title of one of the nostrums271, "How to kill a Fellow quickly"! We never doubted that bloody272 Queen Bess might often have had occasion for such a recipe, but wondered at her frankness, and at her attending to these anomalous273 necessities in such a methodical way. The truth is, we had read amiss, and the Queen had spelt amiss: the word was "Fellon,"—a sort of whitlow,—not "Fellow."
Our hospitable274 friend now made us drink a glass of wine, as old and genuine as the curiosities of his cabinet; and while sipping275 it, we ungratefully tried to excite his envy, by telling of various things, interesting to an antiquary and virtuoso276, which we had seen in the course of our travels about England. We spoke277, for instance, of a missal bound in solid gold and set around with jewels, but of such intrinsic value as no setting could enhance, for it was exquisitely278 illuminated, throughout, by the hand of Raphael himself. We mentioned a little silver case which once contained a portion of the heart of Louis XIV. nicely done up in spices, but, to the owner's horror and astonishment279, Dean Buckland popped the kingly morsel280 into his mouth, and swallowed it. We told about the black-letter prayer-book of King Charles the Martyr281, used by him upon the scaffold, taking which into our hands, it opened of itself at the Communion Service; and there, on the left-hand page, appeared a spot about as large as a sixpence, of a yellowish or brownish hue: a drop of the King's blood had fallen there.
Mr. Porter now accompanied us to the church, but first leading us to a vacant spot of ground where old John Cotton's vicarage had stood till a very short time since. According to our friend's description, it was a humble282 habitation, of the cottage order, built of brick, with a thatched roof. The site is now rudely fenced in, and cultivated as a vegetable garden. In the right-hand aisle of the church there is an ancient chapel120, which, at the time of our visit, was in process of restoration, and was to be dedicated to Mr. Cotton, whom these English people consider as the founder283 of our American Boston. It would contain a painted memorial-window, in honor of the old Puritan minister. A festival in commemoration of the event was to take place in the ensuing July, to which I had myself received an invitation, but I knew too well the pains and penalties incurred284 by an invited guest at public festivals in England to accept it. It ought to be recorded (and it seems to have made a very kindly285 impression on our kinsfolk here) that five hundred pounds had been contributed by persons in the United States, principally in Boston, towards the cost of the memorial-window, and the repair and restoration of the chapel.
After we emerged from the chapel, Mr. Porter approached us with the vicar, to whom he kindly introduced us, and then took his leave. May a stranger's benediction286 rest upon him! He is a most pleasant man; rather, I imagine, a virtuoso than an antiquary; for he seemed to value the Queen of Otaheite's bag as highly as Queen Mary's embroidered quilt, and to have an omnivorous287 appetite for everything strange and rare. Would that we could fill up his shelves and drawers (if there are any vacant spaces left) with the choicest trifles that have dropped out of Time's carpet-bag, or give him the carpet-bag itself, to take out what he will!
The vicar looked about thirty years old, a gentleman, evidently assured of his position (as clergymen of the Established Church invariably are), comfortable and well-to-do, a scholar and a Christian, and fit to be a bishop, knowing how to make the most of life without prejudice to the life to come. I was glad to see such a model English priest so suitably accommodated with an old English church. He kindly and courteously288 did the honors, showing us quite round the interior, giving us all the information that we required, and then leaving us to the quiet enjoyment289 of what we came to see.
The interior of Saint Botolph's is very fine and satisfactory, as stately, almost, as a cathedral, and has been repaired—so far as repairs were necessary—in a chaste290 and noble style. The great eastern window is of modern painted glass, but is the richest, mellowest291, and tenderest modern window that I have ever seen: the art of painting these glowing transparencies in pristine292 perfection being one that the world has lost. The vast, clear space of the interior church delighted me. There was no screen,—nothing between the vestibule and the altar to break the long vista; even the organ stood aside,—though it by and by made us aware of its presence by a melodious293 roar. Around the walls there were old engraved brasses294, and a stone coffin295, and an alabaster296 knight131 of Saint John, and an alabaster lady, each recumbent at full length, as large as life, and in perfect preservation297, except for a slight modern touch at the tips of their noses. In the chancel we saw a great deal of oaken work, quaintly298 and admirably carved, especially about the seats formerly appropriated to the monks, which were so contrived as to tumble down with a tremendous crash, if the occupant happened to fall asleep.
We now essayed to climb into the upper regions. Up we went, winding299 and still winding round the circular stairs, till we came to the gallery beneath the stone roof of the tower, whence we could look down and see the raised Font, and my Talma lying on one of the steps, and looking about as big as a pocket-handkerchief. Then up again, up, up, up, through a yet smaller staircase, till we emerged into another stone gallery, above the jackdaws, and far above the roof beneath which we had before made a halt. Then up another flight, which led us into a pinnacle180 of the temple, but not the highest; so, retracing300 our steps, we took the right turret301 this time, and emerged into the loftiest lantern, where we saw level Lincolnshire, far and near, though with a haze302 on the distant horizon. There were dusty roads, a river, and canals, converging303 towards Boston, which—a congregation of red-tiled roofs—lay beneath our feet, with pygmy people creeping about its narrow streets. We were three hundred feet aloft, and the pinnacle on which we stood is a landmark forty miles at sea.
Content, and weary of our elevation, we descended the corkscrew stairs and left the church; the last object that we noticed in the interior being a bird, which appeared to be at home there, and responded with its cheerful notes to the swell304 of the organ. Pausing on the church-steps, we observed that there were formerly two statues, one on each side of the doorway305; the canopies still remaining and the pedestals being about a yard from the ground. Some of Mr. Cotton's Puritan parishioners are probably responsible for the disappearance306 of these stone saints. This doorway at the base of the tower is now much dilapidated, but must once have been very rich and of a peculiar54 fashion. It opens its arch through a great square tablet of stone, reared against the front of the tower. On most of the projections, whether on the tower or about the body of the church, there are gargoyles of genuine Gothic grotesqueness,—fiends, beasts, angels, and combinations of all three; and where portions of the edifice are restored, the modern sculptors307 have tried to imitate these wild fantasies, but with very poor success. Extravagance and absurdity308 have still their law, and should pay as rigid309 obedience310 to it as the primmest311 things on earth.
In our further rambles about Boston, we crossed the river by a bridge, and observed that the larger part of the town seems to be on that side of its navigable stream. The crooked312 streets and narrow lanes reminded me much of Hanover Street, Ann Street, and other portions of the North End of our American Boston, as I remember that picturesque region in my boyish days. It is not unreasonable to suppose that the local habits and recollections of the first settlers may have had some influence on the physical character of the streets and houses in the New England metropolis; at any rate, here is a similar intricacy of bewildering lanes, and numbers of old peaked and projecting-storied dwellings, such as I used to see there. It is singular what a home-feeling and sense of kindred I derived313 from this hereditary connection and fancied physiognomical resemblance between the old town and its well-grown daughter, and how reluctant I was, after chill years of banishment314, to leave this hospitable place, on that account. Moreover, it recalled some of the features of another American town, my own dear native place, when I saw the seafaring people leaning against posts, and sitting on planks315, under the lee of warehouses,—or lolling on long-boats, drawn up high and dry, as sailors and old wharf-rats are accustomed to do, in seaports316 of little business. In other respects, the English town is more village-like than either of the American ones. The women and budding girls chat together at their doors, and exchange merry greetings with young men; children chase one another in the summer twilight; school-boys sail little boats on the river, or play at marbles across the flat tombstones in the churchyard; and ancient men, in breeches and long waistcoats, wander slowly about the streets, with a certain familiarity of deportment, as if each one were everybody's grandfather. I have frequently observed, in old English towns, that Old Age comes forth more cheerfully and genially317 into the sunshine than among ourselves, where the rush, stir, bustle, and irreverent energy of youth are so preponderant, that the poor, forlorn grandsires begin to doubt whether they have a right to breathe in such a world any longer, and so hide their silvery heads in solitude318. Speaking of old men, I am reminded of the scholars of the Boston Charity School, who walk about in antique, long-skirted blue coats, and knee-breeches, and with bands at their necks,—perfect and grotesque pictures of the costume of three centuries ago.
On the morning of our departure, I looked from the parlor-window of the Peacock into the market-place, and beheld its irregular square already well covered with booths, and more in progress of being put up, by stretching tattered319 sail-cloth on poles. It was market-day. The dealers320 were arranging their commodities, consisting chiefly of vegetables, the great bulk of which seemed to be cabbages. Later in the forenoon there was a much greater variety of merchandise: basket-work, both for fancy and use; twig-brooms, beehives, oranges, rustic321 attire322; all sorts of things, in short, that are commonly sold at a rural fair. I heard the lowing of cattle, too, and the bleating323 of sheep, and found that there was a market for cows, oxen, and pigs, in another part of the town. A crowd of towns-people and Lincolnshire yeomen elbowed one another in the square; Mr. Punch was squeaking324 in one corner, and a vagabond juggler325 tried to find space for his exhibition in another: so that my final glimpse of Boston was calculated to leave a livelier impression than my former ones. Meanwhile the tower of Saint Botolph's looked benignantly down; and I fancied it was bidding me farewell, as it did Mr. Cotton, two or three hundred years ago, and telling me to describe its venerable height, and the town beneath it, to the people of the American city, who are partly akin25, if not to the living inhabitants of Old Boston, yet to some of the dust that lies in its churchyard.
One thing more. They have a Bunker Hill in the vicinity of their town; and (what could hardly be expected of an English community) seem proud to think that their neighborhood has given name to our first and most widely celebrated326 and best remembered battle-field.
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1
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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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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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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ridgy
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| adj.有脊的；有棱纹的；隆起的；有埂的 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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rivulets
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| n.小河，小溪( rivulet的名词复数 ) | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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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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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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thereby
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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shrouded
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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47
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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48
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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49
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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50
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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51
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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52
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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53
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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54
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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55
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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56
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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57
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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58
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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59
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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60
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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61
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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62
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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63
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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65
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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69
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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70
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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71
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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72
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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73
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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74
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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75
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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76
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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77
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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78
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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80
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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81
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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82
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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83
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
cosiest
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| adj.温暖舒适的( cosy的最高级 )；亲切友好的 | |
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85
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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86
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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87
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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88
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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89
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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90
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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91
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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92
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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93
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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94
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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95
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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96
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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97
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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98
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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99
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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100
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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101
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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102
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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103
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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104
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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105
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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106
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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107
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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108
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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109
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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110
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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111
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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112
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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113
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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114
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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115
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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116
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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117
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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118
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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119
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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120
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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121
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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122
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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123
contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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124
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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125
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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128
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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129
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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130
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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131
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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132
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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133
purporting
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| v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的现在分词 ) | |
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134
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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135
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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136
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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137
iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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138
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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139
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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140
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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141
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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142
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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143
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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144
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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145
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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146
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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147
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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148
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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149
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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150
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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151
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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152
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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154
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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155
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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156
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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157
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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158
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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159
inundation
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| n.the act or fact of overflowing | |
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160
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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161
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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162
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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163
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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164
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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165
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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166
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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167
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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168
picturesqueness
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169
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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170
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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171
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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172
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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173
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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174
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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175
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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176
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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177
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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178
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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179
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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180
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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181
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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182
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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183
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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184
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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185
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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186
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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187
canopies
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| （宝座或床等上面的）华盖( canopy的名词复数 )； （飞行器上的）座舱罩； 任何悬于上空的覆盖物； 森林中天棚似的树荫 | |
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188
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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189
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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190
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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191
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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192
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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193
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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194
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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196
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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197
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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198
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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199
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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200
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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201
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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202
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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203
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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204
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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205
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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206
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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207
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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208
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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209
slovenly
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|
| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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210
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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211
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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212
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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213
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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214
fumigated
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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216
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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217
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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218
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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219
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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220
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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221
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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222
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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223
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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224
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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225
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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226
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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227
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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228
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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229
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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230
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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231
primal
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|
| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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232
myriads
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|
| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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233
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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234
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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235
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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236
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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237
rambles
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|
| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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238
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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239
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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240
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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241
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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242
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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243
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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244
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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245
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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246
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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247
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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248
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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249
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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250
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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251
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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252
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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253
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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254
goblets
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| n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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255
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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256
trophies
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|
| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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257
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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258
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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259
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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260
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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261
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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262
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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263
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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264
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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265
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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266
amulets
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| n.护身符( amulet的名词复数 ) | |
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267
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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268
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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269
quackery
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| n.庸医的医术，骗子的行为 | |
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270
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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271
nostrums
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| n.骗人的疗法，有专利权的药品( nostrum的名词复数 )；妙策 | |
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272
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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273
anomalous
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|
| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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274
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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275
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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276
virtuoso
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| n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家，行家里手 | |
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277
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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278
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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279
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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280
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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281
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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282
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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283
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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284
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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285
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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286
benediction
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|
| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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287
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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288
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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289
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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290
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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291
mellowest
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|
| 成熟的( mellow的最高级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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292
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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293
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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294
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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295
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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296
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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297
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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298
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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299
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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300
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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301
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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302
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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303
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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304
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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305
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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306
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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307
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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308
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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309
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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310
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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311
primmest
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| adj.循规蹈矩的( prim的最高级 )；整洁的；（人）一本正经 | |
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312
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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313
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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314
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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315
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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316
seaports
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| n.海港( seaport的名词复数 ) | |
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317
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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318
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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319
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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320
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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321
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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322
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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323
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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324
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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325
juggler
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| n. 变戏法者, 行骗者 | |
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326
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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